For a long time after Dinah fell asleep in his arms, Rucker lay awake worrying about the telephone conversation he and Norins had shared weeks ago.
Eight
The renowned chamber ensemble was well into Handel’s Concerto Grosso in G Major, and Rucker was still out in the lobby looking for food. More precisely, a hot dog. As the violins swelled magnificently, Dinah exhaled in exasperation and began to rap her fingers on the upholstered arm of her seat. Bringing Rucker to the symphony was a mistake, she thought for perhaps the twentieth time. Unless the ensemble planned to sneak in a medley of Hank Williams hits, the evening was going to be a total loss.
Dinah could trace her love of the classics back to the parties her parents gave when she was growing up, glamorous parties where the men wore dinner jackets and the women were adorned in glittering, floor-length gowns. There had always been live music, always a small ensemble in the background playing classical pieces. She would slip, unseen, into the chandeliered living room and hide near the musicians, enthralled by the fairy-tale atmosphere. That mesmerized feeling came back to her when she attended concerts now, and she cherished it. She wanted Rucker to cherish it too.
Finally he returned, inching gracefully past the other people in the row of seats. The best row in the city’s civic center, Dinah thought to herself, fuming. She’d paid a handsome price for these seats, and he’d better settle his lean fanny beside her and appreciate it. She watched as he smiled at everyone and they frowned back, annoyed by the disturbance. Well, the men frowned.
Dinah noticed that the women fluttered their eyelashes and checked Rucker over with great attention to detail. He did command admiration, despite the fact that he’d insisted on wearing a green cummerbund with a black tux. He reasoned that the cummerbund matched his eyes. Better a green cummerbund and a black tuxedo than a green tuxedo and a black cummerbund, she reminded herself. His height, his athletic build, that thick head of hair that reflected red and gold tones even in the low light, and that charming, mustached, “Hi, darlin’ ” smile added up to irresistible masculinity, Dinah admitted. But being gorgeous wouldn’t save him now.
“What took you so long?” she whispered when he was finally ensconced next to her, one cowboy-booted foot propped on the opposite knee. “Is there a Bermuda triangle in the lobby?”
“I had to walk down the street to a convenience store,” he said plaintively. “Nearly a quarter mile. Don’t fuss at me. My feet hurt.”
Dinah gaped at him in amazement. “You went outside this huge complex and walked a quarter of a mile in the cold, wearing a tuxedo, just to get a hot dog?”
“Not just any hot dog. A foot-long with extra pickle relish and pimento cheese.” He leaned back comfortably and patted his stomach. “I’m ready for anything now. What’re they gonna plunk out for the second half of the show?”
“The next piece is called ‘Elgar’s Serenade for Strings,’ ” Dinah muttered. She faced forward rigidly, aggravated with him.
“Sounds like a snappy tune. Who’s Edgar?”
“Elgar, not Edgar. An English composer from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.”
“Another one of the dead ones,” he sighed. “Aren’t there any live ones writin’ this stuff?”
Dinah closed her eyes in dismay. “Just be quiet and listen to it.” Would anything good come out of this effort? During the piece, Rucker stretched his arm across the back of her seat and oh-so-casually brushed his fingertips along her bare shoulders, toying playfully with her heirloom pearl necklace as he did. Her dress was strapless, a luscious ball gown with a low, black velvet bodice and a billowing, pink taffeta skirt. Dinah straightened her back even more and ignored the cajoling touch. He inched his arm closer to her shoulders until it rested on them. The beautiful string music flowed around her as if it were Rucker’s accomplice, coaxing her annoyance to fade.
After a few minutes she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was watching the ensemble, his expression relaxed and surprisingly content. Well, my goodness, Dinah noted, perhaps he’s decided to give the classics a chance, after all. He shifted slightly, a big man in a small space, and flopped his arm over her shoulders so that his hand hung close to her right breast.
It was such a smooth and uncalculated act that Dinah didn’t realize she’d been conned until his forefinger began to flick back and forth. He needed several seconds to locate her nipple under the black velvet that covered it, but once he accomplished his mission, his fingertip knew exactly what to do to make the traitorous peak swell.
