Dancing With Werewolves (26 page)

Chapter Forty-Four

Ric stood up, clearly confused. Intrigued. Hot. Cold. Wary.

“You’re not mad that I took out Haskell?”

“You’re not mad that I crashed the Gehenna? Good. Now we only need to find out who the dead guy in Sunset Park was. But before that, there’s something I want more.”

I leaned into Ric, running his silk-wool blend jacket lapels through my hands. I’d learned that he liked that once-removed form of intimacy. I wanted, as I’d just thought, more.

“Your clothes always feel so good,” I said. Then . . . “I’d love to slow-dance naked in your arms.”

I felt him catch his breath, then think about it. We’d been intimate, but this was intimate on my terms, not his.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said carefully, as if not believing his luck.

My own breath stopped. I’d wondered about his reticence. His privacy. What it hid. I didn’t just want me naked with him. I wanted him naked with me. I wanted to tease him past his shelters, his borders. We were both experts at emotional poker playing. Sometimes you have to raise the stakes to see the other player’s cards.

His eyes were all pupil, dark, half-satisfied already. “One condition.”

“Only one?”

“You wear something that makes getting you out of it interesting.”

I thought. Nodded. “So where in Las Vegas can we do this naked tango?”

Ric had taught me to be a tad exhibitionistic lately, but Los Lobos was out. Maybe in his mysterious, dark, glittering house of mirrors . . .

“
Your
naked dance. First drinks and dinner. Then we cha-cha. A big Las Vegas evening out. Leave it all up to me. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at . . . seven.”

“Isn’t that a little late?”

“It’s going to be a long, late night.”

His words resonated in my throbbing heart, pulses, and especially elsewhere.

“Long?” I repeated.

“Naked,” he echoed.

We nodded, agreeing and excited by it.

                                                                                          * * * *

Talk about twenty-four hours of sheer anticipation. Ric wouldn’t pick someplace . . . public. Would he? Then again, he liked to show me off. I preened a little at the thought of his Latino possessiveness, a trait someone like me, always listed on the orphanage records as unwanted, unspoken for, would treasure. My wounds, his wounds, our aphrodisiac.

He called my cell phone that afternoon. “Drinks at the Palms’ Ghost Bar, dinner at the Paris restaurant in the Eiffel Tower.”

“Those are primo venues. How did you–?”

“No questions. This is just a friendly dress code alert.”“Expensive too. And neither of those places have dancing.”

“Nor nudity.”

I could tell my crazy impulse had really turned him on. Me too.

I ransacked my closet, looking for the perfect gown to get out of. Who was I? A stripper? Yeah. Something spectacular. Something . . . very frustrating. My fingers hesitated over the black velvet thirties Nora Charles gown. Perry Mason had returned it with a disturbing message: no DNA on it other than mine. Not even Snow’s? What was he, invisible? In that case, Claude should have left a traceable memoir of his playful butt pinch. Time to figure that out later.

The gown? No. Too Snow. I didn’t like to mix my . . . encounters.

At last my fingers slid along the slippery surface of one of my oldest vintage gowns. Made to order for my
querido amigo
. I smiled wickedly.
Yes
.

I wore a long, black velvet thirties cloak when Ric called at my door.

“That’s it? That’s all?”

I shrugged and slipped out the door before Quicksilver could get a piece of my cloak or of Ric. The cloak had an ivory satin lining that almost caught in the door of the Corvette as Ric ushered me in.

Ric was wearing an off-white blazer that looked as smooth as clotted cream over an ice-blue silk shirt carelessly open at the neck. His trousers were black wool-silk with a formal satin stripe up the side. Las Vegas dressy casual.

We skipped the line of gaggling tourists in front of the elevator to the Palms Hotel’s Ghost Bar, the city’s hottest destination, and fifty-five stories up.
No shorts, no hats, no tennis shoes, no baggy or torn jeans allowed. Dressy sandals permitted, no flip-flops.

The Ghost Bar. I knew I’d be uneasy there. My kind of medium had not been defined yet when this place had been created. Sitting in this nineteen-sixties meld of blue and green furniture against silver and ice-white, I let my cloak fall back to swathe the chair behind me and studied the holographic photos of motion picture stars on the wall.

