by Beth Ciotta
Jean-Pierre eased back, the glow of the table’s singular candle illuminating his chiseled features. “No?”
Genuine hurt shone in his partner’s long-lashed eyes and Rudy instantly regretted his gruff tone. He set down his glass and dragged a hand down his neatly-trimmed goatee. “We’re not working together, Jean-Pierre. I’m chauffeuring specialty entertainers to and from Oz as dictated by Rivelli. You’re designing costumes for Flying Monkeys’ cage dancers and Ruby Slippers’ drag queens. In the two weeks since we started, we’ve barely crossed paths.”
“You misunderstand,” the younger man said. He paused, stroked the stem of his own wine glass in a sensual manner. Then again Jean-Pierre could sneeze and Rudy would find that sexy. “I meant that it is nice that we are working together to make our dream come true.”
The bed and breakfast lodge in Vermont. Rudy had once mentioned that he wanted more than a toss in the sack; he wanted Christmas in Vermont. A meaningful relationship. Jean-Pierre had taken the notion a step beyond, suggesting they relocate someplace quiet and start their own business. Somehow—amazing since neither possessed the required experience—they’d come up with the idea of opening a bed and breakfast retreat. Of course, at the time they’d been tipsy on sangria and delirious from an all-night movie fest.
Since then Rudy had been struggling to keep his freelance chauffeur business afloat. He’d been ready to drop his Tae Kwon Do class and gym membership when Jean-Pierre had dragged him into a meeting with Anthony Rivelli, the former casino executive who’d established the glitzy wardrobe policy at the Carnevale. The policy that kept Jean-Pierre up to his neck in costume creations and alterations.
“Okay,” Rudy conceded, easing his clenched jaw. “Maybe I did need the steady work.” Rivelli had put him on Oz’s payroll. With the exception of an occasional run to Manhattan, most of his bookings were local. Shame washed over him. Instead of bitching, he should be thanking Jean-Pierre for the cake job. But, dammit, pride and the feeling that it was too good to be true caused him to stumble. “You, however, already work full time at the Carnevale. You’re going to run yourself ragged with this second job.”
“Moi?” Jean-Pierre flashed a cocky grin. “I have the energy of ten men, mon amour.”
“Tell me about it.” Jean-Pierre Legrand had the lasting power of the damned Energizer bunny. The man was tireless on multiple fronts. Rudy felt a familiar stirring south of his belt. And more importantly in his heart. He could envision his best friend, Afia, shaking her finger at him, saying, “When are you going to get it through your thick head that this is the real thing?”
Well, damn. “I’m acting like a bitch tonight, aren’t I?”
Jean-Pierre smiled. “We’ll leave after Virginia Hamm does her set. I promised Anthony I would check out her costumes. He thinks she can do better.”
“Meaning you can do better.”
The man winked. Modesty was not his strong suit.
Rudy sipped his cabernet, his gaze drifting toward the lively dance floor. Though he and Jean-Pierre were sitting alone, they hadn’t come alone. “Virginia doesn’t go on until 1:00 a.m. It’s not even midnight and we’ve already been here for two hours.” He nodded toward the whirling dervish in the pink high-top sneakers dancing with a couple of Ruby Slippers’ regulars. Been there, done them, he thought while draining his glass. Dammit. “I’m worried about Lulu.”
Jean-Pierre nodded, his expression perplexed. “Earlier tonight she was so … preoccupied. Now she is most, how do you say, wound up.”
On cue, Lulu waggled her fingers at her dance partners and zigzagged through the crowd to get to her friends. “I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun!” She kissed Rudy on the cheek and plopped into Jean-Pierre’s lap. “Thank you for letting me tag along.”
“But of course, Chaton.” Jean-Pierre smiled at her, and then turned to Rudy and shrugged.
Hmm. If he didn’t know better he’d think the mutual friend they’d dubbed “kitten” was hammered. But he knew better, and so did Jean-Pierre, hence, their bewilderment. Lulu didn’t drink. She didn’t flirt. She didn’t date. She certainly didn’t bump and grind with half-naked men. Of course, these men were gay, hence, safe, but still.