Dinah cleared her throat, her face burning. She shifted, then shrugged hard and pushed at his hand. He removed it slowly, trailing his fingertips across the back of her neck, which was exposed by a curly, upswept hairstyle. His hand retreated to the arm of the seat.
Dinah leaned toward him. “Behave!” she intoned in a fierce whisper. “This isn’t a drive-in!”
“Sssh!” an elderly gentleman hissed behind her.
Rucker looked down his nose at her with comical haughtiness. “Sssh,” he echoed. Then, in a sly voice, one brow arching to emphasize his lack of repentance, “There are lots of ways to enjoy music, ladybug.”
Dinah sighed in exasperation. So he’d show her how to enjoy music, would he? How very amusing. Suddenly his hand sidled over the arm of the seat onto her upper thigh. Dinah gasped and jumped, then quickly covered his indiscretion with her pink, richly patterned satin wrap. She looked at him, her eyes pleading.
“No,” she mouthed. “Stop. I’ll punch your lights out.”
“Relax,” he mouthed back, and smiled knowingly. Then he returned his attention to the musicians on stage. Dinah shifted in her chair, her heart pounding. This was outrageous! Under the satin wrap, her voluminous taffeta skirt and slip rustled as his expert fingers drew them up her legs. He wouldn’t! she thought desperately. Even Rucker wouldn’t … he was. And she couldn’t make a scene. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention from the elegantly coiffed matron to the right of her. The woman would pop a diamond if she noticed what was happening.
And what was happening was that under the cover of her wrap, Rucker had her skirt and slip up to her thighs, and now he was stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of her legs. I should have known there’d be trouble when the man insisted that I wear a garter belt instead of panty hose, Dinah realized with shock. He planned this! Never in my life …
Dinah tapped her foot nervously, indicating that he must, simply must stop, but it was hopeless. His fingers slid under her black silk panties and dabbled playfully in the luxurious hair they found. Dinah bit her lip and glanced furtively at the woman beside her, who was, thankfully, very involved in the music.
Then she turned toward Rucker and shook her head authoritatively. “Stop it!” He winked at her, and his hand snuggled deep between her thighs. Breathing hard, she pulled the wrap further over her lap and tried to concentrate on the ensemble. She hadn’t been raised as some prim southern debutante, but she had been taught decorum and precise etiquette. Dinah didn’t think what Rucker was doing to her right now could even vaguely be classified as socially acceptable.
She shut her eyes and trembled with embarrassment as his fingers caressed areas where no gentleman’s fingers had a right to be, in public. They sought the warm, soft folds of her body and stroked each one with great attention to detail. When his forefinger suddenly probed inside her, Dinah’s eyes jerked open and she looked at Rucker in desperation. He was blithely watching the chamber ensemble, his face totally composed. But the color was dark in his cheeks, and his eyes were half shut. The knowledge that touching her had such an erotic effect on him made Dinah repress an involuntary sound of appreciation.
You rogue, she told him silently. You rake. You miscreant. You rascal. You redneck. You … you …
With a sigh, she settled back in her seat, trying to fight the hot, light sensation spreading through her body. She felt the sweet dampness that meant Rucker’s ploy was working. She felt te
ndrils of excitement reaching out from her liquid center. She felt his fingers and thumb working in unison to make her ease her thighs apart. He succeeded. Dinah knotted one hand in her satin wrap and stared at the chamber ensemble.
“Elgar’s Serenade for Strings” now qualified as the most erotic piece of music she’d ever heard. After it ended, the ensemble played Mozart’s Divertimento in D Major, then Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, the final selection of the evening. Rucker continued his own concert, playing with amazing skill and perfect timing. Dinah kept her expression rigid and focused on the ensemble, never shifting her body, never giving in to the urge to arch her back and press forward into his hand. If I let myself go, she thought desperately, rustling taffeta will drown out the music. Perspiration gathered between her breasts, and she could feel every fiber of the velvet against her nipples.
