Dance: Dance of the Seven Veils

by Cris Anson

  She came to stand next to Lyssa. “And I want you to find us our new home. You were so patient on the phone this afternoon, I just knew you were the kind of person I wanted to work with. And Robert, well, he said he had met you and wanted to invite you to dinner. To me it was a no-brainer, to combine dinner with inspecting this house to list it. I was happy to bring you here. And I don’t mind you showing me the house tomorrow.”

  Taking a deep breath while trying to assimilate this unexpected turn of events, Lyssa said neutrally, “I see.”

  Savidge stepped toward her. “It’s all up to you, of course. You can leave with Charlene now and show her the house she mentioned, or do it tomorrow. Or I can walk you through this museum today and we can sign a listing agreement. And if you can, I’d love to have you stay for dinner. Yuki is a marvelous chef and he’s famous for his boeuf bourguignon.”

  “And chocolate mousse,” Mrs. Peifer added.

  Yuki, standing to one side of the kitchen waiting patiently to return to the range, inclined his dark head in acknowledgement.

  “I think,” Lyssa said carefully, “I should take Mrs. Peifer to see the house. The owners are expecting us and it would be discourteous not to show up. Selling a house is traumatic enough when things go well.”

  “Of course you’re right, dear. See, Robert—” she turned to him, “—that’s one of the reasons I wanted her to handle your sale. She has such a nice manner about her.”

  Savidge’s smile turned downright devilish as he said, “Nice. Yes. Very nice.”

  Lyssa felt her cheeks heat at his intense look. She spun on her heel and gestured to Mrs. Peifer. “That’s settled, then. Let’s go.”

  “And in, let’s say an hour, Robert can come pick you up.” Mrs. Peifer nodded her head decisively and strode down the hallway toward the front door, leaving Lyssa standing openmouthed.

  “I’ll be there,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Now that Charlene started the ball rolling, I can’t wait to unload this monster.”

  Trapped. If she asked Mrs. Peifer to chauffeur her back to the office to pick up her car, she might alienate her and lose a sale. And turning down the listing on a three-million-dollar dwelling on the most prestigious street on the Main Line wasn’t an option. She’d be a fool to walk away from a one-percent listing commission regardless of who sold the house. As to the dinner invitation, she’d deal with that when the time came. After he signed the listing agreement. She was a working gal, she reminded herself sternly.

  “Fine.” She followed Mrs. Peifer down the hall, only to hear Savidge’s footsteps right behind her. Of course he’d be gracious enough to say goodbye to his friend, she thought.

  At the door, Mrs. Peifer turned to face her friend, a puckish smile on her face. “By the way, you didn’t happen to send anyone flowers today, did you?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Aha, I thought so. When I walked into the real estate office, the scent of all those red roses was positively transporting! What a romantic gesture!”

  Lyssa cleared her throat. “Yes, I’ve, uh, been meaning to thank you for them. It was a little…overwhelming.”

  “Overdone?” Savidge’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Showing off?”

  “Oh, don’t pay any attention to him, dear,” Mrs. Peifer said. “He does this kind of thing all the time. He just loves to give things to people. Why, I remember when he bought my Jack an electric golf cart because he said he’d always wanted one but never got around to ordering it.”

  “Don’t go giving away all my secrets, Charlene, or I’ll have to take back that bush you love so much.”

  “No you don’t, young man, you dig up my Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick and I’ll crack you over the head with a golf club.”

  Lyssa stood watching in astonishment at the relaxed byplay. Here was a totally different facet of the sexual master, the no-holds-barred attorney, the friend who helped her stand up to her ex. Next thing, she’d probably find out he owned a Lhasa apso or some other tiny lapdog.

  “Well, let’s not keep Ashleigh Lane waiting,” Mrs. Peifer said. And out the door she went.

  Slightly dazed at having been manipulated so expertly, Lyssa followed her into the Lexus. In a few moments they were back at the Tudor and Lyssa was making introductions all around. The home was charming, well laid out and nicely upgraded, and Mrs. Peifer made noises about bringing her husband around next week, after he returned from his golf tournament in southern California.

