by Louisa Trent
“Miss Vasquez is a promising concert violinist. Her enormous talents will be wasted in the classroom.”
“Why don't we let her decide where her talents are best suited?”
Dean Slater looked offended. “I am not saying that teaching is not an admirable profession; I am an educator, myself. If teaching is really what she wants to do, why should this young lady sacrifice her time and her talents when she could work in an affluent neighborhood, at a prestigious school? Calia comes from a wonderful, professional family. Her father is a doctor, her mother a lawyer. All her brothers and sister are well-educated and successful. She's a high-achiever as well. That young lady can go places! I suppose,” he went on thoughtfully, “because of her Hispanic heritage she feels some sense of responsibility-”
Seraphina's heart pounded. “Miss Vasquez is bilingual?”
“Well, yes. English and Spanish. But merely because she's fluent in both languages doesn't mean she needs to teach in that particular neighborhood with those particular children.”
“Don't you see? There's every need. The Southside has a large Latino population. Please send her in at once!”
Dean Slater ushered in a pretty, dark-haired, trim-figured, young woman. Then, closing the door behind him, he left them alone in the office.
Her application-stuffed briefcase forgotten, Seraphina jumped out of the chair and raced forward. If ever a situation didn't call for a handshake it was this one.
Holding the young student by both hands, lest she get away, Seraphina demanded, “Tell me why you want to teach at my school.”
Calia Vasquez's smile was serene. “That's easy. I'm from the Southside. I'm going home where I belong.”
The director of the Southside's Conservatory of Music hugged her new teacher.
* * * *
Seraphina was cleaning. But at the first grating knock on the screen, she went to her back door.
Upon seeing the broom in her hand, Tomas Ruiz threw his hands up in the air. “First you squirt me with window wash, now you're gonna broom me? What's next? You gonna suck me up in your vacuum or somethin'?”
“Oh, very funny,” she said dryly. “I'll have you know I've given up using cleaning agents as weapons.”
He dimpled. “You still sweep me away, Miz Norris.”
Oh, he was such a flirt!
“Talking about sucking up,” she said, stepping aside for him to enter her home. “I know why you're here: Your lawyer just called.”
“Oh? Why?”
She sent him an impatient look.
“Honest, I don't know why the legal dude called.”
Her new landlord certainly looked innocent...
Looks didn't mean a thing. “Your attorney suggested I leave the mansion sooner rather than later as I don't have a legal foundation to fight the eviction. So-if you've come here to gloat, please spare me. As you can see, I'm very busy.”
The comic clutched at his heart. “You wound me. I'm not here to gloat.”
“Then why are you here?”
The broom was gently removed from her grip. “I'm here to help.”
As Tomas began rhythmically sweeping the porch-he did everything with a musical flare-her hands bracketed her hips. “Why? Afraid I'll sue if I stub my toe on one of these loose floorboards?”
“Could be.” His dark eyes twinkled.
With his bad-boy looks and naughty charm, no wonder Tomas Ruiz had a womanizing reputation. He had to know his affect upon women, Seraphina thought, scooping dirt into her dustpan. All charismatic men did.
Feeling utterly un-charming, she looked up dourly at the engaging young man with the dark, laughing eyes. “You're hardly forcing me to live here, Tomas. We both know it's the exact opposite; you want me out. So why are you sweeping my porch?”
“I already told you-I want to help you out.”
So, he wanted to help he out, did he? She'd soon see...
Her next thought was spoken aloud. “As it so happens, I could use your help.”
“Just name it.”
“Fine, I shall. In order to make repairs to this house, I'll need to find another job,” she said tactlessly. “Currently, I give private piano lessons-”
“To rich kids.”
“Yes, to advantaged children,” she bristled. “Plus, I substitute teach at the high school. But I'll need a job nights and weekends to help defray the costs of my school. I understand you own a strip club. The Pink Flamingo. Are you hiring any new employees?”
Dark eyes lowered and quickly skimmed her chest. “Mrs. Norris, my employees wear pink feathers.”
