Gypsy abandoned herself to sensation. A part of her stood back and watched, both disturbed and fascinated by the woman who gave herself up totally to addictive sensations. She felt one of his hands move to caress the side of her neck lightly, his thumb rhythmically brushing her jawline; his free hand slid slowly down her back, over bare flesh that tingled at the touch. The warmth of his mouth seduced, impelled, made her forget everything except the need to have more of this….
The phone rang.
Gypsy wanted to ignore it. She tried to ignore it. But it was ringing persistently, and finally Chase raised his head with a groan.
“Oh, Lord! And we were doing so well too!”
She stared up at him, dazed, for a long moment, then firmly got a grip on herself. A warlock. He was definitely a warlock. She moved toward the phone as he reluctantly released her. Clearing her throat as she lifted the receiver, Gypsy managed a weak “Hello?”
“You’ve been out!” a wounded male voice accused sadly.
Gypsy slammed the phone down so hard and fast that she nearly caught her fingers beneath it. “Oh, God…” she whispered to herself, appalled. A stranger? Some nut had been calling her, and she’d—
“Who was that?” Chase had come up behind her and began to nuzzle the side of her neck.
“Uh… wrong number.” She was glad he couldn’t see her face; it probably scaled the limits of human shock.
He chuckled softly. “You obviously have no patience with wrong numbers; somebody’s ears are still ringing.”
Apparently not; the phone began ringing again.
Gypsy didn’t move, she just stared at it silently.
“Persistent devil.” Chase made a move toward the phone. “Want me to … ?”
“No!” Hastily Gypsy picked up the receiver, trying to ignore Chase’s startled look. “Hello?”
“Darling, why did you—”
“I can’t talk now,” she interrupted hurriedly, and hung up before another word could be uttered. There was a dead silence from behind her. She decided not to turn around.
“Should I ask?” he inquired finally in a mild voice.
“No.” Gypsy sought hastily for something to divert his mind. Although why she should feel so guilty…! And who the hell had been calling her all this time? she wondered. “Uh… Chase, about that favor… ?”
“I’d forgotten. Other things on my mind, I’m afraid.” His voice was disconcertingly formal. “What is it?”
Gypsy mentally flipped a coin. She lost. Or won. Or maybe, she thought miserably, it didn’t matter either way. She arranged her face and turned to gaze up at him. “Would you please help me get these clothes off?” she requested baldly.
It diverted his mind.
Chase blinked at least three times, and Gypsy could definitely see some sort of struggle going on beneath his tightly held expression. And then he relaxed, and she knew that she had won after all. A jade twinkle was born in his eyes.
“I thought we were doing well,” he murmured.
Gypsy fixed him with a plaintive look. “I don’t think I can get them off by myself. The dress has tiny hooks and eyes, and the corset… well, I tied the strings in a knot. And I’m not very good with knots,” she added seriously.
He sat down on the arm of the couch and folded his arms across his chest, bowing his head and laughing silently.
“It’s very uncomfortable!” she told him severely.
“Sorry.” He wiped his eyes with one hand. “It’s just… dammit, Gypsy—Cyrano de Bergerac couldn’t romance you with a straight face!”
“Oh, really?” She lifted a haughty brow at him.
“Really.” He pulled her into his lap, and both of them watched, totally deadpan, as her hoop skirt shot into the air and poised there like a quivering curtain.
She turned her head to stare at him. “You may have a point.”
“Yes.”
“This never happens to heroines in the movies.”
“Uh-huh.” Chase looked as though his expressionless face was the result of enormous effort and clenched teeth.
“They never get stuck in their dresses,” Gypsy persisted solemnly.
“God forbid.”
“Or lose control of their hoops.”
He choked.
“Or have to put their corsets on backward.”
Chase bit his bottom lip with all the determination of a straight man.
“Or ask a man, with absolutely no delicacy, to take their clothes off.” Gypsy reflected a moment, then amended gravely, “Except a certain kind of heroine, of course.”
“Of course,” Chase agreed unsteadily.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by a peculiar sound. Gypsy looked down at her tightly corseted stomach disgustedly. “Or have stomachs that growl like volcanos,” she finished mournfully.
It was too much for Chase. He collapsed backward on the couch, pulling Gypsy with him, unheeding and uncaring that her hoop was doing a fan dance in the air above them. He was laughing too hard to notice. So was Gypsy.
She finally struggled up, fighting her hoop every step of the way and sending Chase into fresh paroxysms of mirth. Sitting on the edge of the couch and clutching the hoop to keep it grounded, she requested breathlessly, “Please unfasten this damn dress—it hurts to laugh!”
Gaining a finger-and-toe-hold on his amusement, Chase rose on an elbow and began working with the tiny fastenings of her dress. They were undone much faster than they’d been done, and she was soon rising to her feet and wrestling yards of material up over her head. When she emerged, flushed and panting, she tossed the dress carelessly onto a chair and looked at Chase.
No man had ever beheld a woman stripping with more appreciation, she decided wryly. Chase was all but rolling on the couch, and if a man could die laughing, he was clearly about to.
