by Pamela Prim
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled the keys, on a large and slightly rusty ring, out and handed them to her. He helped her into the conveyance and they began the short ride to the estate.
They topped a low rise and Paul said, “There it is, just there. I live in the small house right at the gates, see?”
His finger pointed and she stared at the small wood-and-post house. It was the perfect size for a bachelor. She said so and he said, “Your uncle and I had a nice arrangement. I have business that takes me out a few times a year while most of the time my work is done in the village. Oh, there’s the drive now.”
Flowers grew in wild profusion and the house sat on a small but wide patch of grass that had been neatly mowed recently. Behind a fence several well-fed cows grazed and she could see the chicken coops to the right of the house, just beyond the herb and vegetable gardens.
Paul said, “As you can see the house itself is very large.”
It was, and beautifully built too of riverstone and wood. The trees stood high and tall and the edges were neatly trimmed. It was so beautiful and green, and so very different from the place that she had always known that Clarissa’s eyes filled with happy tears.
It was all here, everything she could possibly need for the rest of her life. Gardens and food and sunlight and air. The thick smell of coal was gone, as was the feeling of smothering under its heavy mantle.
Also gone was the suffocating feeling of holding herself in check, every day. Of knowing she must be good and when she was not—when she failed to be demure or quiet or soft with her tongue—of feeling as if she were a disappointment to all who loved her and cared for her.
Paul enjoyed her impudence and she knew that he would not change it. He might try to beat it out of her, or make her bend her will to his, but he would only ever do that in the heights of passion, and never check her otherwise. It was not his nature to do so.
She had to be bold.
She would be bold.
As the conveyance clopped away and they stood at the door of the house, now hers, she looked down at her valise’s and the heavy truck, the only reminders of her past and all of its repressions. She would buy pretty fabric in lovely colors and make herself pretty gowns that glowed and moved softly with her every motion. She would wear flowers in her hair if she wished, and she would love the way she wished to.
She said, “Well, your bags are already here.”
Paul said, “Yes, they are.”
She drew a long breath. “I suppose now that you’ve ruined me you may as well marry me.”
His laughter was long and loud. “Ah, you are a saucy and impossible little minx, now aren’t you?”
“Oh, I am,” she said with a gamine grin. “Very much so. I suppose it shall take years to change me and even then you may never be able to do so.”
Paul’s eyebrows rose and his handsome face creased in a roguish smile. “Oh, I think I know how to try, anyway.”
Clarissa’s breath caught as hope soared. He’d become so very dear to her, and now she had the time, and the room to get to know him even better. Paul said, “I suppose we can leave that luggage for a short time. The caretaker left this morning, and did all the chores before he went, so perhaps we would do better to acquaint you with the house.”
Her smile was wicked. “The house, all of it?”
His smile was equally wicked. “I would say we should at least start at the master bedroom.”
“Perhaps the guest room,” she said as she skirted past him and put the key into the lock. “Or the kitchens? It does seem to me that you feel that a woman’s place is in the kitchen.”
“See? You are already trying my patience.”
His hand went to her hair and yanked, hard. Her tresses fell down and spilled across her shoulders. Her heat sailed off on a small puff of breeze and she let it go.
The door closed behind them and the sound of her laughter, then cries of pleasure proved to be a wonderful christening for her new home, and life.
Story 16
Chapter One
For just one evening Dorothea took leave of the safety and sanctity of her sedate home office; escaping to the exotic wilds of a place she hardly knew.
“OK then, so I don’t know if you could exactly call the only night club in Bay City exotic or wild,” she mused now, approaching the mysterious pink sandstone building imbued with towers and arches and fronted by a flashing neon sign that read “Club Tropicale.” “Yet they allegedly play swingin’ amplified music that you can dance to, and they serve beverages that contain some degree of alcoholic content and that come complete with fascinating names like Fuzzy Naval and Sex on the Beach—as opposed to say, Golden Years nutrition shakes and Senior Soda. Two phenomena I very rarely see at home.”
As the only daughter and permanent caretaker for her elderly father, her beloved Papa Bernard, this work from home data entry specialist rarely left the modest but homey Colonial residence that they shared on the south side of town. And as someone who made her living online, the bookish, rubenesque 35-year-old sought her only entertainment and romantic thrills from the shiny surface of her sleek metallic computer screen.
As an active nightly participant in the popular singles website known as Date Night, Dorothea had chatted with numerous gentlemen (well, she reasoned, approximately 45 percent of them could be considered gentlemen. On a good night, and by any stretch of the imagination) during her six months on the site. And while she’d enjoyed chatting and flirting with all of them, few of her interactions actually resulted in anything resembling a face to face meeting; or, horror of all horrors, a date.
