Something Different/Pepper's Way (12 page)

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.

As the barbecue progressed his jade eyes began to follow her with an anxious, puzzled expression, and he asked her more than once what was wrong. She always answered with a meaningless smile and a swift change of subject.

By the time Gypsy picked her way through the meal of excellent barbecued ribs, baked potatoes, rolls, and crispy salad, Sarah had obviously seen enough. Laughing, she ordered the men (who had cooked) to do the cleaning up, seized Gypsy’s arm in a companionable grip, and led her across the yard to the railing at the cliff.

“If you’ll forgive an old, outworn cliché,” she told the other woman ruefully, “the atmosphere between you and Chase is thick enough to cut with a blunt knife. You two have a fight? Or am I being incurably nosy?”

Having seen more than enough of the ocean the night before, Gypsy turned her back on the view and leaned against the railing. She smiled slightly and murmured, “No to both questions.”

Sarah was silent for a moment. “Forgive me if I’m probing—a psychologist’s stock-in-trade, I’m afraid—but can I help?”

“Is your couch free?” Gypsy managed lightly.

“For a friend in need? Always.” Sarah leaned back against
the railing and pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of the man’s shirt she was wearing over a halter top. “Dreadful habit. Want one?”

“Thanks.” Gypsy accepted a light.

“I didn’t think you smoked,” Sarah said.

“I quit three years ago.”

“Uh-huh. But now… ?”

“Am I on your couch?” When Sarah nodded with a smile, Gypsy murmured, “I need a temporary crutch, I suppose.” She blew a smoke ring and concentrated on it.

“Why?”

“To keep from falling flat on my face. Although I think it’s too late to prevent that.”

“Falling as in ‘in love’?”

“Are you that perceptive or am I that obvious?” Gypsy asked wryly.

“A little of both. You watch him when he isn’t watching you. And another woman always knows.” She paused. “You’re scared.” It was a statement.

“Terrified,” Gypsy admitted almost inaudibly

“Why? Chase is a wonderful man.” She smiled when Gypsy looked at her. “I’ve known him longer than I’ve known Jake; he introduced us.”

Gypsy wondered suddenly—an inescapable feminine wondering—and Sarah obviously understood; her smile widened.

“No, there was nothing serious between Chase and me. Just friendship. He’s been searching ever since I’ve known him. Last night I realized that he wasn’t searching any longer.”

Gypsy fixed all her concentration on grinding the stub of her cigarette beneath one sandal.

Sarah went on slowly, thoughtfully. “He’s been lonely, I think. His upbringing… well, he missed a lot. Don’t get me
wrong—Chase and his father have a very good relationship. But he missed being part of a family. He missed the carefree, irresponsible years. I don’t think he’s ever done a reckless thing in his life.”

Gypsy, thinking of a masked rider on the beach, smiled in spite of herself.