He didn't have to tell her that! She was well aware that the feathers to which Tomas Ruiz referred made up the costume the exotic dancers wore. All the costume that they wore. Luckily, she was no prude. As far as she was concerned, a body is only a body, and she felt very little embarrassment about hers.
Except her rear end, which was...well...abundant. Too bad her breasts weren't equally abundant. Would a few strategically placed feathers cover her pear-shaped figure?
Evidently, Tomas Ruiz had his doubts. She thought, more amused than anything else by the shocked expression on his face.
“You know,” he said, rubbing his chronic two-day beard growth. “I don't think The Flamingo would be a good fit for you. And about the eviction notice, I've been thinking...I could maybe extend it-”
At his humble sincerity, pain formed behind her lids; her eyes shuttered down against it. Who was this man anyway? What was he all about? Had she been too quick to judge?
She did tend to jump to conclusions too rapidly at times. Maybe, Tomas Ruiz was more than a money-grubbing ogre. Maybe, he had some scruples. Maybe, it really was concern for her, and not the quest for the almighty buck, that brought him knocking at her door again. And maybe, just maybe, behind that laughing face and bad-boy charisma, there was some hidden depth.
Naw-
What she saw was all there was to Tomas Ruiz; there was nothing below that charming surface.
“I don't need an extension,” she said, tightly. “I need to stay here. Permanently. I teach music. That's what I do. That's how I pay my bills. You don't seem to approve of that method, nor do you approve of me stripping-”
Practicality made her inquire, “How much is the pay at The Pink Flamingo, anyway?”
When he threw out a figure, her eyes bugged; the amount was more than she could make all week substitute teaching at the high school. For one night in feathers!
He looked at her squinting eyes. “Headache?” he asked.
“Like the pounding of a percussion section. After interviewing prospective candidates for teaching positions, I then substituted half a day for an ill band teacher at the high school. Let's just say that the drum section was a tad off-count,” she explained, suddenly feeling very, very weary. And much too vulnerable to this man's obvious appeal.
“Listen, we started off all wrong. And we never did shake hands. Can we maybe start over again?” Transferring the broom to his left hand, Tomas stuck out his right palm.
Seraphina stared at the firm unwavering hand extended to her as though it were a deadly snake in the bushes, waiting to rattle.
“Aw, go on,” he prodded. “It's only a handshake, right?”
Right. It was only a handshake. Ignoring his proffered palm was silly, if not downright rude. More importantly, she never backed down from a challenge, and that extended palm was most definitely a challenge. And a handshake with Tomas did fall under the umbrella of her PMS theory ...
When it was that time of the month, she found a small nibble of candy often forestalled a full-fledged gorge on a family-sized pack of chocolate bars. Using that same logic, a handshake might just satisfy her craving to touch Tomas Ruiz in a socially acceptable manner. Wasn't it better to clasp a man's fingers than to jump his bones? And, to be charitable, everyone deserved a second chance, everyone deserved the opportunity to start over again. Wasn't she, herself, trying to make a new start?
Taking a step close
r, her hand determinedly slipped into his hand.
As was expected in such situations, she raised her face to his, a polite social smile pasted dutifully in place.
The problem was that they were so close, mere inches from one another. When debating the whole handshake issue, she hadn't taken closeness into consideration.
She should have. Now that she within his personal space and he within hers, her cheek muscles faltered. Twitched. Finally, the social smile gave out altogether. Mouth-open, she simply gawked at the splendid maleness of Tomas Ruiz.
He was a man too roughly hewn for ordinary handsomeness, though his amazingly thick black lashes helped soften his face. Still, nothing could soften a jaw that seemed built out of granite not bone, and a nose that was of jutting proportions. And his dark eyes! What could be said about that feature that wouldn't sound trite and hackneyed and cliched?
What she could say, she supposed, was that those dark eyes were definitely not the windows to his soul, but they were most definitely his calling card to any woman's bedroom on the planet.
