A CLASS ACT

by Pamela Burford

  "Some dogs are very clever," she said, scratching he big poodle behind the ears. "They can open doors. Or maybe it didn't latch."

  Gabe stalked to the door and examined it. "There's no lock! How are we supposed to keep them out?"

  Dena shrugged. "They're dogs, Gabe. Who cares if they come in?"

  "I care! I can't … relax and enjoy myself with that thing watching me."

  Dena gave up the battle to control her giggles. "I don't think Shaynie has voyeuristic tendencies. I think she just wants company. Isn't that right, girl?"

  He pointed a stern finger at the dog. "Her company—" he pointed toward the living room "—is out there. That's where she belongs."

  Susie trotted into the bedroom, alerted by the racket, no doubt, wanting in on the excitement. She jumped onto the bed.

  "Oh God." Gabe slumped against the wall, defeated.

  Dena rose and went over to him. She slid her arms around his waist and kissed his throat.

  Gabe's hands closed over her shoulders, as if to push her away. His voice was tight. "They're watching us."

  "Mmm-hmm." She trailed her lips to his shoulder and lightly nipped him. Her hands slipped down to his buttocks.

  "Never knew you were an exhibitionist."

  "Let's go into the other room." She licked his shoulder.

  "They'll just follow us," he moaned. "It's no use. We're going to have to wait till we get back home."

  "I can't believe you're letting a couple of dumb beasts dictate your love life."

  He brightened. "We can lock ourselves in the bathroom."

  "I'm sorry, I am not going to make love in the John just because you're too priggish to—"

  "Priggish? You call me priggish?"

  Dena crossed to the bed and blew out all the candles on the nightstands. She turned on a gooseneck reading lamp so the dogs wouldn't be left in the dark, then grabbed Gabe's arm and pulled him out of the room. She closed the door to the bedroom, making sure the latch caught. Gabe stared balefully at the door.

  "This looks like a very comfortable sofa," she said, turning off lights and the TV, leaving on only one small table lamp.

  He sighed. "I don't think this is going to work, Dena. I'm just too tense."

  "I thought you wanted to collect your prize."

  The look on his face said he'd forgotten about the prize. "Well, you can give it to me when we're home."

  "I think I'll give it to you now."

  "Dena—"

  His words died when she opened her robe and let it fall to the carpet. She wore a baby-blue leather corset laced tightly up the back. The scandalous garment pushed her breasts to the stratosphere, exposing her nipples. Matching blue lace thong panties completed the outfit.

  Dena stroked her hands lovingly over the buttery soft leather. "I thought of you when I found this. Do you like it?"

  Gabe's wry chuckle was answer enough. "Turn around," he said, and she did. "Oh, Dena…"

  She heard him come up behind her, felt his warm breath on her shoulders, the feathery touch of his fingers skipping down the crisscrossed lacing.

  He said, "How did you get this on by yourself?"

  "Where there's a will there's a way." She glanced over her shoulder. Had she ever seen him look this hungry? "I wanted to surprise you."

  "Love, if I live to be a hundred, you'll never stop surprising me."

  Dena ignored the casual reference to their shared future. If truth be told, she kind of liked the idea of surprising this man for a few more decades.

  Gabe's hands glided around her cinched waist and up her rib cage. He molded the shape of her uplifted breasts, plucked the stiff nipples. She shivered and leaned back into him. He kissed her bare shoulder.

  "I love the way you smell," he said, kissing a trail to her throat. "I've always loved the way you smell. For fifteen years I'd wake up trying to hold on to the scent of you, fading with my dreams."

  He turned her around, almost roughly, and crushed her to him, capturing her mouth in a hard kiss. His urgency was more than physical, Dena knew, it was a primitive drive, an instinct to bind her to him, body and soul.

  Gabe raised his head and briefly glanced toward the sofa, before reality intruded. He speared the closed door of the bedroom with a malignant glare, as if expecting Shaynie to come charging out any second snapping photographs.

  "We'll be very quiet so they don't get excited," Dena said soothingly, urging him toward the sofa and pushing him until he sat. "They're probably asleep already." She knelt in front of him.

