Tamara gets up from the bed and shuffles across the carpet as quick as she can with cotton balls between her toes, praying that she doesn't smear her fresh polish. She unlocks the door and opens it just wide enough to smile innocently at her husband's grouchy face. "Hey baby boo," she coos.
"Don't 'baby boo' me. You looked at the clock lately?"
She has. It is twenty minutes to six and the restaurant is a half hour away. Tamara squinches up her nose and smiles brilliantly. Roderick hates to be late. "Baby, we're almost ready. It takes time to be fabulous, boo. I'm just trying to look good for you." She swings the door open and gives him a sneak peek at her outfit.
"Five minutes, Tam." Roderick is murmuring now rather than growling.
Tamara leans forward and puckers up her lips. As her husband moves in, she slowly leans back and eases the door closed, finally shutting it right in his face. She snickers as she locks the door.
"Five minutes!" Roderick barks before he bounds down the stairs.
"Mo," Tamara calls out, shuffling carefully to her vanity. "Get out here, girl. We late. Roderick is about to bust something." She turns her head left and right, examining her up-do for stray pins.
"Tamara, this dress is too short and too pink. I look like a damn flamingo," Marlowe grouses from behind the bathroom door.
Tamara sighs and waddles toward the bathroom. "You tried on half the dresses in my closet and that was the only one you liked."
"It was the only one that fit, Miss Petite."
Tamara stops at the door and jiggles the knob. "Let me see."
"Hell no. Give me my black dress."
"Hell nah!" Tamara wraps smartly on the door. "Open up, Mo. I will set Roderick on you. He'll drag you out of the house in a bathrobe if he . . ."
The door swings open in front of Tamara's face. And there is Marlowe, long and leggy in a seashell pink chiffon cocktail dress whose simple line and vibrant color makes her skin glow.
Tamara squeals and snaps her fingers. "Two thumbs up! I am a genius! Turn around."
Grudgingly, Marlowe swings in a circle. "It's too short, Tam. I'm a lot taller than you."
"It is not too short," Tamara protests. "I got a lot more rump than you. It falls to the same place it falls on me: lower than hoochie and higher than granny. Flirty - that's what it is." She raises her eyebrow at Marlowe's frown. "Is that your only complaint? You think it's too short?"
Marlowe heaves a breath. She likes the dress. It's soft and not too clingy, and it has slender straps that cross in the back so that she won't have to keep pulling them up all night. It dips a little low in the back, but that is nothing compared to the shocking length of her gangly matchstick legs that the dress reveals. "Yes."
"Well, it ain't. You got skinny legs, but they're shapely - that's what counts." Tamara links her arm with Marlowe's and drags her out of the bathroom. She stops at the bed to grab her purse and shoes.
Marlowe studies Tamara with a twinge of envy. Tamara's dress is short, too, but a fringe of camel suede the same color as Tamara's skin hangs from the hem down to her knees. "Did I try on that dress?"
"No," Tamara replies, padding across the floor on her heels. "But it wouldn't fit you anyway."
"Why not?"
"You ain't got the hips for it. Let's go." She pushes Marlowe out of the bedroom, snaps off the light, and shuts the door.
When they arrive at Ivan's, Roderick jumps out of the front seat to open his wife's door. Tamara giggles like a schoolgirl when Roderick bows with a flourish and takes her hand. He pulls her out and moments later, he has her crowded up against the door, whispering things that are meant for her ears only.
Marlowe smiles. She turns when her own door opens, and the smile on her face does not disappear. She was too preoccupied with her own appearance to notice Lucas before, but she notices him now. An ice blue mock turtleneck hugs his shoulders and torso as faithfully as his own skin, and his long legs are draped in a fine pair of slacks so richly black that they don't reflect any light. His attire is simple, but it suits him. "You look sharp."
Lucas shifts in his new shoes and strikes a pose. He smiles when she laughs at him. And then his eyes flick over her with a warmth that she didn't think he possessed. "There are no words to describe how you look tonight."
Marlowe's eyebrows shoot up. "Try," she challenges.
Instead of speaking, Lucas takes her hand and brushes a kiss over her knuckles. Unexpectedly, he turns her wrist and places a heavier, warmer kiss on the sensitive skin right over her pulse point. He fixes his chrome colored eyes on her before pulling her from the car.
Marlowe can't look away. This is the same look that he'd given her in the stairwell. Her thoughts crash like thunder as her mind reinterprets that moment: the way their faces had been inches apart, the way he'd stared at her, seeing her, searching her.
Lucas draws her close as though he is about to twirl her into a dance step. He pushes the door shut behind her, his eyes never wavering from her face.
Uneasy, Marlowe turns her head to see if her brother is watching. But he isn't; he and Tamara are already strolling across the parking lot. "They left us. He didn't even lock the car." She turns to find Lucas still staring at her.
"I have the keys," he explains softly. "I'm the designated driver."
Flustered, Marlowe backs up a step and turns on her heel. "Designated driver," she repeats almost inaudibly as her heels click over the asphalt. "Great. Because I need a drink." She shakes her head, but to no avail; either she is hallucinating, or Lucas is flirting with her. Behind her back, the alarm chirps like an affirmation.