“The girls with the profile photos get all of the dates,” she reasoned, adding as she rolled her eyes heavenward, “Especially if they post pictures of people other than themselves—people who just happen to find gainful employment as highly paid professional supermodels.”
A never married and self-proclaimed bookworm who’d enjoyed only a handful of actual dates throughout the course of her existence, Dorothea had few illusions of finding eternal true love on Date Night; then one evening, and much to her surprise if not abject shock, she got a private message from a man who’d she had been chatting with off and on for the past few weeks.
A travelling salesman who dealt encyclopedias from coast to coast and—or so he liked to boast, and often—throughout the continental United States, Cal seemed like an amiable sort who charmed her with his sharp sense of humor and articulate writing style (“Well at least he can spell his own name,” she mused. “Sure beats about half the online populace of Date Night.”). So when he informed her that he’d be travelling to her area the next evening, she expressed great happiness at the news.
Until, that is, she logged off the computer. Then she just panicked.
Indeed, the last 24 hours had morphed her peaceable but uneventful life into a virtual whirlwind of chaos. After paying an emergency visit to her hairdresser, who shaped and trimmed her unruly black curls while outright marveling at the shocking news that Dorothea had a date, the frenzied woman headed home to fish her only dress from deep within her closet; a basic burgundy frock that flattered her generous curves.
“I call this my hope dress,” she joked, adding as she touched her lips with just a light coat of pearl pink lipstick, “So here’s hopin’.”
So now and with a relieved sigh she passed finally through the brass handled stained glass doors that fronted Club Tropicale; taking in her breath at the vision of the ebullient interior that graced this elite night club.
For just a moment her senses reeled as they consumed a vision of luxury distinguished by the presence of lace covered tables topped with dew glistened rose bouquets; walls bathed in wallpaper of pure gold jacquard; and floors topped by a soft thick layering of snow white carpeting.
Suddenly she felt like the lead character in one of those classic old black and white movies she saw on late night TV. Suddenly she was Lauren Bacall in Key Largo, or Ingrid Bergman in Casabl
anca.
Only she figured that Lauren or Ingrid probably could turn at least a single head as she walked the length of the club; a feat that she apparently couldn’t accomplish, at least not this evening.
“That’s okay though,” she mused, finally taking a seat at the corner table where she’d agreed to meet her blind date for the evening. “Cal is the only man whose opinion I care about, and I’m sure he’ll be more than impressed. He seems like such a kind gentleman!”
Chapter Two
“That scumbag. That vile, irredeemable scumbag. And those are his good qualities.”
An hour later Dorothea still sat alone at her quiet corner table; one made all the more sedate by the marked absence of the blind date who was now more than 45 minutes late.
Chomping on a quickly cooling breadstick with disinterested lips, she used her free hand to dial the cell phone number that Cal had sent her in last night’s e-mail.
“Hi, I’m Cal!” the same cheery recorded voice greeted her for what seemed like the hundredth time.
“I’m a vile, irredeemable scumbag!” Dorothea embellished in silence, adding aloud, “Hi Cal, it’s Dorothea. I’m a bit concerned about you at this point; our date was scheduled to start 15 minutes ago. Give me a call when you can.”
Clicking the off button on her phone, she stashed it in the depths of her nearby purse before settling back in her chair; watching with a deep frown as two sharp dressed older gentlemen approached her table—oblivious to her presence as they made to pass her.
“I just saw the funniest thing outside,” one man, a salt and pepper haired gent with laughing dark eyes, told the other. “This poor sap came here to meet a blind date. Then he takes a peek through the window, sees her, and takes off running in the other direction. Hilarious!”
Sitting back sharp in her seat, Dorothea felt the color rise in her cheeks as she considered these words.
“Scumbag,” she seethed, clenching her hands tight on the table before her, “Judging from his profile pic, I’m guessing that George Clooney doesn’t sit up nights fearing his competition. Who in the blazes is he to talk?”
Grabbing her purse, she stood from the table with a heated sigh—then sat right back down as she saw a man who just might give George Clooney a run for his bucks.
“In fact, if George Clooney seems to be missing a clone or an identical twin, I just may have found him.”
Currently sidling up to the brass railed bar that formed a far corner of Club Tropicale, the gentleman in question looked right at home in his surroundings; dressed as he was in a black silk dinner suit with a sleek ivory shirt underneath it.
Tall and muscular, the man’s sleek ebony hair boasted just a touch of silver at the temples, enhancing the glow of his wide cocoa hued eyes as he dazzled the room with a white toothed smile.
“Now that’s a real man,” she breathed, adding as she saw the handsome stranger sway his sculpted form and snap his fingers in time to the smooth jazz beat that emanated from an amplified overhead sound system. “Perhaps a little better than a real man, all things considered. Just sayin’.”