  At the door, everyone shook hands. Lyssa felt a sale was a real possibility, and her spirits rose. As the two women descended the steps, a sleek, shimmery, blue two-seater pulled up behind Mrs. Peifer’s Lexus. It wasn’t until it was close enough to read the logo that Lyssa saw it was an Aston Martin. Involuntarily she licked her lips. It was classic, understated, elegant, and she fell in love with it instantly.

  Then Savidge opened the door and got out. Her mouth went dry.

  And she knew what her decision would be.

  Chapter Eight

  “If you’ll just sign both copies right here…”

  Savidge bent forward and scrawled his name on the listing agreement. Lyssa curbed the urge to shoot her fist in the air and yell, “Yessss!” She would arrange to have the twenty-room home professionally appraised in the next week to ensure an accurate listing price, but she was certain it would be close to her original estimate of three million dollars. Even sharing the one percent listing fee with the agency would net her enough to prepay several months of her mortgage.

  When it sold.

  “It’s a stunning showpiece,” she said as she signed both copies and handed him one. Six bedrooms and four baths comprised the second floor, with a six-room in-law apartment on the third floor, which at one time had been servants’ quarters. All the moldings were cherry with a fine patina, closets plentiful, the baths modern.

  Savidge shook his head ruefully, his glance bouncing around the very masculine study off the living room. A full wall of books, comfortable leather sofa and club chairs in rich burgundy, three state-of-the-art computers on a cherry-wood slab of a desk made the spacious room seem cozy. “I certainly held onto this white elephant long enough. I was too busy to move, so I just transferred my bedroom downstairs. I do love that kitchen, though.” His eyes twinkled. “You’ll have to find me another home that has a chef’s kitchen, or Yuki will quit on me.”

  “You don’t cook at all?” Lyssa folded her copy of the agreement and slipped it into her satchel, trying not to count dollar signs in the carrot he was obliquely offering her.

  “I dabble. When I have the time. Whenever I return from a transcontinental trip, I bless Yuki and his skill. The freezer’s always full of heat-and-eat, gourmet style.”

  “I couldn’t tell which was his room. All the upstairs bedrooms seem, well, feminine.”

  “That’s my ex’s doing. She’s the one who hired the decorator. But Yuki only stays over when I ask. He’s kind of a jack-of-all-trades for me.”

  “Oh.”

  The conversation dwindled. Lyssa couldn’t think of anything else to say. She should ask him to drive her back to her car, still parked at the office. She should ask if his invitation to stay for dinner was still open. She wondered if he would kiss her senseless.

  She wondered if she was losing her mind.

  Savidge cleared his throat. “Lyssa, I—”

  Lyssa held her breath, keeping her eyes downcast.

  “Look at me.”

  Slowly she lifted her lashes. And saw a mixture of emotions crossing his face. Lust, chagrin, little-boy shyness…anxiety?

  “We didn’t exactly meet in a traditional way,” he began.

  Lyssa stiffened.

  He raked a hand through his thick hair. “What I mean to say is, we’ve never had a traditional date. You know, a movie, dancing, whatever it is that couples do when they’re getting to know each other.” He gave her one of those rueful, Harrison Ford smiles that set her knees to trembling. “I’ve been out of the da
ting game for so long, I just—”

  He paced the floor of the study. “I don’t mean to sound conceited, but I’m accustomed to women throwing themselves at me. I never lacked for arm candy or a willing—” He cleared his throat again.

  “Hell. What I’m trying to say is, would you like to share Yuki’s dinner creation with me tonight? And maybe we’ll go out dancing afterwards?”

  Touched, Lyssa said, “I’d love to have dinner with you.” She looked down at her no-nonsense business suit with its sheath skirt. “Not sure about the dancing, though.”

  An enigmatic, Cheshire cat smile appeared on his face. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  With that, he gave her his arm and walked her to the nook adjoining the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind, I thought this would be more comfortable than that huge table in the dining room.” He gave a mock shudder. “I hated all those formal dinners Columba insisted on having. Did you know the table opens up to seat twenty-four? And there’s two, count ‘em, two sets of china, both of them horrendously expensive, for each seat. Why she didn’t take that crap with her…” He shook his head as if in disbelief.