Crescendo. She found new meaning in’the term as the Vivaldi piece rose to a finish. Sensation crashed over her and through her, making her dip her head and close her eyes tightly, the manicured fingernails of one hand digging into her wrap, the fingernails of the other pressed deeply into a tiny gold purse she held. Rucker knew exactly what had happened, and afterwards he moved her panties back into place and caressed her over them. Good girl, his slow, gentle touch told her.
In a haze of shock Dinah didn’t look at him. She was afraid she might simply sag against his shoulder with a satiated look of astonishment on her face, and immediately everyone would know their secret. He rearranged her slip and dress, patted her knee, then pulled his hand back into the polite confines of his own seat space.
She applauded the chamber ensemble numbly, biting her lip and occasionally touching one hand to her face, where the skin was fiery. The lights came up and she vaulted from her seat, trembling, and turned away from Rucker toward the aisle. She heard the soft sounds of his auditorium chair closing as he stood up, then felt his uneven breath on her neck.
“Sure would like to carry that purty pink shawl for you, ma’am,” he intoned in a soft, throaty voice. “Sure would make me happy to do you that service. Put it right over my arm, hold it right in front of me, yep, sure would like to hold it in front of me, I sure would …”
“Here,” she retorted in a squeaky tone, and thrust it over her shoulder.
His voice was droll and absurdly polite. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
They made their way out of the row and melded with the crowd in the aisle. Dinah faced forward and kept her gaze on the black jacket of the man ahead of her. Rucker took her elbow with one hand. “It’s awfully warm in here,” she murmured, fanning herself, still not looking at him.
“Awful warm.”
“Lovely concert.”
“Dee-lightful.”
She coughed, sputtered on restrained laughter, and twisted her head to gaze up at him, red faced. He looked back tenderly, then let go of her elbow and opened his arm in an invitation to her. Dinah stepped close to him, and his arm closed around her shoulders. She put her arm around his waist and hugged him.
“I’ll never take you to a classical concert again,” she promised.
The next week, he surprised her with a pair of season passes.
“Rucker, for heaven’s sake! Am I going to have to wrestle with you right here in the mall? Now quit stalling!”
Rucker knew he looked defensive. Hell, I am defensive, he admitted. He gazed down at Dinah, who was tugging at his arm and grimacing with the effort. She wore her high-heeled boots, nice jeans, and a long, man’s-style shirt in a soft blue plaid. A blue leather belt cinched it at the waist. A big canvas tote bag swung from her shoulder, she wore a leather coat, and her hair was done up in a loose bundle.
Beautiful turquoise jewelry accented the light blue of her eyes. As she pulled on his arm again a dark swirl of hair escaped and fell across her forehead. Rucker sighed. Even disheveled she was always flawlessly stylish and too adorable to resist. He squinted at the display window of the exclusive Birmingham men’s store.
“I won’t buy any colored underwear,” he growled. “I draw the line at colored underwear.”
“Who said anything about underwear!”
“You want to make me into a male model. They all wear colored underwear.”
“My dear, deranged man, I just thought I’d help you improve your wardrobe. Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”
“I recollect you simperin’ sweetly at me over my grits this mornin’ and saying, ‘Why don’t we go shopping today, sugar bunny?’ Damn, I knew I was in trouble when I heard ‘sugar bunny.’ You’re too dignified to call me ‘sugar bunny’ unless you really, really, want me to do something I don’t want to do.”
“You said that you’d like to get some new clothes!”
“New jeans! New … new crew socks! New golf shirts!”
“Rucker.” She affected her most serious tone, the one he’d heard her use in city-council meetings when people got uppity. She emphasized each word. “You’re a famous writer. You speak to dozens of groups each year. You’re going to be interviewed on Larry King’s television show again soon. You need to look more coordinated.”
“Ugh. Coordinated. That’s the word my house decorator used when she wanted to put cherubs everywhere.”
“I promise I won’t put a cherub on you.”
Sighing, Rucker let her lead him into the store. It was an elegant, darkly masculine place with dozens of mannequins designed to look like stalwart, mature men. “Hey,” Rucker protested. “I don’t want to shop anywhere where the dummies have gray hair! I’m not old.”