“No, seriously,” she shouted over the blaring music. “You’re the best.” She pursed glossy pink lips around a straw and noisily slurped the remnants of her soda. Then she poked Jean-Pierre in the shoulder and sprang to her feet. “Let’s dance!”
The Frenchman stared up at her, his brow crinkling with concern. “You have been dancing for one hour straight, Chaton. Sit. Catch your breath.”
She threw her hands in the air and waved her arms in time with the pulsing rhythm. “But I love this song.”
A club mix from the Queer As Folk soundtrack. “Do you even know this song?” Rudy asked, mildly amused.
“No,” she said, seemingly entranced by the colorful laser lights bouncing across the mirrored panels of the upper level. “But so what? It has a great beat.”
She wiggled her hips seductively, catching the eye of a nearby femme. Not wanting the woman to waste her time, Rudy smiled and waved her off before she made her way over to proposition Lulu. Then he looked to his own partner for help.
Jean-Pierre rose and maneuvered Miss Happy Feet into a chair. “The next song, I promise, I am all yours. Just now I need you to keep Rudy company while I purchase another round of drinks.”
“Why don’t we all switch to water,” Rudy suggested, worried that although she’d downed three sodas, she might be in danger of dehydrating. Her face was flushed, and her cartoon T-shirt was damp with perspiration.
“Whatever,” she said, shimmying in her chair while tightening her springy pigtails. She’d been dancing non-stop and still had the energy of a six-year-old, making him feel twice his age and then some.
Jean-Pierre mouthed, “Keep an eye on her,” and then reached over and gave Rudy’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze before elbowing his way toward the three-person-deep bar.
The heat of the Frenchman’s touch lingered, and he found himself staring after his sexy lover, possible soul mate. He wanted to believe they were lifetime partners, but Jean-Pierre was several years younger than he, and realistically, they were still in the honeymoon phase of the relationship. He jammed his hand through his spiky hair and sighed. How many self-help books was he going to have to read before he actually got the hang of this commitment thing?
“I know,” Lulu said, misinterpreting his befuddled expression. “He’s so gorgeous and soooo sweet.” She clasped her hands together and giggled. “I could just eat him up.”
Rudy tapped his fingers on the table, trying to discern if they had a problem. As she was naturally warm and enthusiastic, he wouldn’t have given Lulu’s blinding vibrancy a second thought, except earlier this evening she brooded about Sofie’s mystery admirer. Then when they’d first entered Ruby Slippers, she’d elected to sit at the table sipping her soda while he and Jean-Pierre danced. Now they couldn’t keep her off the floor and she was anything but reserved. Had someone bought her an alcoholic drink when they hadn’t been looking? Had she been too polite to refuse? For a teetotaler, one strong drink was a sure-fire ticket to happy land.
The woman faltered in the face of his silence, her cheeks blooming a deeper shade of red. “Not that I would. Eat him up … or anything.” She tugged at the hem of her T-shirt. “I mean he’s taken. By you. And besides he’s not my type, if you catch my drift.”
Rudy grinned.
Both elbows on the table, she cupped her chin in her hands and sighed. “Do you know how lucky you are, Rudy?”
He looked around the room, sized up the lonely singles trying to hook up, and acknowledged the swell in his heart. “Damned lucky. Sometimes it seems too good to be true.”
She smiled, but it was a winsome expression, one that compelled him to raise a subject he knew she hated.
He leaned forward and rested a calming hand on her bouncing leg. “So what is
your type, honey? What are you waiting for? What are you afraid of? Trust me, I’ve been around, and they’re not all schmucks like Terry. You just have to open your heart. Be willing to take a chance.” God knows he was doing that with Jean-Pierre.
“Do you hear that?” she asked, blowing over his questions. “I love that song!” A remix of a Bill Medley/Jennifer Warnes tune blared over the state-of-the-art speaker system, and before he knew it she was out of her seat and halfway to the dance floor. “Tell Jean-Pierre I’ll be back!”
Rudy groaned, wondering how he was going to keep an eye on her when she’d disappeared into the throng of writhing bodies. Unless he joined those writhing bodies on the dance floor. Those mostly male, mostly shirtless, toned, writhing bodies. The old him would have jumped at the chance to get up close and nasty with a few of those tasty cakes. The new him hustled to the bar in search of Jean-Pierre. This was definitely a team effort.