Lucas catches up to her in a few long strides. He keeps his hands in his pockets until they arrive at the door. He reaches out for the handle, and then he places his free hand on the small of her back, leading her in.
Marlowe cocks her head; her eyes grow wide. He did that before, but it didn't mean anything before. Her back wasn't bare before, so she didn't involuntarily shiver the way she is shivering now. It'll stop, she thinks. I'll be fine when he moves his hand.
He doesn't. Lucas leads her forward to where Roderick and Tamara are waiting with the hostess.
"Right this way," the hostess chirps, smiling.
And with a small nudge of his fingertips, Lucas escorts Marlowe all the way to the table.
Ivan's isn't packed but it is comfortably full. The last of the weekend merrymakers are jovial and loud, some swaying beneath the low lights to the jazz quartet's instrumental groove, some talking intimately across small round tables draped in red cloth. It might have reminded Marlowe of the reception if she were thinking. But she can't think; she can only feel the press of Lucas' palm against her spine, and she can only imagine herself tripping because she isn't paying a bit of attention to where she is walking.
When the foursome stops, Marlowe simply stands still, dazed, clutching Tamara's pearl encrusted purse like a life preserver. Lucas pulls out her chair, but she doesn't notice until he leans in close to her.
"Sit down," he whispers against the back of her neck.
Marlowe obeys. She bends her knees and plops right down, grateful that the chair is positioned exactly beneath her.
Tamara is sitting across the table. She pauses in cooing at her husband to frown at Marlowe and mouth the question, "What's wrong?"
Marlowe shakes her head to indicate that nothing is wrong. Her mind clears a bit. She accepts her menu with a wispy "Thank you" and imagines herself recovering her composure until she finds Lucas still staring at her. Marlowe snaps open the menu and hides. She usually holds her own with men. Especially in the years since Nate, she is seldom put off or disturbed by anything they do. Men have flirted scandalously with her, and she usually brushes it off like so much lint.
She bites her lip and tastes lipstick. Grimacing, Marlowe scrapes her tongue with her teeth and tries to read the menu selections. But she can't focus. She is hyper-aware of Lucas focusing on her, even though she can't see his face and doesn't know if he is looking at her. She can still feel his intent like an actual touch. She can't understand why his quiet courtly behavior gets under her skin.
It's aggressive; that's what it is. Lucas isn't lewd or brazen, but he is quietly aggressive and unequivocally clear in his intent. Manly - that's what he is. And he isn't supposed to be manly. He isn't supposed to be attractive. He is supposed to be kind of goofy and uncomfortable, the way she imagines all white men would be around her outside of the office, with the possible exception of Sean Connery. But Lucas is totally at ease and not the least bit intimidated by her. He actually likes her. She is the uncomfortable one.
When the waiter asks for her order, Marlowe scans the menu and reads off the first thing that her eyes focus on: veal in some kind of rosemary sauce. She begins to close the menu when Tamara raises her hand.
"Lucas already ordered that, Mo. Get something different so we can all taste around the table."
Marlowe opens the menu and selects a chicken dish. No one protests, so she folds her menu and gives it to the waiter. She looks at Tamara, smiles, looks at Roderick, and then fixes her gaze on the dance floor. When the chilled Riesling arrives, she swipes up her glass as soon as it is filled.
"I'm going to the ladies room. Mo?"
Marlowe looks up to see Tamara rising from her chair and glaring, indicating that she'd better follow Tamara to the bathroom or suffer the consequences. When they make it up the stairs to the bar and turn left, Tamara grasps Marlowe's elbow and hustles her into an old fashioned phone booth, snapping the door closed behind them.
"Mo, what is wrong with you?" Tamara asks tersely. "Did you smoke something when I wasn't looking?"
Marlowe frowns. She hasn't even had a cigarette since the reception. "No, Tam."
"What's the problem then?" Tamara looks Marlowe up and down, her eyebrows raised. "For the last time, it's not that short. Don't cop an attitude all night."
Marlowe looks sharply at Tamara and then sighs heavily. She has a tendency to brood; it is a side effect of spending so much time alone. But she doesn't want to darken the dinner table. She came out to enjoy her family; she doesn't want to let Lucas and his staring get to her. Who is he anyway? No one, she thinks. No one at all. "Sorry. I was just thinking about Nate," Marlowe lies, affecting a sad pout. "I'll snap out of it."
"Please," Tamara insists. "Roderick keeps asking me what's wrong with you, and Lucas is drifting off to a galaxy far, far away. Ask him to dance or something."
"We'll see. Maybe after." After dinner, she implies. But after hell freezes over is what she means.
"Good." Tamara digs compact out of her purse and flips it open. "You got me all flustered," she grumbles. "Do I look all right?"
"Fabulous."
"Good, because I'm trying to get some tonight. Let's go."
After the phone booth summit meeting, Marlowe breezes through dinner and one and a half glasses of wine with an easy attitude. Her cheerfulness is practiced and as fragile as china. But she puts on a good show, and because they want to believe it, Roderick and Tamara are fooled.