I knew Ric was studying my pale satin gown, all buttoned up to the neck in back and down to my wrist, thinking of my all too solid flesh beneath it. Nothing intrigues like extreme modesty.

I inspected the ghostly faces on the wall. The images blurred as you moved past them. They simulated life. Only, I
felt
them. Even the animate silver necklace around my neck thickened with my second-hand emotions and tightened into a dog collar under the pale satin.

I sensed their unspoken anxiety at being reduced to dead icons and instantly knew the weaknesses their fame had hidden.
Watch me, love me, pick me!
Hadn’t I felt that all in the orphanage, on my own lonely stage? And I hadn’t I also found fulfillment in front of a camera? Playing a persona, a crusading journalist in my case.

I felt their pain. Idolized. Commercialized. So much more than mere image.

Clark Gable. Carole Lombard. Mae West. Gary Cooper . . . Cary Grant. Irene Dunne. Joan Crawford. Bette Davis. Katharine Hepburn. John Wayne . . . Tyrone Power. All dead and harried. All silver screen stars. Some had lived into Technicolor days before fading into forgotten idols. All had made their marks in silver nitrate in shimmering black and white. Glowing. Vibrant. Powerful.

That was their heyday. I felt it in my soul. But it wasn’t gone. Their images began to move in the hokey holograms. Some of them had been lovers, I sensed. Some of them had even been Howard Hughes’s lovers! They were much better off captured in this holographic Hall of Fame, not preserved as Hughes was, old and at his worst, still trying to hang on to his money and power no matter the cost, to himself or anyone else.

No, these kings and queens of old-time Hollywood were best viewed through a Vaseline-coated camera lens of memory. They sensed that I was simpatico, sensed my admiration, my emotional guardianship. Delilah, they sighed. You see us. You love us. You will preserve us.How?

Ric touched my hand. The music had a relentless, funky beat. Pre-orgasmic. “This place speaks to you.”

Right. Shut it up!

“
You
speak to me,” I said.

He was . . . the Sheik of Araby . . . Rudolph Valentino . . . Ricardo Montalban . . . Ricky Martin . . . my Latin lover. He pulled me up from the cocktail table and led me onto the glass-floored balcony at the Ghost Bar lounge with its fifty-some-floor drop to the Nude Bar far below. People were swimming nude below, and even at this impossible distance I must have felt exposed.

“I don’t notice any lingerie impressions under this gown,” Ric murmured in my right ear.

“It would ruin the lines.” I struggled to keep my composure as the migrating silver familiar became a thong panty, delicate but way too intimate and . . .
cold!

He looked down those tens of floors. “So the people looking up from the Nude Bar far below—?”

“—would see France if they had fantastic vision.”
And no silver thong in the way
, Irma added impishly.

“Not as fantastic as my imagination,” Ric said. “You ready for . . . dinner?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

                                                                                          * * * *

The Paris restaurant was only a third of the way up the Eiffel Tower but the view of the Strip and its lights was fabulous.

We were shown to the primo table, at the exact right angle of the restaurant overlooking the Bellagio’s dancing fountain light show. The dinner had a dozen courses, small and exquisite.

Each approach of the head waiter and underlings, each sweep of new people being seated, gazing at us as they passed and were ushered to a lesser table, wondering how we rated the primo spot, locked us into public behavior that only intensified our hidden private agenda: calculated seduction.

When dessert was finished, I passed on the after-dinner coffee. While Ric sipped his, I slipped the rhinestoned lipstick case holding the small bottle of Lip Venom from my purse and brushed it carefully over my lips. It was almond-colored and super-shiny, like my gown.

Ric’s eyes, coffee dark, devoured my every gesture. I was becoming quite the femme fatale where he was concerned, but this femme had butterflies as well as fine food in her stomach.

“Something new?” he asked, eyeing the gown.

“This
is
a wedding gown.”

“I can see the something blue,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “What’s old and borrowed?”

“The gown is old.”

“I guess I’ll have to find something that you can borrow.”

“I can think of something of yours I’d like to borrow already.”