  "Dena…" he said as she unzipped his jeans for the second time that evening. "Love, I just don't think I can—" He broke off abruptly.

  "Oh, I think you can," she said as she liberated an erection that could only be called majestic. "I'd say there's no doubt on that score."

  He sagged against the sofa as she caressed him, his groans interspersed with dark mutterings about the damn dogs.

  Dena figured if she wasn't woman enough to make him forget about the damn dogs, she may as well hang up her corset. She peeled off his jeans and briefs, and moved between his thighs. His hot gaze drank in her corseted form as she stroked and fondled him. She lowered her head, and the air left his lungs in a rush.

  For the next few minutes she was reasonably certain the damn dogs were the furthest thing from his mind. His long, strong fingers splayed over her scalp, holding her to him, directing the rhythm. His hoarse sighs filled her ears as she loved him with her mouth. He murmured words of endearment, words of encouragement.

  Finally he made her stop. He was close, she knew. She objected, wanted to pleasure him fully, but already he was pulling her onto his lap, stripping off her panties.

  "I need you," he growled. "I need to be inside you." Digging his fingers into her hips, he drove up into her in one forceful thrust.

  The pleasure was sharp and sudden, almost brutal in intensity. Dena cried out. She clung to him, her anchor, as physical sensation threatened to overwhelm her.

  Gabe felt it, too. One look at his face and she knew he was as helplessly consumed by it as she. He lifted and lowered her, filling her, stretching her, propelling her ever closer to the shimmering brink of release.

  "Oh, love…" he groaned, grimacing with the effort to delay his own orgasm, for her sake.

  "Now," she panted. "Now, Gabe. Now!"

  His climax overtook him, every muscle and tendon straining as he bucked fiercely under her, into her. His hammering finish pushed her over the brink. Dena smiled, startled, as she always was, by the simple perfection of it. And then she lost herself to the awesome pumping energy, safe in the sanctuary of Gabe's arms.

  * * *

  16

  « ^ »

  "I went shopping today," Dena called, from her bedroom upstairs.

  "What a shock," Gabe said dryly. His ladylove was no stranger to power-shopping. If she ever cut up her credit cards, the department stores would hang black crape.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor of her living room, playing with her three black pug puppies, now two months old and recently weaned. Dena had renewed her offer of the pick of the litter. Gabe was tempted to accept, but the idea of removing one of these lively little dogs from this warm, delightfully chaotic home and installing it in his "mausoleum" of an apartment just didn't sit right with him.

  The puppies' mother, Hermione, kept watch from the hearth rug where she lay curled before the low fire. It was only mid-October, but a cold snap had moved in, prompting Gabe to trek out to the woodpile Dena kept at the rear of her yard for some kindling and a couple of logs.

  The puppies ganged up on him, vying for the squeaky ball he teased them with, their curled tails wagging. He raised his voice to be heard over their yapping. "What did you buy?"

  "A dress. For the party."

  "You have a closet full of dresses. You didn't have to buy a new one. Oh, silly me. Look who I'm talking to."

  Gabe had tried not to dwell too much on the party they were to attend that evening
. If Dena was anxious, she hid it well. His law firm, Moreau Pittman, was holding a party celebrating its thirtieth anniversary—at the Briarfield Country Club, the location not only of Gabe and Dena's fateful high-school reunion three months ago, but the legendary scene of the crime that had caused their breakup two months before graduation.

  This affair was eerily similar to that long-ago reception, except that it was even more formal, a black-tie dinner dance. Gabe had invited Dena as soon as he'd found out about it. He didn't want to think of tonight as a watershed point in their relationship, but it was hard not to.

  He'd made progress the past few weeks, getting her to let down her guard and open herself to him and to what they had together. Still, he sensed an underlying reserve, nurtured, no doubt, by ugly memories of her visits to Chateau Moreau, her pet name for his parents' ostentatious home.

  And tonight she'd have to face them again.

  "Do you want to see the dress?" she called, and Gabe detected a soupcon of nervous anticipation.

  "Of course!" he said.

  She descended the staircase. He stared. When he could speak, he said, "Who are you, and what have you done with Dena?"