Lucas is not. He knows a mask when he sees one, and the charming social butterfly sitting next to him isn't the real Marlowe Ross. She is overly polite to him until he falls silent and stops responding, after which she basically ignores him. By that time, Roderick and Tamara have finished more than a bottle of wine between them, and they are easily pleased with everything, especially each other.
Out of habit, Lucas tugs at the soft collar of his pullover. He is growing angry in a way that he can't explain. The antics of others rarely get under his skin, especially a woman's antics, even a woman that he likes. But Marlowe infuriates him because she is playing her cards carefully, strictly abiding by the rules. Her courtesy is stifling. If he grabs her and tells her to grow up like he wants to, he will be the one crossing the line, and she will have good reason to smack him.
Lucas leans back in his chair, observing her. She is swaying slightly to the music. He flicks a glance at the newlyweds; they are leaning in close and whispering the way newlyweds should. They won't mind being left alone for a moment. Lucas takes a breath and sets his mind along certain lines. If Marlowe wants to play, he has to call her bluff. He will make her an offer that she can't refuse.
He rises slowly and brushes his fingertips over her shoulder. When she turns around, he extends his hand. "Dance with me," he says loudly enough for Roderick and Tamara to hear.
Roderick glances up, smiles, and returns his attention to Tamara. The blushing bride blushes more deeply and waves Lucas and Marlowe off to the dance floor.
Marlowe takes Lucas' hand and stands up. She's pliable; her one glass of wine has gone to her head. And she thinks that she is safely out of danger. Lucas barely spoke to her during dinner. She takes that as an indication that her tactics have turned him off.
Lucas closes his hand over hers and pulls her through the crowd to the front of the dance floor near the stage. He turns and twirls her into his arms, placing his free hand chastely in the center of her back. After a few moments, her posture relaxes as he'd hoped it would. She doesn't expect anything more from him than the prom night back and forth that he is performing for her. He bides his time.
When the song changes and the vocalist comes on stage to perform her last number, the floor fills up as he anticipated. Lucas makes his move. His hand slides down her back to the base of her spine, and with a firm tug, he pulls her in close, so close that she has no choice but to dance with him cheek to cheek.
His maneuver is so perfectly timed that Marlowe doesn't resist. The floor is suddenly crowded; when another couple bumps into her, Marlowe braces herself by holding on to his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is so soft beneath her fingertips that she can't help but to brush her cheek against it. Next thing she knows, her curly head has dropped against his neck. He's doing something to her, rubbing the tender spot on her spine with his thumb in a way that is incredibly soothing; it lulls her into a powder fine drowsiness. She hasn't been touched like this in a long time.
It is nothing now for Lucas to flatten her hand over his heart and hold it as though it belongs there. He relaxes finally and allows himself to enjoy the feeling of a quiescent Marlowe cradled in his arms. He turns his face into her hair, inhaling the soft clean scent of her shampoo. Arousal creeps through his veins like a quick spreading drug; it would be wise to pull away, but wisdom has no appeal to Lucas at this moment. He is as much enthrall to her as she is to him.
The song ends with applause and then the quartet strikes up another instrumental set. The burst of clapping shakes Marlowe out of her reverie, but her pliant disposition lingers. She glances at Lucas; he is pulling money out of his pocket to tip the vocalist, as many others are doing. When he turns to her with a wisp of a smile animating his lips, Marlowe acts on impulse. She places her hands on his shoulders, leans in, and kisses him on the cheek. "Thank you," she says in a soft friendly tone.
Lucas doesn't speak. His arms go around her like thick vines. He doesn't squeeze her; he simply holds her. In the circle of his arms, he offers her something richer than gratitude and deeper than the friendship she'd extended to him. He offers her tenderness. It pours out from the strength and radiant heat of his body, warming and loosening her bones from head to toe.
Marlowe is dumbstruck, as if under a spell. Her prickly skin peels off like scales. Her essential self bursts from her core and rises to the surface. Then the damn bursts, and hot irrevocable tears well up behind her eyes. Without a word, she wrenches free of his hold, spins around, and stumbles to the bathroom.
Lucas withdraws into a deep silence as he weaves through the couples on the dance floor and returns to the table. He finds Roderick and Tamara still engrossed in each other, entwined like tree limbs. He eases into his chair and leans back, his agile mind reviewing and rejecting speculations. Before he can get a handle on his thoughts, the waiter arrives with a wide wooden tray loaded with desserts.
"Who ordered this?" Lucas demands quietly, eyeing the tray with suspicion.
"The lady, sir. Uh, she asked for one of everything."
Lucas glances at Tamara and catches her eye.
"I did?" Roderick nuzzles her neck; she giggles. "Oh yeah; I did." She smiles; her eyes are as shiny as diamonds. She is, to borrow Marlowe's phrase, a little tipsy.
Lucas digs his wallet out of his pocket. "Box it up," he says to the waiter, handing over his credit card. "We're leaving shortly." The waiter shuffles away with a murmured, "Yes, sir." Lucas leans back in his chair, pinches his chin between his thumb and index finger, and frowns.
