Whispered Surrender

by Lynn LaFleur

  Cinderella had the right idea, she thought. One wave of a magic wand, and to quote Madame Duvalier, voila! Standing, lying, opening and closing her legs, raising her arms, bending, squatting—all in the name of beauty. Ha!

  At precisely five forty-five, with fifteen minutes to spare, the crew disappeared in the same swarming fashion they’d arrived. Only Jacqueline and the hair stylist, whose name Abby could not remember, stayed to apply the finishing touches.

  “You’ve been a wonderful sport about this, Ms. Horton,” Jacqueline said. “We’ve crammed several days of work into a few hours.” Jacqueline carefully removed the dress from the garment bag. “I know it was tiring, but I hope this will make up for it.”

  “Oh, Jacqueline, it’s amazing.” Black silk and satin. Long sleeves with cuffs trimmed with onyx beads to match her necklace and earrings. A deep V, also trimmed in onyx, dropped to an empire waist that flowed into a draped A-line skirt. It was the most beautiful creation she’d ever seen.

  Jacqueline smiled wickedly and turned the hanger. Abby gasped at the low cowl that plunged to her waist in back. She would be covered from her wrists to her shoulders, and almost naked from waist to chin.

  “I can’t go out in something that…that…”

  Jacqueline grinned again. “Revealing?” She opened the back zipper, which Madame had carefully hidden inside a fold of material. “The dress will look entirely different on your body. But first.” She took a small package wrapped in tissue from the bottom of the garment bag. “This.”

  Abby cautiously parted the tissue to find a tiny swatch of bright red tulle. A thong so skimpy, she wondered why Madame had bothered with it at all.

  Jacqueline’s eyes sparkled. “A gift from Mr. Kincade. He dropped it by the shop this afternoon.”

  Just the thought of Brett shopping for this brilliant red confection made Abby’s hands tremble. She held it in her fingertips, seeing that someone had painstakingly hand-embroidered the eyelash trim. The strings were made of ruched silk, and like a cherry atop an ice cream sundae, a bead of onyx dotted the back bow. A touch, no doubt, Madame added. Inside Clara-Jean lived the soul of a true Frenchwoman.

  Abby stepped into the thong, now understanding why Ms. de Sade had done such a thorough job of waxing.

  “Now these.” Jacqueline handed her a pair of black silk hose, thigh-highs with tops trimmed in red lace. “Your slippers?”

  “Over there.” Abby pointed to the far end of the bed, where boxes, bags, tissue paper and soiled towels lay heaped in a pile.

  Jacqueline took the T-straps pumps out of the box. “Have you tried them on yet?”

  “I couldn’t resist.” Abby stepped into them and turned in a circle. They were as soft as marshmallows, almost as soft as the thong resting against her mound.

  “Let’s get you into this.”

  The hair stylist hovered nearby while Jacqueline slipped the dress over Abby’s head and guided it along her hips. “Perfect, perfect,” she clucked, giving the material a little tug before stepping back for a final inspection. “Absolutely perfect.”

  “Can I look now? I’m dying to see what you’ve done to me.”

  Jacqueline took Abby’s hand and led her to the forbidden mirror. “What do you think?”

  Speechless, Abby turned slowly, first to the left and then to the right. “Who is that woman? That can’t possibly be me.”

  “As Madame promised, you look magnifique.”

  The stylist had somehow tamed Abby’s natural curls. They no longer stood out like porcupine needles. Instead, she’d drawn them back into a sleek chignon, anchored in place with a sterling silver clip. The drop of the earrings swayed when Abby moved her head. The stones sparkled like precious gems in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window tops.

  Jacqueline draped the necklace around Abby’s neck and set the lock. The length of it fell farther than Abby realized, enough to rest on her breastbone, drawing the eye straight to the tantalizing soft white mounds of her breasts. The V of the neckline had been cut to show a precise amount of flesh, almost to the areolas, but not quite.

  Madame had sewn support right into the lining. Against Abby’s skin, the cups felt feathery soft, yet firmly supported her. The designer had promised a hint of her breasts, a generous hint, high, lush and enticing.