She posed prettily, one hand holding the bare hoop and the other patting tousled curls in vain. The vision of herself in shift, bloomers, corset, and hoop obviously affected Chase just as it had her.
“I thought all men liked to see women in their underwear,” she said provocatively.
Chase gathered breath for one sentence. “Take it off,” he gasped. “Take it all off!”
Gypsy placed hands at hips and affected a Mae West drawl. “You think I do this for free, buster? There’s a cover charge, you know.”
He laughed harder.
Uncaring of the ludicrous embellishments of fake emeralds dangling from her ears and around her neck, and delicate black high-heeled slippers, Gypsy discarded—with some difficulty— the hoop and went over to sit on the couch beside Chase. He’d struggled to a sitting position and was once more wiping his eyes.
“Pity you left your sword in the car,” she said, struggling with the stubborn knot on her corset.
“Sorry,” he murmured unsteadily. “I didn’t know you’d need it.”
Gypsy sighed, kicked off her slippers, and sat back, giving Chase a pleading look. “D’you mind? If I don’t take a deep breath in the next few seconds, I’m going to be the first woman of the twentieth century to suffocate because of a corset.”
Not bothering to hide his grin, Chase reached for the stubborn knot. “In the twentieth century?” he queried gravely.
“You can’t make me believe that nobody ever died in one of these things. The lengths women go to for fashion!”
“You should try wearing a sword,” he said.
“No, thanks. Besides, swords were for self-defense, not fashion. How could a woman defend herself with a corset?”
“It obviously gave her an edge in defending her honor,” he pointed out, tugging at the stubborn knot. “I don’t understand how the population of the world managed to increase during this stage of fashion.”
“Carefully,” she murmured. “Ouch!”
“Sorry. Maybe we’ll need the sword after all. Could you inhale a little?”
Gypsy gave him a look reserved for those persons one step below the moron level in
intelligence. “Are you kidding?”
“Cyrano would definitely find it an uphill struggle,” Chase murmured wryly. “What are those things called?” He gestured.
“Bloomers.”
There was a moment of silence, then Chase said carefully, “I see.”
Gypsy crossed her ankles and linked her fingers together behind her neck, affecting a pose of comfort. “If my father were to walk in right now…”
“Yes?” Chase asked politely.
“Well, think about the picture we’re presenting. Here I am in a very undressed state, with a man dressed all in black and bending over me in a very suggestive and villainous pose….”
“Do you want to sleep in your corset?”
“I was just making conversation. It’s not easy to sit here calmly and watch you trying to take my clothes off, you know.”
“And you not even struggling! What’s the world coming to?” he said in a shocked voice.
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
“Definitely.” He sighed. “I’m going to have to cut the strings.”
“Oh, no, you don’t! This thing’s rented.”
“What could a couple of strings cost?” he asked reasonably.
“It’s the principle of the thing. Could you just try a little while longer? Please?”
“You like watching me suffer,” he accused wryly.
“Are you suffering?” she asked interestedly.
“I’m dying by inches. I’ve been struggling to keep my hands to myself all night, and now here I am. You’re at my mercy, dressed in a corset, bloomers, and some kind of top that I can see right through—”
“Keep your eyes on the corset,” Gypsy muttered, embarrassed for the first time.
The jade eyes gleamed with mischief—and something else. “You’re blushing,” he announced, chuckling.
“I am not. If my face is red, it’s due to lack of oxygen. I’m telling you—this thing’s killing me!”
“Then you’ll have to let me cut— There! That’s got it. Now you can breathe again.”
Gypsy took a deep, ecstatic breath while he removed the corset and tossed it on top of the dress and hoop. “Air!” she murmured blissfully. “Both lungs full. If you ever take me to another masquerade,” she added flatly, “I’ll go as a writer.”
“I’ll remember that.” Chase’s mind didn’t seem to be on what he was saying. His left hand was resting on her flat stomach, separated from her skin only by the almost transparent linen of her shift. His jade eyes, darkening almost to black were gazing into hers.
Suddenly wordless, Gypsy watched as he leaned toward her slowly. She wondered dimly at the abrupt cessation of laughter, of humor. And marveled at how quickly her heart had leaped to a reckless rhythm. And then all academic wonderings ceased, faded into nothingness.
His lips touched hers lightly, and Gypsy was just about to abandon reason willingly when she felt him shaking with silent laughter. He lifted his head, then dropped it again abruptly, resting his forehead against her stomach.
“Poor Cyrano,” he murmured helplessly. “Oh, poor Cyrano!”
Gypsy was bewildered for a moment, but then she both felt and heard her empty stomach rumbling. So much for the fires of ardor! she thought. “Sorry,” Gypsy said with a sigh. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“So I gathered.” He rose to his feet, still chuckling, and offered her a hand. “Come on, Pauline.”
“As in The Perils of‘?” she inquired dryly, accepting the helping hand.
“Well, you’ve got to admit that you’re batting a thousand,” he pointed out ruefully. “I don’t know what you’ve got in the fridge, but—”
“Tons of stuff,” she interrupted, leading the way to the kitchen without a thought of her decidedly strange hostess outfit. “I called a takeout place this afternoon with a huge order; I had a feeling I’d be starving by the time we got back. Chinese food.”