As they stood there, hands clasped, fingers entwined-no shake, no pump, no motion at all-Seraphina knew her PMS theory did not apply here; a small nibble of Tomas Ruiz wouldn't do the trick. Only an all out orgy of him would satisfy her craving.
And there stood Tomas Ruiz, looking at her as if he knew exactly, precisely, what she was thinking.
Why wouldn't he know? He must get this exact same reaction from every female he encountered. He was so healthy and young and virile and sexy, like an untamed animal, that she would've wept if she could.
She couldn't cry. Hadn't been able to shed one tear. Not for her dead husband, not for all those dead children, not for herself, forced to go on without them. Some tragedies are far too deep for tears.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Norris,” Tomas Ruiz said formally, his large brown hand clasped around her much smaller, much paler hand.
“Seraphina,” she said, mouth dry, lips barely parted, breaths coming and going in shallow pants. “Please call me Seraphina.”
“Seraphina,” he softly repeated. “Thank you. I'd like that.” He smiled. “Tomorrow, Seraphina, I'll start asking around town about part-time work for you. With the building surge, Fenton's economy is improving. There's bound to be an opening somewhere.”
“That's very sexy of you,” she replied, her palm still in his palm, reluctant to let go of his warmth.
He grinned. “Thanks for the compliment.”
What compliment?
Brow wrinkled, she thought backwards, blushing when she recalled the slip in her speech. “I misspoke. I meant to say that's very-er-solicitous of you.”
“Gee, I'm crushed. And here I work so hard at being sexy too.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Ain't I at least muy suave’ ?” He dimpled. “Aw, c'mon! Give me smooth, anyway!”
Sighing, Seraphina withdrew her hand.
She didn't think Tomas Ruiz had to work all that hard at anything, certainly not at being sexy or smooth or muy suave. Sure, he'd cultivated his natural attributes with various poses and posturing, and he'd enhanced his bad-boy image with a black T-shirt and jeans wardrobe, but essentially the man was just naturally sexy. Some men had animal magnetism, some men didn't. Tomas had it.
“You know, I'd be more than happy to help you find another place to live too.” Tomas Ruiz broke into her thoughts to offer.
“That is not the kind of help I need!” Tugging her hand free, before she did something she'd later regret, she started to walk away.
“Hold up!” Tomas pulled a pink card from the pocket of his black jeans and held it out between two fingers. “Here's the manager's name at The Flamingo. Be there at two o'clock sharp.” His smile dazzled; there was a teasing dare in his voice. “If that's convenient for you.”
She retraced her steps, lifted the card from his fingers, read the fine print beneath the practically pornographic logo, and said dryly, “I guess I should get my legs waxed. Looks like those feathers don't hide much.”
“Know how to lap dance?” he asked, his firm lips trembling at the corners.
She met and matched the challenge of those twitching lips. Tomas Ruiz was not winning this sexual one-upsmanship. “No. Should I signup for an accelerated class somewhere?”
Tomas washed his hands over his face. “Okay, we've both had our fun. Hand back the card.”
“I'll do nothing of the sort!” she said, slipping the delicate pink rectangle into the pocket of her navy blue skirt. “I'm going. After all, how difficult is taking off one's clothes to a drumbeat? It's not as though I'll be entirely naked. There are those pink feathers to consider.”
“Wait a minute! You can't strip! You're a nice woman-”
“Oh, please! Spare me the moral outrage. You are not the keeper of my values. Believe it or not, I don't happen to have nice woman tattooed on my rear end,” she said defiantly. “Now about those pink feathers-would a wealthy man like you push a hundred dollar bill down the front of my G-string for a few extra grunts and grinds?”
Based on past experience, she already knew the answer: Even if she were up on that stage, entirely naked, Tomas Ruiz would never even notice. She did not inspire lust in men.
Though-he did seem to like her breasts. She'd caught him eyeing them more than once when he thought she wasn't looking. Real breasts must be novelty items in the female circles in which he traveled, she thought, chuckling to herself.
“What's so funny?” Tomas Ruiz asked.
“Breasts.”
“W-what?” he stammered, and could she believe, blushed? “Breasts aren't funny. Breasts are serious business.”