  She chuckled nervously and patted her hair, which she'd swept away from her face into a sleek knot at her nape. How she'd gotten the curls to lie flat was beyond him.

  The gown she'd chosen was a sleeveless, ankle-length column of matte navy silk, with a small keyhole opening in the high neckline. The epitome of understated elegance, it was exquisitely constructed and obviously expensive. Unlike every other dress Dena owned, this one skimmed her enticing curves without adhering to them—flattering but far from suggestive. Her only jewelry was a pair of small pearl-and-diamond drop earrings that he'd never seen before.

  Gabe came to his feet as Dena performed a slow pirouette. The gown drifted around her statuesque form with a sigh. The puppies fell over themselves chasing the swirling hem.

  She took a deep breath. "What do you think?"

  "You look … perfect. Absolutely perfect for this kind of affair."

  She sighed in relief, and gave her new do another pat.

  "Now go change," he said.

  She blinked. "What?"

  "I appreciate the effort, but, Dena, this isn't you."

  "Gabe, don't be ridiculous. This outfit is perfect. You just said so."

  "You look like Princess Grace, done up like this. What happened to you and Marilyn Monroe, separated at birth?"

  She glowered. "Marilyn never had to go to a black-tie affair for Moreau Pittman."

  "You don't have to wear a costume, pretend to be someone you aren't. I'd never ask that of you."

  Her eyes flashed with anger. "You've got a lot of nerve. Fifteen years ago you wouldn't even take me to something like this because I wasn't—" She clamped her lips shut. Clearly she hadn't wanted to bring that up.

  He stroked her bare arms. "I'm so proud of you, love. And I'm going to be so damn proud to walk into that ballroom with you on my arm. You. The woman I love." He smiled. "Grace Kelly's not my type."

  "Whatever happened to the path of least resistance?"

  "Evasion techniques only work up to a certain point. Then you've got to lace up the gloves."

  She grimaced. "You haven't told your folks about me yet, have you?"

  They hadn't discussed it since that night four weeks earlier. It seemed they'd both made a conscious decision to keep the peace by avoiding the issue. It could no longer be avoided.

  "It's better this way," Gabe said. "When they meet you again tonight, you'll win them over. I know you will."

  "So that's the strategy, huh?" she asked, with a droll expression. "Blindside them with me at this ritzy affair where they can't make a fuss?"

  "Gosh, the idea never even occurred to me."

  "Yeah, right. Gabe, this is going to be a disaster."

  "It'll only be a disaster if you try to remake yourself into what you think is expected."

  "People do alter their appearance when they attend certain functions, you know. Even me. It's called dressing appropriately."

  "I'm not saying you have to wear your most outrageous outfit tonight, Dena. I'm just saying I want you to be you. And what would be the point of a drastic transformation anyway? You couldn't keep it up forever."

  That final word buzzed between them like static. Forever. Her eyes sought his. He wasn't sure what he read in them. Perhaps he didn't want to know. Yet he couldn't help adding, "Forever, Dena. If I have anything to say about it."

  Dena's lips trembled. Her eyes misted. "I do love you, Gabe."

  His chest swelled. He pulled her to him, hard.

  "I love you so much," she murmured into his shoulder, her voice watery. "I don't know why it took me so long to say it."

  "I know why. And I think you do, too." She'd been guarding her heart, which he'd broken once. That she trusted him with it now filled him with awe. Smiling, he kissed her temple. "I kind of knew you were sweet on me, but it sure is nice to hear the words."

  * * *

  The ballroom of the Briarfield Country Club was done up even swankier than the only other time Dena had seen it, three months earlier at the class reunion. Even from the doorway she recognized the glittering Christofle silver and Baccarat crystal that had been laid on snowy white damask tablecloths. Striking floral centerpieces perfumed the air. Enormous logs burned in the two oversize carved-oak fireplaces. The twenty-piece band set up on a stage near the parquet dance floor did credit to the familiar old standard they were playing.

  But the most conspicuous difference between the reunion and this extravagant affair was the guests themselves, mingling over beluga caviar and imported champagne. Never in her life had Dena seen so many tuxedos in one place; the men looked like they'd been stamped out by a cookie cutter. The women were more colorful but no less uniform in their designer gowns, heirloom jewelry and over-coiffed hair.