Lulu refused to let Rudy dampen her night with his soul-searching questions. She’d almost blurted that Murphy was her type, but that was ludicrous. The man carried a gun. He was so not her type. Okay, he was extremely handsome. And charismatic. And … fine, sure, a little … a lot sexy, but that didn’t mean he was Mr. Right. Mr. Right would have to meet specific requirements, and she was certain Colin Murphy would crap out. He was, after all, Alpha and Irish, and the combination equaled old-fashioned and family driven. Not that that was a bad thing. In fact, under normal circumstances that would be a very good thing. Too bad her circumstances weren’t normal.
She palmed her sweaty brow. Why was she even giving that man a second thought? He represented trouble and she wanted no part of it. She shoved him out of her mind and focused on her dance partner, a non-threatening, skinny red-headed guy with kind eyes and great moves. She was footloose and fancy-free. She was having the time of her life!
A re-mix of the theme from Dirty Dancing roared over the speakers. She loved this song. Loved the movie. Loved the way shy, innocent, Baby’s eyes were opened to an exciting world by Johnny Castle, that older, oh-so-sexy dance instructor.
She shut her eyes and a vivid image of Murphy exploded behind her lids. She envisioned his arms around her waist, his thigh wedged between her legs. Imagined them swaying, grinding … the heat of him, the scent of him … primal, intoxicating …
She forced her eyes open to maintain her balance and lost herself in the chaotic lighting, pulsing music, and mingling scents of fragrant hair gels and body colognes. Her senses tingled. Absolutely, she’d never felt this way before. She twirled, gyrated, and bopped. Her partner, a guy named Jim, was here with Harry, but Harry didn’t like to fast dance. Jim was gay, which was perfect, because she could dirty dance to her heart’s content, and he wouldn’t care. He was into dancing, not her body. She wanted to feel sexy, but she didn’t want to have sex.
Sofie would call her crazy. But she just wanted to know that part of her, the sensual part, was still working. She didn’t need the rejections or the consequences that went along with making love. She just wanted to … express herself.
Maybe she was crazy. She’d had an extremely long day, performed two loonytales. She should be exhausted, yet she felt amazingly energized, almost euphoric. She was acutely aware of the music, the lighting, the non-judgmental atmosphere. She felt free. Free of past regrets. Free of her inhibitions. Free of fear.
Maybe she was overly tired. That would explain the slight headache and sudden, annoying eye twitch.
The super-fast dance mix segued into a slow, driving version of a song she’d never heard. Jim abandoned her for Harry, and surrounding men latched onto one another making Lulu feel like an outcast. She lifted a hand to her throbbing temple, feeling slightly disoriented. She needed to find Jean-Pierre and Rudy. She needed to sit this one out.
She excused herself, bumping into one couple after another, trying to find her way to the edge of the dance floor. That’s when she spotted a dark-haired man coming toward her. He smiled. She smiled back. An automatic reaction, and yet he did look familiar. He was still several feet away when Jean-Pierre caught her eye. He frowned.
Her head throbbed. She definitely needed to sit this one out.
The stranger moved closer. No, not a stranger. She’d seen him before. But where?
Her eye twitched. Her vision blurred. She turned abruptly, panic fluttering in her chest. Jean-Pierre caught her elbow as she hurried by. “What is it, Chaton? What is wrong?”
“Nothing.” She waved him off. “I’m fine, just hot. I’m going to sit this one out.”
“We’ll come with you,” Rudy said.
“Don’t be silly.” She massaged her temples and marveled at her dry throat. Hadn’t she just polished off another soda? “I just need a drink of water.”
“There are three bottles of spring water at our table,” Jean-Pierre said, his eyes soft with concern.
“Perfect!” She smiled to ease their worry. “Enjoy the dance.” She hurried toward their secluded corner table, only it looked very dark over there. That panicky feeling kicked up a notch. Again her eye twitched, and suddenly a dose of fresh air seemed more inviting than a drink of water.
She switched directions and slammed into a tower of hard muscle. Strong hands clasped her forearms. Absurdly panicked, she lifted her chin to demand her release. The words stuck in her throat when she locked eyes with Colin Murphy. “What are you doing here?” she squeaked.