  “What a yard sale they’d make,” Lyssa teased.

  Chuckling, he handed her into a well-padded banquette covered in cheery yellow chintz. The butcher-block table was set for two with tableware in muted earth tones on green woven mats. Sunflowers bloomed in a copper pitcher alongside a wine cooler filled with a dark brown bottle nestled in cracked ice.

  Picking up a red-and-white-checked towel, Savidge grasped the bottle and began working the cork. “You like champagne? I thought we’d toast our new business arrangement. For starters.”

  The pop was audible. He poured the bubbling liquid into two waiting flutes and settled the bottle back into its bed of ice, picked up both glasses, and handed her one.

  “To the future,” he said.

  Lyssa’s heart did a little flip-flop. “The future.”

  They sipped. “Now. You just sit there. Yuki did the hard part, and now he’s gone home. All I have to do is put water on for the noodles.” He lifted the lid of the boeuf and inhaled. “Ahhh. Perfectamento. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Smells wonderful.” Her stomach growled.

  He laughed. Their eyes met. “Good. I am, too.”

  Laughing with him, she watched as Savidge worked in the kitchen with no wasted motion, graceful as a ballet dancer. He added curly noodles to boiling water, tossed a mesclun salad with a balsamic vinaigrette and spooned portions into wooden bowls. In due course, he set a steaming plate in front of her, chunks of beef tenderloin slow-simmered in rich red wine sauce, pearl onions and sliced mushrooms, lying on a bed of noodles, with stir-fried snap peas on the side.

  Between sips of champagne, they nibbled on the food and haltingly explored each other’s psyches. They discovered a mutual love of classic movies, discussed the merits of Ted Turner’s colorized versions versus the original black and white, whether Citizen Kane was better than Casablanca. They laughed at the excesses of Busby Berkley-style revues and the intricacy of Esther Williams’ water ballets. She told him of her trek to New Hampshire to settle Michelle at Dartmouth. He told her of his twenty-one-year-old son taking a semester at Cambridge, England to study Shakespeare. She discovered he enjoyed golf, sailing, chess and jazz. She told him she liked gardening, reading, biking and classical music.

  All too soon the champagne and the light outside the bow window were gone, and only remnants of the meal remained on their plates.

  “Ready for dessert?”

  Lyssa massaged her stomach. “Everything was so good, I pigged out on seconds. I couldn’t eat another bite. Honest.”

  “Well, then,” he said with a sly look, “we’ll have to kill some time until there’s room for dessert.” He reached a hand out to her. “Come with me.”

  Suddenly shy, Lyssa had a difficult time getting to her feet. He’d been vivacious and charming during dinner, with not a hint of the sexual innuendo or lust that he’d exhibited in the past. She liked this new Robert Savidge; she would have no qualms introducing this side of him to her daughter. But she could feel heat building inside her at the prospect of his naked body hard against hers, plunging into her until she cried out in passion.

  He led her to his bedroom off the study, with its massive four-poster bed that could have been taken from a British duke’s ancestral home. She had just glimpsed the room when they were taking inventory for the listing earlier. Now she could see the room had the same masculine feel as the study, unlike all the upstairs rooms. Enlarged photographs of a nineteenth-century sailing vessel—with him as a crew member, he told her—graced the dark green walls. Two carved antique armoires flanked a twelve-foot-high pier mirror.

  With a hand at the small of her back, Savidge nudged her beyond the bed and into a bathroom as big as her living room. She stopped just inside the doorway and looked at him quizzically.

  “We’re going dancing, remember? I thought you’d like to freshen up first.”

  He opened a door to a small closet. “I think you’ll find everything you need in here.”

  “How in the world…?” Her voice trailed off as she spied a padded hanger holding her favorite party dress, a black cap-sleeve A-line that skimmed her knees and displayed a hint of cleavage in the scoop neck.