“You won’t live long enough to be old if you don’t pipe down. This is a store for executive types. Executive types are more likely to have gray hair. All right?”
“Yes’m,” he grumbled.
A nattily dressed salesman hurried over. “May I help you?” he asked in a supercilious tone, scanning Rucker’s barely laced jogging shoes, jeans with a torn knee, college jersey, and blue hunter’s coat. Annoyed, Rucker started to say that he could help him by taking a headfirst dive off a tall mannequin, but Dinah’s dulcet voice interrupted.
“My friend needs a whole new wardrobe,” she said politely. “For casual wear and for business. Colorwise, I believe his best neutral is black. I think he’d enjoy some low-keyed monochromatics, and as for combinations, let’s keep them analogous. Some blue schemes, and green as well.”
“Very good, very tasteful!” the salesman complimented.
Rucker turned to Dinah. “I don’t have any idea what you just told him I wanted.”
She smiled at him sweetly. “You’ll survive.”
Rucker shook his head. He loved her more with each new day, but he didn’t know if he could put up with being well dressed, much less monochromatic and analogous. For her, and her alone, he’d try.
Dinah sat in a darkly upholstered chair sipping a glass of wine the salesman had given her. Her eyes kept darting to the paneled door of the dressing suite. When it opened suddenly, she nearly dropped her wine glass. Dinah set it down on a small lacquered table and stood up nervously.
The salesman stepped out smiling. He waved one hand toward the door and moved aside. “The gentleman has good raw material, thankfully,” he noted.
The raw material walked out of the dressing suite wearing a classic navy blazer with dark gray slacks, a red tie accented with tiny, blue-and-white squares, and a white, button-down shirt with small, broadly spaced red pinstripes. The raw material looked at her anxiously, then tucked his chin and gazed down the length of his body. Dinah noticed that he wore black Italian loafers. With socks that matched, she presumed. It was an amazing transformation.
Rucker looked back up at her, studying her face with a plaintive gaze. “I look silly, Dee!” he exclaimed abruptly. The salesman blanched. “I can see it in your eyes!”
Dinah hurried forward, shaking her head. Rucker, for once in his life, was uncomfortable and uncertain. He had the desperate look of a horse about to bolt. “Big guy, you look fantastic,�
�� she reassured, clasping his hands.
He stared down at her, his green eyes narrowing to speculative slits. “Then why did you look at me that way!”
“What way?”
“Like I’m bad barbecue!”
“You’re fine, just—”
“You can’t put a rhinestone collar on a hound dog! I’m not right for chic clothes! People will point at me and say, ‘There he goes, a rooster in eagle feathers!’ No, Thanksgiving’s too close. A turkey in eagle feathers—”
“Rucker, Rucker, calm down. You look wonderful.” She stood back, gazing at him, her heart pattering with a thready beat. It was no flattery. She’d always appreciated well-dressed men, and the combination of stylish clothes with Rucker’s natural sensuality was enough to make her press her hands to her throat and shake her head in stunned admiration. “Oh, honey,” she sighed. “Oh, honey.”
He kept studying her, and now he saw the happy glow in her eyes. Slowly, his cockiness returned. He looked down at himself again, held his hands out, and turned in a circle. “Pretty durned slick, then?”
“Pretty durned slick, you egomaniac.”
“Very slick,” the salesman agreed, relieved. “And this is just the beginning.” He looked at Rucker warily. “Would you care for a glass of wine before we continue, sir?”
Rucker waved one hand and boomed, “Hell, get the whole bottle! I’m goin’ on a shoppin’ spree!”
Those words, shopping spree, sent the salesman hurrying off to fill the request. Dinah laughed as Rucker hugged her boisterously then lifted her off her feet and swung her in a circle. When he stopped she kisssed him on the nose.
“You think I look great,” he said. “That’s all I need to know. If you think I look great, then I know I look great.” He paused, suffering another moment of indecision. “Do I look great, ladybug?”
Oh, to hell with my dignity, Dinah thought. She began to giggle and nod.
“Oooh, giggles. She’s giggling! That’s a good sign!”
Hold on Tight Page 13
