Something Different/Pepper's Way (11 page)

“You’re the one who writes those mysteries Chase is always raving about, aren’t you?” Jake asked Gypsy after the introduction.

Gypsy looked up at Chase in surprise, only to find him gazing studiously into space. “Well, I write mysteries,” she answered Jake.

“You don’t look it,” Jake told her gravely, and at her expressive grimace, added, “You’ve heard that before, I take it?”

“Innumerable times.”

A black cat wandered up just then, holding on to her long tail to avoid having it stepped on. She was about Gypsy’s size, with a petite figure and blond hair escaping from beneath her ear cap. And she had large blue eyes that looked dumb but were obviously lying.

“Jake, how dare you leave me in the clutches of that King George? He kept bumping me with his stomach and stepping on my tail.”

Laughing, Jake introduced Gypsy to his fiancée, Sarah Foxx. Chase she obviously knew, since she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek lightly.

“You write mysteries?” Sarah asked in surprise, studying Gypsy. “You—”

“—don’t look like it,” the other three chorused.

“I seem to be redundant,” Sarah observed wryly.

“That’s all right,” Gypsy told her. “I’m getting used to it.”

“I’ll bet.” Sarah gave her a friendly grin. “That’s the price you and I pay for looking as if we can’t string two words together.”

Gypsy looked interested. “What do you do?”

“I’m a psychologist.”

Gypsy felt an immediate affinity for the other woman. “Isn’t it terrible? That nature played this awful trick and made us look dumb, I mean?”

“Yes, but it has its advantages. People are always bending over backward to do things for us because we look so helpless.”

“There is that,” Gypsy agreed thoughtfully.

Chase sighed in manful long-suffering. “Don’t you two start talking about the failings of mankind, or Jake and I won’t get to dance.”

Sarah looked solemnly at him and said, totally deadpan, “You and Jake can dance if you like. It might look a little odd, but if
you
don’t mind…”

“Cute, that’s cute.” Chase took a giggling Gypsy firmly by the arm. “Dance with me, Gypsy mine, before Sarah puts us both on her couch.”

The musicians had struck up a waltz, and he swept her regally out onto the floor. One
ouch!
and two muffled
dammit
’s followed them.

“Chase, you’re going to have to take off that sword.”

“Zorro without his sword? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“They’ll throw us out.”

“They can’t afford to refund our money.”

“You’re making enemies.”

“We’re supposed to be dancing in romantic silence here.”

“How can we dance in romantic silence with curses following us all around the floor? See? You just stuck Louis again.”

“He’ll learn to keep out of my way.”

“Chase—”

“All right, shrew! I’ll take it off and let the cloakroom attendant keep an eye on it. But you’re coming with me. I don’t want anyone stealing you away from me.”

“Who’d want to do that?”

“Louis. Revenge.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

six

LOUIS OBVIOUSLY WASN’T IN THE MARKET
for revenge that night. As a matter of fact, he kept a respectful distance from Gypsy and Chase—sword or no sword. A couple of braver souls attempted to cut in on Chase, but retreated in some confusion when Zorro sneered at them.

Between dances Gypsy and Chase stood talking to Jake and Sarah. The two couples were apparently on the same wavelength; there was none of the normal awkwardness or guard-edness of new acquaintances. By evening’s end Gypsy knew that she had two new friends.

She was also a bit unnerved to realize that her response to Chase during the evening had been very much like Sarah’s to Jake; teasing, playful, bantering. It shouldn’t have surprised her, since the same type of thing had gone on since the day she’d met him. But it did surprise her.

It surprised her because she had never looked at their relationship objectively—from the outside, so to speak. But in comparing them to the other couple, the similarities were startling. It was as though she and Chase were lovers of long standing. Companionable, playful, teasing, they reacted to
each other with the certain knowledge of two people who were very close.

It gave Gypsy food for thought.

The party broke up around midnight, with invitations extended and accepted for a barbecue at Chase’s house on Sunday afternoon, and the two couples went their separate ways: Sarah and Jake to the apartment they shared in Portland, and Gypsy and Chase toward the coast.

It was silent in the car for most of the trip, a companionable silence that neither chose to break. Gypsy was occupied by various thoughts and by the rumbling in her stomach; she had eaten nothing since breakfast, and was by now heartily cursing the binding, uncomfortable corset. She was also beginning to wonder how on earth she was going to get out of the thing; she’d never been very good with knots. And along the same lines was her dress; the tiny hooks and eyes had been nearly impossible to fasten, and she wasn’t at all sure that she could
un
fasten them without tearing the rented costume.

A solution occurred to her, and Gypsy considered it idly. Dangerous. Definitely dangerous. Playing with fire for sure. She wondered why she wasn’t at all concerned any longer about burning her fingers. It might have had something to do with the kiss Chase had bestowed during the unmasking at the party. It had been a definitely fiery kiss—a first cousin to Vesuvius. Her lips were still tingling.

And after that… why worry about burning her fingers?

Chase parked the Mercedes in his driveway, and they walked across to Gypsy’s door. She located her key in the string purse dangling from her wrist, and Chase unlocked the door.

“Is the evening over, or are you going to ask me in?” he inquired politely.

“The evening is young. Besides, I have a favor to ask. Come in, please.”

“A favor?” Chase followed her into the dimly lighted den, his cloak and mask landing beside Gypsy’s on one of the chairs. “Your wish is, of course, my command.”

“I’m so glad. It’s a… delicate favor.”

“So much the better.” Just as she turned to face him he caught her in his arms. A faint, lazy smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Gentlemanly courtesy aside, though, I’m afraid I have other things on my mind right now.”

“Chase—”

He kissed her, and Gypsy promptly forgot all about the favor. She might have been vague, but she wasn’t stupid; what woman would pass up an opportunity to revisit Vesuvius? She felt his hands lifting, the fingers threading through her black curls, and her own arms lifted to slide round his waist. His lips toyed with hers for a brief moment; gentle, sensitive. And then he abruptly accepted the unconscious invitation of her parting lips, deepening the kiss in a sudden surge of curiously yearning hunger.

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.