  The sleeves molded her arms, emphasizing the grace and elegance with which she carried herself. Tonight she’d look and walk—no, float—like the classic dancer she’d always yearned to be.

  Abby folded her arms across her breasts and hugged herself to prove that the image of the woman in the mirror really belonged to her. She swayed a little, and watched the hem sway with her. A perfect fit, a perfect dress to dance the night away.

  She wondered if Brett liked to dance. The man who’d written the review of Whispers had said he and his date lacked the courage to tango. Would Brett?

  She smiled in spite of her jitters. Hard to imagine a man who fearlessly plowed through a line of three-hundred pound defenders on a quarterback sneak, gracefully leading her in the intricate steps of the tango.

  Abby looked in the mirror again. Her makeup was dramatic, yet flawless. Her eyes stared back at her, larger and darker, her cheekbones cleverly defined. She’d never worn lipstick as dark or as bold as this shade. She liked what she saw.

  “You look fantastic,” the stylist said. “A goddess from head to toe.”

  “Thank you both so…”

  The front door chimes sounded.

  Abby’s hand flew to her waist, where a paralyzing attack of butterflies struck her.

  The chimes rang again.

  “Shall I get it?” Jacqueline offered.

  “I need to take a deep breath.”

  Abby glanced in the mirror one last time then took Jacqueline’s hands. “How can I ever thank you? I feel like Cinderella on her way to the ball.”

  “By not keeping your Prince Charming waiting.” She took a step back to make room for Abby’s exit. “We’ll tidy up and lock the door behind us.”

  Abby dashed down the stairs, grabbed the beaded handbag she’d found in Rose’s closet and flung open the front door.

  The smile froze on her face. Her joy and excitement shattered. It wasn’t Brett who stood waiting at the door.

  “Carlton?”

  “Good evening, miss.“

  Was that embarrassment she saw in his face? Oh, God, I’ve been stood up. Brett sent Carlton to deliver the message.

  She looked over his shoulder, at the smallish limo idling in the drive. Anger and hurt warred in the pit of her stomach. “Where’s Brett?”

  “Mr. Kincade sends his apologies, miss.”

  This can’t be happening!

  “His afternoon meeting ran long. He went home to change and will meet you at Whispers.”

  Did he hear relief whooshing through her? Surely it had to sound as loud as a freight train.

  “Will he be very late?”

  Carlton broke into a wide grin. “I see you haven’t had the pleasure of defying death while riding in the Porsche.”

  “Not yet.” Not ever. Not if she went home on Monday.

  “Please pardon my forwardness, miss, but you look quite fetching this evening.”

  Quite fetching? If she read his expression correctly, especially when he’d lost the battle to keep his eyes from scorching her breasts, she knew he saw hot, not fetching. Hot was good.

  “Why thank you.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Kincade will be quite dazzled.” He looked back at the car. “If you’re ready.”

  “After you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brett noticed the temperature had dropped a few degrees while he waited for the company’s limo to arrive at Whispers by the Sea. The valet had taken his car ten minutes ago, leaving him without keys to rattle in his pants pocket. Otherwise, he’d be jangling them to blow off some of the pent-up energy he’d been riding all day.

  Of all days for Jordan to schedule a late meetin
g. She claimed she hadn’t heard him tell her no calls or appointments after three.

  He sighed and paced a few more yards before turning back.

  Sometimes he wondered if Jordan did things like this deliberately, although he couldn’t imagine why. One day he’d call her on it but not tonight. Tonight he planned a magical evening with a woman who made every woman he’d ever known look like tarnished silver next to precious gold. That was precisely how he planned to treat Abby, and pleasure her until she begged for mercy.

  Big talk, big guy.

  He hadn’t been this nervous since the Heisman ceremony. When they’d finally called his name, he’d tried to look cool and casual. Instead, he could barely breathe or talk. He’d wanted that trophy so badly, had played so hard to earn it. How sweet the moment.

