Love at Large (24 page)

She sighed. “I’m here now.”

“I know, and you have no idea how that makes me feel.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “If it’s anything like what I feel, then I do.”

Their intimate conversation was interrupted by the announcement of Erik’s name, and they joined the others in cheering and hooting as he took the stage. Erik hammed it up when he got to the mike, saying “I’m sending this out to one lovely lady, and she knows who she is.”

Felicia covered her face with her hands at his words, and her friends laughed. Everyone at the table groaned when Erik began singing “You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling” horribly off-key but with too much gusto to be ignored.

Marcus bit back a grin as he rubbed his hand over his face. He gazed at Fallon. Her body shook with repressed laughter. He looked at the other women and felt certain that one or all of them were going to explode at any moment.

Erik was one of the worst singers Marcus had ever heard, and Marcus knew his friend knew it. But he seemed to be having a great time, being the center of attention. He bowed at the end of his song and grinned, then strode to the table. With that wretched example of ‘singing,’ Marcus knew Erik now had Felicia’s attention.

He sat down next to Felicia and asked, “Well?”

Felicia rolled her eyes. “Oh honey, don’t ever give up your day job. Because you’ll never make any money as a singer, unless they pay you to shut up.”

Felicia’s comment seemed to release the pressure, and everyone at the table exploded with laughter.

“Oh, come on now, I wasn’t all that bad, was I?”

Felicia arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Erik, honey, bad does not even begin to describe that caterwauling.”

“So have pity on me and give me singing lessons,” he replied. He winked at Felicia and grinned.

“Man, the lengths you’ll go to get a woman to notice you. All I can say is you’re brave for getting up there with that voice,” said Marcus.

Erik placed his hand on his chest. “You wound me, buddy. Such harsh words cut me deeply, my friend.”

Fallon grinned. “Felicia owes you dinner for valor in the service of duty, but you owe her a dozen roses for having to listen.”

Felicia’s eyes widened at the words, and she stared at Fallon then glanced back at Erik.

He shrugged. “Sounds fine by me. So, when do I get dinner?”

Felicia put her hands on her hips. “When I get my roses.”

Marcus’ name was called, and everyone at the table fell silent. Fallon turned to stare at him. He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and walked up to the mike.

“Earlier, a woman came up here and dedicated a song to the memory of her first kiss. All I can say is she was right. That kiss was unforgettable.”

A
S THE MUSIC
started, Fallon had a sudden recollection of dancing with Marcus to this song on that memorable night twenty years earlier.

“Fallon, baby, come to me.” Marcus gestured for her to join him, but she couldn’t move.

He began singing, and she felt as if he were looking directly at her. She knew he couldn’t see her with the bright lights, but felt he focused only on her.

Erik leaned over and whispered, “Go on, put him out of his misery.”

Fallon recalled the night twenty years earlier when he’d uttered the same words.

“Go up there and sing with him,” Erik prodded.

She walked up the stairs to the stage. Marcus held out his hand as he sang. A microphone was shoved into her hand, and she lifted it toward her lips looking to the screen for her cue to sing.

With hands clasped together and voices joined in harmony, Fallon and Marcus reunited. At the end of the song, he pulled her into his embrace and lowered his head to kiss her.

His lips pressed to hers then opened as his tongue slid out to tease her lips. She opened her mouth, and their tongues touched tentatively at first then with more urgency as the kiss deepened. What they’d shared twenty years earlier was a kiss between a boy and a girl, but this was between a man and a woman.

But just as it had been twenty years earlier, their kiss was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. Marcus and Fallon pulled apart and realized everyone in the bar was clapping and hooting at their performance. Erik was standing at the edge of the stage with a smirk on his face.

“I don’t think there’s any way to keep you kids from getting caught this time,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Marcus led Fallon off the stage and back to the table. Once seated, he locked gazes with Erik. “Maybe this time I don’t mind being caught.”

Lifting Fallon’s hand to his mouth, he touched his lips to the back. “And this time, I don’t intend to run away.”

Fallon smiled at Marcus and squeezed his hand. “I let you get away before, but I won’t make the same mistake again.” She sealed her promise by pressing her mouth to his. “Consider that promise sealed with a kiss, an unforgettable kiss.”

About the Author

Eileen Wilson moves in the corporate world by day, but creates worlds of her own by night. A Jacqueline of all trades, she’s worked in a variety of jobs including general news reporter, sales administrator, administrative secretary, and customer care specialist. Eileen is a proud, card-carrying member of the “Big Girl Club,” and it is a great honor to have her first published story, “An Unforgettable Kiss,” included in this special anthology. She likes the idea of creating heroines that her BBW sisters can relate to. A Knoxville native, she currently lives in Cincinnati with her husband, the sexiest Welshman alive, and her two cats.

P
ASSION
U
NMASKED

A Round Robin Experience from the Writers at BBW Romance Writing

With Story and Contributions by

Eileen Wilson

Nancy Trausch

Judi McCoy

Jennifer Harrington

Heather Donovan

Pat Ballard

Judy Bagshaw

Elizabeth Angus

Rida Allen

F
RANCESCA
D
’
A
MORE SWEPT
a sweaty tangle of tawny hair out of her eyes and hobbled down the crowded Boston street in annoyance. A few people she passed did a double take at the lady in the sweeping blood-red gown 300 years out of date, but most just accepted her as one of the lucky guests attending this year’s Colonial Ball. As she once again wrenched her ankle in a pointed, high-heeled shoe, Franny decided she didn’t feel so lucky. Each step underscored her certainty that there was a special corner of the Devil’s domain set aside just for forcing naughty plush women into tiny corsets and tight footwear.