“My goodness! I believe we've finally stumbled onto a subject upon which we can both agree.” She slanted him an arched look. “Though, for different reasons, I'm sure. In my opinion, the purpose of a woman's breasts, Tomas, is for the nurturing of babies. More and more, though, breasts are seen mainly as ...well... decorative, hardly functional at all, their value relegated to what size bra cup they fill. That trivializes their importance.”
“See that? Just like I said, breasts are serious business.”
“And you seriously enjoy looking at mine.”
Tomas, the sexy man of the bad reputation, looked away bashfully. “Ease up, woman! A Latino male never discusses such things with a lady.”
“Oh, go on! Admit it! You ogle my breasts when you think I won't notice.”
“Admitted,” he grumbled, looking anywhere but at them, now that they were out in the open, so to speak.
“So answer my question-would you push a hundred dollar bill down the front of my G-string for a few extra grunts and grinds?”
Frowning darkly at her, Tomas Ruiz said, “Ask for Lou. Two o'clock sharp.”
* * * *
The Pink Flamingo was located in a freshly painted building-bright pink, naturally-in Fenton's ‘X-rated’ entertainment zone. The bar was wedged like a thong between an open-all-night adult movie house and an open-all-night adult bookstore. Every city in every country in the world had a similar district and similar entertainment. Goodness knows, she'd spent enough time on streets like these to know exactly what went on inside.
Her parents’ ecclesiastical calling was a mission of the streets. Since the time she was old enough to use a ladle, she'd been given an apron and put to God's work in soup kitchens. She'd seen her share of misery; she'd also seen things that gave her reason to hope, things that made her spirits soar, things that uplifted her. And so nothing she saw here on the Southside's X-rated zone surprised or shocked her in any way...
...except, directly across the street from the Pink Flamingo, in an old abandoned warehouse, was a teen drop-in center. What was that doing here?
Curious, and with plenty of time on her hands before her audition, she took a quick peek in the large storefront windows.
The brick building itself was clean and neat; the interior was bright and ch
eerful. There was plenty for kids to do too. There were pool tables, a large screen TV, P.C's. A boxing ring and assorted weights and exercise equipment took up one half of the downstairs. There were even-gasp—books shelved against a wall. And not just dogged-eared paperbacks either. Hard-covers. Best-sellers, as well as the classics.
She would have loved nosing around inside, but unfortunately, the rec center was locked. Seraphina wondered about that, until she read the sign posted on the door: ‘This facility is open only after school hours and on weekends. Fully staffed by licensed professionals.’ Underneath the sign was a long list of community service courses offered; to the side, was a short list of rules.
It was all very impressive and costly too, she thought re-crossing the street and entering The Pink Flamingo.
As her eyes winced their adjustment from the sunshine outside to the dark interior of the strip club, a thin man in a tan suit-vaguely reminiscent of Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca-called out from behind the bar, “You must be Seraphina Norris.”
“Why yes, I am.”
The barkeep put aside the whiskey glass he was drying, and walked toward her, hand extended. “I'm Lou Franco, the Flamingo's manager. And bartender. And bouncer. And a few other titles I wouldn't want to tell a lady.”
“We spoke earlier on the phone. How do you do?” she said, with a brisk, business-like shake; this might be a strip club, but an employment interview was an employment interview, regardless of the job description.
Upon hearing them, a statuesque redhead in a pink, cleavage-revealing silk robe, undulated over. She turned to Seraphina. “I heard you sing at the Chamber of Commerce happy hour. You've got a great set of lungs, hon.” The redhead's smile was both gracious and warm. “Roxanne True,” she introduced herself. “I'm a stripper here.”
“Exotic dancer,” Lou corrected, wearing an unhappy expression. “You're not a stripper, Rox. I don't employ strippers at the Flamingo. All my girls have genuine talent. You're entertainers, each and every one of you. If you get the job, Seraphina, you'll keep your feathers on,” Lou said without equivocation. “This is a high-class establishment I'm operating here.”