  Tonight, another moment sweeter still.

  He tugged at the cuff of his starched shirt sleeve and looked at his watch. Almost 7:00. She should be here by now. Should have arrived at least twenty minutes ago.

  “What time do you have, Trin?” he asked the doorman, who waited a few feet away. “I think my watch is running fast.”

  “Six-fifty, Mr. Kincade.”

  He nodded his thanks and began pacing again.

  This was worse than waiting for his first pro start. Twenty-three, cocky and so caught up in his own celebrity, he’d never considered anything but a sure victory. He still cringed at the memory. Five sacks, a fumbled snap and two interceptions had definitely put things into perspective.

  Deep in thought, Brett did not notice Trin walk up alongside him. “I believe your guest is arriving.”

  Brett looked up, grinning and relieved. Now he could admit it—he was worried Abby had changed her mind. Worried he’d gone too far with the clothes and jewelry and scared her off.

  Abby struck him as genuine, not the sort of woman a man had to ply with flowers and bling before she said yes. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to share everything he had with her. Had since the first moment he saw her.

  And now she was here.

  Trin walked to the curb while Carlton slowed the limo to a stop. Brett, as if cemented in place, watched the doorman open the rear passenger door and extend his hand to Abby.

  The first glimpse of her set Brett’s heart racing even faster. From out of nowhere, he remembered the toast his dad had raised to his mom on their twenty-fifth anniversary. “To the woman I love, with a face that could stop a clock.”

  His parents’ friends had gasped at the ugly implication, until his dad added, “So that time stood still to worship your beauty.”

  Now Abby waited at the curb, looking expectantly at Brett, as if she didn’t know quite what to do next.

  He knew he should say something but words failed him. She was a vision in black silk and satin. If only he could freeze this moment in time, and the beauty and radiance of the goddess who would be his tonight.

  Sweet Jesus. He took a deep breath, swallowed hard and hurried across the sidewalk. He took her hands and spread her arms, drinking in every inch of her.

  “Abby, you look…good lord, you look fantastic. The dress, your hair—everything.” He wanted to wrap her in a huge bear hug, surround her with all the feelings roiling around inside him. And never let go.

  Words tumbled out of him, silly awkward things that sounded like they came from a moonstruck ten-year-old.

  To his great relief, Abby looked up at him and whispered, “You don’t look so bad yourself, sailor.”

  Brett and Abby stayed outdoors a few minutes longer. The moon had risen and its reflection shone brilliantly on the water.

  “Aunt Rose never took me into the hills when I lived here. I had no idea views like this existed.” She turned back to Brett. “It’s breathtaking.”

  His gaze had never left her face. He saw a flush rise on her cheeks when he answered, “I’ll second that.”

  She laughed softly, yet with the tiniest edge of uncertainty.

  By god, she’s as nervous as I am.

  “Think of all the plays you’d write if you spent a few days up here with your laptop.”

  This time, her chuckle held a dose of skepticism. “I doubt Whispers would approve of someone sitting on their front stoop with a laptop.” She arched a brow and threw back her shoulders. If she did that again, he wouldn’t be responsible for what he did with his hands.

  “Besides, were you honestly thinking only about my career as a playwright?”

  He searched for the perfect answer until she gave him a friendly poke in the chest. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

  She had. “I thought it sounded good. Don’t I get points for trying?”

  She shook her head. “You’re going to have to work a lot harder than that to score points with me tonight. Remember, you promised magic.”

  Brett slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Then let the magic begin.”

  Looking at Whispers from the sidewalk, Abby thought it a curious shape for a restaurant. One long, rather narrow low-slung building with a pavilion, circa 1920, rising up from its center. Weathered wood, several generous panes of stained glass, and topped with a marvelous glass dome.

  “Was this a house at one time?” she asked. “Or a small planetarium?”

  “Both,” Brett answered. “At least what you see from here.”

  “It’s so much smaller than I imagined.”

  “Let’s go inside. You’ll be surprised.”