It was only with Aunt Judy’s exerted effort lacing the corset that Fran’s size-22 waist had been cinched to an uncomfortable size 18. A deep breath was not an option. Then, as if to add insult to injury, a wayward strand of her hair again escaped from her upswept coiffure and flittered down over her face. She puffed it off her nose and prayed the rest of the multitude of ringlets wouldn’t follow suit. The two hours of hard labor to get her to look the part of an original Bostonian was slowly melting away in the early July heat.

She chided herself for not calling a taxi like Judy had suggested, but instead choosing to walk
the few blocks to show off her splendor to the world at large. Now she would be stuck in the ladies room for an hour putting everything back in place before she could face the rest of the guests.

“All this for a man.”
But, what a man.
She shook her head, but stopped when she felt yet another ringlet give way.

Just thinking of the handsome Jake McCabe gave her a sudden thrill, the same feeling she had when she first saw his tall form striding through the hallowed halls of Winters, Quinn, and Schmidt. A tremor had started in her knees, fast making its way up her spine to lodge in her chest. Her current thoughts set off that chain reaction all over again.

He was such a gentleman; always opening doors when her arms were full and even when they weren’t. When she arrived late to work, which was more often than she liked to admit, he held the elevator for her. And whenever they saw each other, he always greeted her with a smile and a few pleasant words about the weather or some other safe topic. All in all, he made a nice big brother.

But that wasn’t what she wanted. She already had a big brother living in Montana. What she wanted was the dashing hero of her dreams to ride in and save her from a lonely single life. She wanted friendship, love, and romance. And she wanted it from Jake. Tonight, with a little luck and a lot of courage, she hoped to get her wish. She blew the errant ringlet out of her face again and crossed her fingers for luck.

She stopped for a moment in the middle of the sidewalk and glanced up at the clock tower of the nearby Methodist church. It was ten after eight. She sighed. Late again. The ball had started at seven-thirty, and she knew everyone from the office was probably already there. Oh well, she would just have to make the best of her tardy entrance. She caught the flicker of a bright star hanging just to the left of the tower, and allowed herself a moment to enjoy its sparkle, like a diamond nestled in an endless swath of indigo velvet.

“Star light, star bright…” A vision of smoldering green eyes, black hair, and soft sensual lips floated before her. “…you know what I wish tonight.”

The star seemed to wink in response, and Franny smiled then continued on toward the hotel, her confidence level strangely boosted.

The Fairlawn’s stately limestone façade and arched doorway, framed by a scarlet awning and matching carpet, beckoned to her. Willing her heart to stop its fluttering dance, Francesca started up the wide steps and was greeted by a regal white-haired doorman, dressed in red velvet and white lace with small silver-rimmed eyeglasses perched on his beaky nose. She caught an appreciative glance at her daring cleavage.
There may be snow on the roof,
she thought, and grinned.

“Good evening, miss.” He smiled in return and gripped the lapels of his coat. “Welcome to the Fairlawn, Boston’s oldest and most majestic hotel, and proud host to this year’s Colonial Ball. May I see your invitation, please?”

Fran gave a slight nod in reply and began to root around in her small red satin purse for the invitation Mr. Winters had given her a month ago. After what seemed like forever, she brought out a rumpled buff-colored square of parchment.

He adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on his nose and scrutinized the invitation. “Excellent, Miss D’Amore.” His white-gloved hand pressed the paper back into hers. “The Grand Ballroom is just to your direct left inside, at the end of the hall. You’ll find the ladies room to the right, before that. Enjoy your evening.” He grabbed the brass door handle with his left hand, pulled it open, and ushered her inside with a magnificent sweep of his right arm.

Fran made a quick reconnaissance of the space of the door, compared it to the extension of her dress, and turned sideways. She noticed that the doorman’s grin was now a bit wider as she sidled through the doorway. She lowered her eyes and felt the warmth on her cheeks again.

The lobby was a huge, airy space lit by the dancing light of dazzling crystal chandeliers. The beams were reflected back by white marble floors and columns polished to a high sheen. Gilt edging seemed to cover everything, even the coffered ceiling with its mural of a lovely azure blue sky filled with clouds as fluffy as a lamb dancing across it. For an instant, she’d entered some provincial estate in eighteenth century France.

A bobby pin slipped out of place, and she felt her hair shift, bringing her back to the mission at hand. She set out in search of the ladies room.

She ducked inside and was engulfed in animated chatter and a rainbow of gowns. The excited women were the very height of Colonial elegance with their curled and teased hair piled high, and dazzling jewels on their necks, wrists, fingers, and ears. Most had taken off their masks, and some were cooling themselves with ornate fans.

Fran spotted an empty chair in front of a mirror and made a beeline for it. She passed by a woman in jet black velvet threaded through with pin stripes of silver, who was talking to another in a satin gown of tangerine stripes alternating with yellow ones, so bright and colorful it put Fran in mind of spring daffodils.

Behind the empty chair sat an older, regal woman fanning herself. On another settee reposed a woman who wore a stunning mask of peacock feathers with a dress that matched the iridescent colors perfectly. But instead of having a white wig, hers was a startling shade of lilac topped by more of the peacock’s rich plumage.

The woman caught Fran’s stare and nodded. Fran smiled shyly in return.

“What a beautiful gown,” Lady Peacock said. Her voice was soft, feminine, and very aristocratic. For a moment, Franny wondered if this woman really had stepped out of the past.

Fran put a hand on the chair back as she stopped beside it. “Thank you,” she replied.

“It appears to have been made for you.”