                                                                                          * * * *

After our highly visible dinner on the Strip, Ric drove me onto the highway and its river of headlights. We headed north of the city until it became dark and deserted. No one was going this far. I’d never gone this far. We turned onto a narrow straight road like the one to Los Lobos, except there were no mountains. We were deep into the desert itself. The car stopped on this path to nowhere. Ric opened my car door. I unclasped the cloak. He escorted me out, eying the modest front of my ivory satin gown in the moonlight.

He lifted my left arm, studied the twelve satin buttons closing the sleeve from wrist to elbow.

“I’ve decided tonight that you’re a really promising sadist, my darling Delilah.”

I lifted an eyebrow.

“I’m even more afraid that I like being your masochist,” he conceded.

Well, that revved my engines! Ric mine, to do with what I pleased. What pleased me, pleased him. And vice versa.

He rested my hand on his shoulder and began undoing the buttons along my left arm.

It had taken me forty minutes to do the sleeve buttons and the back of the gown except for six inches between my shoulder blades. For that stretch I’d needed the kitchen witch. She had cackled over every button and had made me describe Ric in lewd, loving detail. Poor thing had been dead for several centuries and was now a domestic drudge. A little vicarious kick seemed the least I could do for her.

When the sleeve was undone, Ric did the Latin lover bit and kissed my knuckles, my wrist and my arm up to the elbow. Then he relinquished that arm and lifted my right hand to his shoulder. I managed to brush my knuckles across his lips before he started to undo that sleeve.

“What is this thing, really?” he asked.

“Gown from the thirties.”

“They did hand-sewing as late as that?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s about all. The depths of the Depression. This wedding dress was rather . . . cheap at the time, really.”

“Not my depression. Wedding dress. Well. We’ll have to make this like the first time.”

“It isn’t.”

“No reason it can’t feel that way.”

He began undoing the buttons on my other arm, painstakingly working the nooses of twined ivory thread off every stubborn satin-covered button, patient as a spider, as wired as a rodeo bull, his control building his excitement, as it built mine.

As my skin grew supersensitively charged with sexual electricity, I could no longer feel the location of my former silver thong. I fretted about where and how it might show up during this unveiling. Not to worry. The thought is mother to the act. I felt a fleeting shiver down one leg and under the arch of my right foot, almost making me giggle, a mood-destroying itch if ever there was. Something icy thin curled around my big toe. I was now the possessor of a terribly discreet toe ring, and free to let every other inch of my body luxuriate in Ric’s slow, elaborate love-making.

He repeated the Continental kisses from my hand to my elbow and braced both of my arms on his shoulders. Then spoke.

“Now. . . . for the fucking forty-eight buttons from your hot naked little ass to the sweet, soft virginal nape of your neck.”

“You counted them. I’m flattered.”

“Several times, like counting the number of beads on a rosary. You sure know how to get to a Catholic boy.”

“I didn’t go to Our Lady of the Lake convent school for nothing, but it was an all-girls institution and we wore navy and green uniforms. The only time we had a chance to dress up was when a senior girl got to wear her sister’s wedding dress to crown the statue of the Virgin Mary with flowers for the May procession. I, of course, wasn’t a candidate for Virgin crowning.”

“And you had no sister to loan you a wedding gown anyway.”

I hesitated. Was I an only child? Then what or who was Lilith? I hadn’t told Ric about that part of my mission and now seemed a little late.

She who hesitates is lost.

Ric’s fingers moved adroitly between the cheeks of my butt. “I’m going to take you apart from the bottom up, and then from the top down. Any objections?”

“Only if they turn you on.”

“We don’t need that, do we?”

I shook my head, leaning against him as his fingers began the long, delicious, interminable climb up my spine. His hands slipped inside of the satin gown as he opened it inch by inch, and my hips soon were pressed to the hard vertical divining rod of his erection.

An almost full moon was rising over his shoulder, showering us with warm white light.

“This satin matches the color of your skin,” he said into my ear, my neck. “It’s a real rush.” He kissed me for the first time, and jerked back.

“Wow, that stuff is still like an electric shock.”

“Lip Venom is guaranteed to please.”

“Painted hussy. Then bite me again, baby.”

We kissed while Ric wrangled slippery satin buttons through loops of twined thread. It would be tricky work even for a lady’s maid.