  "I may need those tendons someday," Gabe said, and only then did Dena realize how far she'd sunk her burgundy-colored fingernails into the arm of his tuxedo jacket.

  "No one has noticed me yet," she said. "We don't have to go through with this."

  "If you make a run for it, I swear I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you in like a sack of potatoes."

  He was smiling!

  "This isn't funny!" she hissed. "Look at me! Why did you make me change?"

  He actually laughed! "As if I could make you do anything."

  "You were right, Gabe," she moaned. "That other dress was perfect." She punched his arm.

  "You know, if I didn't love you so much, this abuse might really start getting to me. Dena, stop fretting. You look incredible."

  "That's what I'm afraid of."

  "You know what I mean. You're beautiful, love. More than beautiful, enchanting." The glint in his eyes said he wasn't lying.

  "You're hardly impartial," she muttered.

  After their earlier conversation, she'd unpinned that Grace Kelly hairdo, shampooed out all the gel and spray and let it dry in fluffy waves around her face while she'd flipped through dresses in her massive walk-in closet. She'd kept coming back to the same gown, one that had been created especially for her by a young friend of hers, an aspiring designer and recent graduate of New York's Fashion Institute of Technology.

  As soon as Gabe had seen it on her, he'd cried, "Dena! You're back!"

  The gown's first layer was a body-hugging stretch velvet minidress in a rich burgundy color, high-necked with a little stand-up collar of bronze brocade. What the dress lacked in cleavage, it made up for in exposed shoulders, thanks to armholes cut in toward the collar.

  Dena often wore this base alone as a short cocktail dress, but tonight she'd added the dramatic, ankle-length overskirt: overlapping, petal-like layers of sheer silk organza in burgundy, dark green and bronze, attached to a wide bronze brocade cummerbund laced snugly around her midriff and dipping to a point in front. Her legs were visible through the filmy organza, right down to her sti
letto-heeled burgundy velvet slingbacks.

  She only hoped no one noticed her knees shaking.

  Gabe reached over to flick a dangling, garnet-encrusted earring. "You look like Cinderella with attitude."

  "Is it midnight yet?"

  He squeezed her hand. "Just stick with me."

  A deep male voice called, "Gabe!"

  Dena groaned. Too late to escape. They'd been spotted.

  Please don't let it be Lucien Moreau, she thought. Not yet.

  Her prayers were answered, barely. Gabe introduced her to Robert Pittman, Andrea's father and the firm's other founding partner. He was of medium height, with thinning hair just turning gray at the temples. He had his daughter's silver-gray eyes. Despite the fact that the Pittmans and Moreaus were lifelong best friends, this was the first time Dena had met Andrea's father. Gabe's parents had never invited her to any of their social gatherings during the eleven months she'd dated their son.

  Dena offered her hand, chagrined that as calm as she managed to act, her cold, clammy fingers had to give her away. If Pittman noticed, he gave no clue. A waiter approached with an hors d'oeuvre-laden tray. The men helped themselves to lobster-stuffed endive, but she declined. For once, her appetite had deserted her.

  Pittman's smile seemed genuine as he said, "Can I assume you're the reason this guy goes around with a sappy grin on his face nowadays?"

  Gabe slid his arm around her waist. "So it's that obvious, is it?"

  Pittman said, "My paralegal's been giving odds on whether you'll be engaged by the end of the year."

  "So where'd you put your money?" Gabe asked.

  "On a Christmas wedding."

  Dena laughed, charmed despite herself by Andrea's surprisingly affable father. "And without even meeting me! Gabe, just how goofy are you acting around the office?"

  Gabe pulled himself up in mock affront. "Not goofy. Besotted."

  "Now that I've met this lovely lady you've been keeping under wraps," Pittman said, "I think I'll move my bet up to Thanksgiving."

  He met her gaze directly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Despite any previous expectations, Andrea's father appeared resigned to the fact that his daughter and the son of his closest friend were never going to tie the knot. He seemed genuinely happy for Gabe.