“Dance with me.” He coaxed her back onto the floor.
Her heart thudded against her ribs as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her flush against the length of him, leaving nothing to her imagination. Jeez, Louise, Sofie was right. This man was ripped. Even his muscles had muscles. The kind that came from working hard and eating right. Zero-percent body fat. Enveloped in an aura of raging masculinity, she couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Had she passed out from exhaustion and overexertion? Was she dreaming?
He dropped his mouth close to her ear. “Do you see him?”
Warm breath fanned her neck, tweaking her already fevered brain. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she breathed in an intoxicating mixture of spicy aftershave and fruity shampoo. Wow. “Who?”
“Whoever scared you.”
The stranger who wasn’t a stranger. “I wasn’t scared,” she lied, knowing her fear was unfounded. It’s not like the man had done anything wrong. He’d just smiled. “I was hot,” she said, her throat scratchy and tight. “I wanted some fresh air.”
“Uh-huh.” Holding her close, he maneuvered her slowly across the floor with an easy grace that melted her bones. “So do you see him?”
She clasped her hands tightly about his neck for fear her knees would buckle—she felt as boneless as a rag doll—then scanned the crowded room. “No,” she said, surprised at the relief in her voice. What in the world was wrong with her? The man had smiled at her, so what?
Her anxiety eased as Murphy stroked his hand down her stiff spine. The throbbing in her head lessened. Euphoria returned in a dizzying burst as the seductive music droned on, and Murphy’s hand connected with the bare flesh of her lower back. Her T-shirt had ridden up, but for the life of her she couldn’t dredge up her usual modesty. She felt at ease with her sexuality. Safe.
Oh, no. “Are you gay?”
He regarded her with an amused expression. “No.”
She sighed. “Oh, good. I mean …” Be adventurous. “So then what are you doing here?” she repeated, slipping her hands beneath his shirt.
Something flashed in his dark eyes. Censure? Pleasure? “Watching you.”
The husky declaration zapped her like a lightning bolt, feeding her boldness. She slid her palms higher, marveling at his exquisite physique. His magnificent back muscles tensed beneath her touch, and she almost pulled away. Sofie’s words spurred her on. Adventurous meant throwing caution to the wind, to indulge in a fantasy. She wanted to dance dirty. Really dirty. She wanted to cast away her inhibitions and to experience a spontaneous, sensual moment. Wi
th Murphy. She closed her eyes and, just like that, she was Baby and he was Johnny Castle—she did have an amazing imagination after all. Her senses tingled as she straddled her partner’s thigh and indulged in a slow grind.
Desire, hot and intense, simmered in her belly.
She burned.
Murphy gripped her hips and swore beneath his breath. “You’re putting me through the wringer tonight, Princess.”
“I am?” Excitement buzzed through her veins. Was it possible? Was he as turned on as she was? She hadn’t been this aroused since … actually she’d never been this aroused. She felt strangely disconnected, unleashed. She continued to grind against him and risked his gaze. “Have you ever had sex in a coat closet?”
He searched her eyes, groaned. “You need some fresh air.” He practically carried her off the floor.
Was that the dating code for “Let’s go some place private?” Giddy at the prospect of jumping this man’s bones, she tried to remember Sofie’s rules for a one-night-stand. Oh, right. “Do you have a condom?”
“Do we know you?” Scowling, Jean-Pierre stepped directly into Murphy’s path. Rudy loomed beside him, his bulked-up arms folded over his massive chest. They looked ready to kick some bodyguard butt. Gosh, that was sweet.
“He’s gay,” she blurted. They wouldn’t hassle him if they thought he was a member of their church. They wouldn’t see him as a threat.
“He’s not gay,” Rudy said.
“Bi?” Lulu tried.
Jean-Pierre snorted.
“Fine,” she snapped, her headache returning with blinding force. She’d never understood that whole gaydar thing, but obviously Murphy blipped STRAIGHT on her friends’ internal screens. “He wandered over from Flying Monkeys and picked me up. If you must know, we were stepping out to have sex.”
Her friends gawked.
Her vision blurred. Had that come out of her mouth? Her eye twitched madly as she endured a sudden wave of nausea. “Can I take a rain check?” she asked Murphy. “I think I’m coming down with something.”