  To Abby, that was the understatement of the year. Not even the review she’d read the day before prepared her. She saw she hadn’t walked into a restaurant or resort or whatever Whispers claimed to be. She’d walked straight into another era.

  The décor, Art Deco meets Al Capone, plunged them into the twenties and thirties. Part museum, part movie sound stage, part parallel universe, it was enough to make her wonder whether, if she looked into a mirror now, she would see herself transformed into a flapper wearing a sparkling chemise with a rope of pearls falling almost to her knees.

  A portly man with slicked-back hair and dressed in a double-breasted tux ala Capone’s gumbah, met them at the front door.

  “Brett, how nice to see you again.” He extended his hand and pumped Brett’s enthusiastically.

  “Costas, this is my friend Abby,” Brett said. “Abby, this is Costas. He’s been a part of Whispers from the beginning. No one knows more about the design, the art, or the food and wine than he does.”

  She took his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. This is an amazing place.”

  “Only a reflection of the loveliness of our guests.” His gaze swept over her, his appreciation obvious. “It would be my pleasure to give you a private tour.”

  Brett chuckled. “Watch him, Abby. He moves faster than I do.”

  Not by much.

  With Brett’s hand on her elbow, Abby followed Costas through the pavilion, along a balcony, and down a wide curving staircase to a group of tables that ringed the dance floor. They passed dozens of guests waiting to be seated along the way.

  The perks of fame. She’d spent most of her life watching others receive A-list treatment. Tonight it was nice to be the recipient.

  The tables formed a crescent along the dance floor, with a small orchestra seated on a raised dais in front of a shimmering backdrop. Like Costas, they, too, wore vintage formalwear and played a song Abby recognized as Glenn Miller’s.

  She leaned toward Brett. “This is definitely another world.”

  “The first time I saw it, I expected Bogie and Edward G. Robinson to come flying across the stage, machine guns spitting fire.”

  “Aren’t we a little too close to Valentine’s Day for memories like that?”

  “Please watch your step,” Costas cautioned. He’d slowed his pace. Abby failed to notice. She was so caught up in her surroundings, she walked right into him.

  “I’m s-sorry.”

  “No, no, it was my fault.”

  It was no one’s fault except Whispers’. Too much t
o see, too much to soak up. How could a place that looked so small and unassuming from the outside turn into something so cavernous and grand? The property must sprawl leisurely down and along the mountainside, she thought. How many tiers hid below the ballroom? Is that where they’d find their dining spa?

  Costas stopped at a table at the center of the dance floor’s edge. Like the others in the crescent, it was dressed with linens, champagne flutes and, in a side pedestal, a sterling silver ice bucket. A bottle sat in the bucket, a white napkin fastened around the neck and draping downward.

  Costas snapped his fingers with practiced flourish. Their captain raced over, seated them and popped the cork. Once he and Costas left, Brett raised his glass. “To magic.”

  She touched the rim of her glass to his. “And more.”

  They sipped their bubbly, quietly watching the people around them. Most were dressed in formalwear or business suits, although she’d seen several couples who waited for a table dressed in resort wear.

  She leaned over and whispered to Brett, “Pinch me. I want to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

  He grinned. “Let’s save the pinching for later.”

  At that moment, the orchestra moved seamlessly from swing to a ballad Abby had heard many times before—Someone to Watch Over Me.

  Brett held out his hand to her. “Shall we?”

  Abby slid into Brett’s arms as easily as if they’d danced together for years. With the extra inches added by her spiky heels, she stood tall enough for Brett to graze the side of her temples with his lips.

  Gooseflesh covered her arms and tingled all the way to the top of her head. “Umm,” she said with a sigh. What could be better?

  Brett tightened his grip on her waist, pulled her closer and rested her hand gently against his chest. She splayed her fingers and felt his heart hammering in her palm. She knew it wasn’t from the exertion of the dance.

  To Abby’s surprise, Brett danced a decent two-step. Not that Michael Flatley had anything to fear, but he knew how to lead, where to place his hand on the small of her back and for such a large, muscular man, had an excellent sense of music and rhythm.