Although his beautiful vision served to soothe her rattled senses, she had no Earthly intention of approaching him in any way.
“One crushing rejection per day is fun. Two is just overkill,” she reasoned, tearing her gaze from the vision of the enchanting stranger as she drained the remnants of her ever weakening drink. “So with that in mind, I’ll just finish my drink and be on my way.”
“So soon?”
She froze as her words were met by a deep sonorous voice that she’d never heard before; somehow, though, she identified its source in the passing of a single heartbeat.
With a giddy smile she lifted her head to regard the flawless face and form of the man before her; one who now aimed his smooth cocoa stare square in her direction.
“Can I buy you a drink?” the man asked her, arching his feathered eyebrows as he added, “And if you do indeed give me leave to purchase this drink for you, will it give me the right to sit beside you as you drink it?”
Dorothea thought a moment, then nodded.
“Sounds like an acceptable plan,” she allowed, adding with the slight waggle of her eyebrows, “And if you do order me a drink, please make it a stiff one. With unlimited refills.”
Moments later Dorothea found her mood lifted and transformed –and not just on account of unlimited refills.
Her guest, who promptly ordered a magnum of champagne for both of them, introduced himself as Culver Clayton; an area businessman and co-owner of Club Tropicale. And living up to his reputation as a stellar club host, he personally poured her a flute brimming forth with frothy crystalline champagne, then offering a toast to new friends as he pressed his full moist lips to the edge of his own chilled frosted glass.
“So tell me, Culver,” she queried, regarding him above the rim of her own glass. “Do you give the royal treatment to all of your first time guests at Club Tropicale?”
Culver shook his head.
“Only those select few ladies that intrigue me, Dorothea,” he told her, his dulcet tones reciting her name like the sweetest poetry.
Dorothea shrugged.
“Well, I’m nothing if not intriguing, if that’s the word,” she admitted, adding as she inclined her head in his direction, “Just out of curiosity, what about me intrigued you specifically? Aside, of course, from my ability to down an unseemly number of breadsticks consumed in a single setting?”
Culver guffawed outright, the sound of his melodic laughter sending tingles down his spine.
“Well for one thing, I love a lass with a sense of humor,” he acknowledged his companion with the tip of his frosted glass. “And I was totally charmed by the lovely smile that I saw on your face the moment you walked in here. You even danced a little bit to the sound of our music.”
Dorothea rolled her eyes.
“And you didn’t throw me right out of the place?” she scoffed, adding as she buried her head in her hands, “Dorothea should be restrained at all times from public displays of dancing. In the event that she is indeed permitted to dance publically, then the results could be traumatic--if not out and out disastrous.”
Culver chuckled.
“Well I thought you looked downright adorable—especially with that beautiful smile of yours!” he praised her further, adding in a more serious tone, “And when I saw that smile disappear, I had to see just what I could do to bring it back—and post haste.”
Dorothea nodded.
“Well truth be told, it hasn’t been the best of evenings,” she revealed. “I got unceremoniously dumped by a blind date who took one look at me and hightailed it home—which is exactly where I plan to go, once I finish this prime bubbly,” she revealed, adding with an affirming nod to her host, “I thank you for the pick me up, Culver.”
She took in her breath as her host reached across the table to cover her hand with his, his strong but gentle touch sending immediate sparks up the length of her arm; blazing hot through her body until they settled in more intimate places.
“I am pleased that you enjoy the bubbly,” he released on a whisper, adding as he seared her with a narrow eyed gaze that dripped with seduction, “but if you care to stay here with me this evening, I actually have a number of pick me ups planned for you, Dorothea.”
His companion froze, these words only enhancing her arousal as she considered their inherent meaning.
Was this enchanting stranger really saying these things? And if so, what was his intention?
“Why?” she asked, only to find a single sturdy finger touching her lips.
“Don’t question it,” he released on a whisper. “Just enjoy everything that’s about to happen to you.”
Dorothea’s breath suspended as their gazes collided across the table; his chiseled cheekbones now spread in a wolfish grin as he squeezed her fingers between his.
“Now I’m well aware, Miss, that more than a few years separate you from m
e,” he began, tone smooth and silky. “Yet you might find that you will benefit from just a touch of experience.”
Returning his grin, Dorothea inclined her head sharp in his direction as she reassured him, “The dude who just unceremoniously dumped me was around my age, and he had the manners and breeding of a wombat on a bad day—and that, dear Culver, just may be an insult to wombats.” She paused here, adding as she leaned across the table, “Men of your generation know how to treat a lady.”
“Oh, my lady. You have no idea.”
Dorothea gasped as her companion seized her lips in a passionate kiss; his soft, moist mouth massaging hers in smooth hypnotic moves.