  “Kat,” he said succinctly.

  “That little sneak.” But Lyssa couldn’t put much oomph into the epithet. She was too overwhelmed by the thought behind the action. On both their parts.

  “Think you could be ready by—” he checked his gold Patek Philippe “—nine- thirty? I have a table reserved for ten p.m. in downtown Philadelphia.”

  Lyssa glanced at her own no-name watch. An hour. She swallowed.

  “I’ll be on the computer in the study. If you need anything, soap, towels, back rub, just sing out.”

  And he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

  I wonder if my mouth is hanging open, she thought. Then she spied her overnight bag on the floor of the closet. Knowing Kat, it held a change of underwear and her makeup kit.

  She let herself sink onto the padded bench at the dressing table and stared at her reflection in a mirror lit with strips of bright lights on both sides. Back rub?

  A smile played around the edges of her mouth. What if she filled the tub with bubbles and hot water and, as he put it, sang out for a back rub and see where that led?

  But oh, what would it feel like to be in his arms on a café dance floor, swaying slowly to a smoky contralto singing vintage Sinatra? To have a real date? With a really, really, really virile man? Could they pull this off without a detour to fuck like rabbits? Or would the dancing be more foreplay, with the delicious addition of anticipation spiced by the agony of waiting?

  With a decisive nod, she reached for her bag.

  * * * * *

  Humming as she put the hot rollers to her hair, Lyssa reviewed the strategy she’d formulated while taking a quick shower. Her eyes sparkled with several coats of mascara and a touch of dark shadow. The sheer demi-bra and thong she’d never worn before made her feel extra sexy. Thank you, Kat, for making me buy them! She wondered how long she’d be able to dance in those strappy, high-heeled sandals Kat had packed, then decided she could always lean into her partner if she got tired.

  She removed the rollers, combed and arranged her hair, then put her plan into action.

  “Savidge?” she called out. “Can you help me?”

  When he strolled into the bathroom, she had posed herself with her front facing the door, her head turned to look over her shoulder at the mirror as though trying to get a glimpse of her back. She knew he’d get hit with both barrels, seeing both sides of her at once in her Victoria’s Secret unmentionables, her breasts lifted and thrust forward above the underwire, her ass cheeks in the mirror emphasized by the sliver of fire-engine-red nylon separating them.

  She allowed her gaze to meet his reflected one. “I seem to have gotten a bite
or something, and I can’t reach it. It kind of burns and itches. Can you take a look?”

  “I’m looking, I’m looking,” he rasped. But he stood statue-still. He had changed into a white shirt and dark tie and looked good enough to tackle right then and there.

  Because he still hadn’t moved, she sauntered to him, feeling positively decadent in her heels and skimpy underwear and swaying hips. His gaze burned into her, touching her nipples to make them tighten into hard buds, then raking down her belly to her crotch, where liquid heat pooled deep within her.

  Slowly she turned, lifting her curls off her shoulder, bending her head forward. “Somewhere down my back,” she said. “See if you can find a red mark.”

  He put warm—very warm—hands on her shoulders and gently nudged her closer to the mirror. “Where the light’s better,” he growled. He trailed the fingertips of both hands from her nape and down her spine to the top of her thong, then back up again, head bent forward until she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin.

  “Can’t feel anything,” he murmured. “Turn around.”

  He positioned her so her profile was reflected in the mirror then stood behind her, the lights casting soft shadows on every indentation of her vertebrae. His lips followed the trail his fingers had taken. Occasionally he stopped to lick a spot then said, “Nope, that isn’t it.”

  Transfixed, and utterly turned on by the stark difference in their attire, Lyssa watched in the mirror as Savidge licked, nuzzled, touched and nibbled his way up and down her back, still denying he could see the spot she’d asked him to find, and keeping his hands to himself, damn his eyes! He scooped a bottle from the dressing table, pushed the plunger to release a dab of lotion. Setting the bottle down, he rubbed his palms together, then slowly, sensually, massaged the lotion into the skin between the straps of her bra, then underneath the back strip, and down to her waist.