“At two A.M.?” Chase protested weakly
“When do you eat Chinese food?” she asked politely, busily removing various boxes and cartons from the refrigerator.
He sighed. “Another stupid question.”
“Can you get that pitcher of tea?”
“Tea on Sat— No, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? And here I thought you were breaking with tradition willingly.”
“Have an egg roll.”
“Might as well.” He sighed again. “My plans for the evening seem to be all shot to hell.”
“Sorry.”
“You sound it. Pass the soy sauce, please.”
Half an hour later, Chase finally spoke again, diverting Gypsy’s thoughts from her stomach and lungs—both full and content for the first time in hours.
“Gypsy?”
“Mmmm?” She bit into her third egg roll with relish.
“Could you at least button the top button?”
Startled, she instinctively looked down to see that her shift was displaying more of her charms than her dress had. Before she could say anything, he was going on conversationally.
“It’s not that I hate looking, you understand. But since the end result of this Chinese culinary retribution is bound to be acute indigestion, I don’t think I really need to add skyrocketing blood pressure to my sleepless night.”
Gypsy hastily buttoned the top button. “Sorry.”
“Think nothing of it,” he begged politely. Five minutes later he rose abruptly and left the kitchen without a word. When he returned, he was carrying her black cloak, which he dropped around her shoulders. “Not enough coverage,” he said gruffly
She fastened the cloak, hoping that he didn’t think she’d been deliberately teasing him. “Chase, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” he said with a sigh, resuming his seat. “If I’ve learned anything about you, Gypsy mine, it’s that the obvious answer is never the correct one.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I’ll answer that question when I find out the answer.”
Gypsy followed him to the front door some time later, feeling curiously vulnerable and not sure why. She held on to the cloak and gazed up at him as he opened the door, wondering if he was disappointed at the unplanned turn the evening had taken. She couldn’t tell from his expression.
“Remember the barbecue tomorrow—I mean, today. Jake and Sarah will be at my place around three.”
She nodded. “I’ll remember.”
“It’s been… an unusual evening, Gypsy mine.” He grinned suddenly. “I don’t think I ever enjoyed an evening half as much in my life. Has anyone ever told you that you’re something different?”
“No.” The relief in her voice was obvious even to her.
“An oversight, I’m sure.” He bent his head to kiss her quickly, adding in a whisper, “And you look cute as hell in bloomers.” With a cheerful wave he vanished into the night.
Gypsy slowly closed and locked the door, smiling to herself. She went through the house to the kitchen. She cleaned up in her usual manner, dropping cartons into the trash can and anything not made of paper into the sink. She let Bucephalus and Corsair in from the backyard, fed them (ignoring Corsair’s irritated grumbles at being left outside for so long), and went up to bed.
“You hung up on me,” he told her sadly.
Gypsy rubbed sleep-blurred eyes and stared at her bedside clock. She’d been in bed half an hour. “Who are you?” she demanded, by now more angry and frustrated than horrified.
“I’m yours, my love—”
“Stop it!” she snapped.
“You’re angry with me?”
“What do you think?” she asked witheringly “Some nut calls me every night, and I’m supposed to be entranced?”
“Last night you—”
“Last night,” she interrupted, “I thought I knew who you were.”
“But you know who I am,” he murmured whimsically. “We meet every night in your dreams.”
“Quit it!”
“You belong
to me.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“Mine.”
She hung up. Hard.
The phone rang. And rang. Gypsy finally picked it up with a rueful sense of great-oaks-from-little-acorns-grow Why had she ever started this?
“‘The day breaks not, it is my heart,’” he whispered.
“Stop quoting Donne, dammit,” she ordered.
“So cruel….”
Gypsy could feel herself weakening. Whoever he was, this man had seen the vulnerable side of her. And she wondered dimly why she was so sure that he had shown her a side of himself that no one else had ever seen. It had to be Chase. But how could it be? Nothing made sense!
“Stop calling me,” she heard herself pleading.
“Would you ask me to stop breathing? It’s the same, my love. The very same. I’d die. I love you.”
“Don’t love me. I… I’m in love with someone else.” She cradled the receiver gently.
In the darkness of her bedroom Gypsy slid from the bed and dressed in jeans and a sweat shirt. She barely heard the phone begin to ring again as she left the room.
With Bucephalus as escort she went through the house to the kitchen, and then out into the yard. She crossed to the stairway down to the beach. Moments later she was sitting in her favorite seat and gazing out over a moonlit ocean, the big dog at her feet. She listened to the muted roar of the surf; she looked up to count the stars, wishing on a few; she might even have cried a little bit.
She thought about loving Chase.
Gypsy wasn’t quite herself at the barbecue later that day. She might have been developing a cold after sitting on a windy beach for the better part of a cool June night. Or it might have been lack of sleep. Or it might have been a last defensive gesture in a battle lost for good.
Whatever it was, Chase and her two new friends obviously noticed.
Being Gypsy, she couldn’t pretend that everything was fine. She couldn’t hide her almost nervous silences in response to Chase’s teasing. She couldn’t recapture the light bantering of the past days. And she couldn’t help but stiffen at his lightest touch.