by Lynn LaFleur
The first glimpse of her set Brett’s heart racing even faster. From out of nowhere, he remembered the toast his dad had raised to his mom on their twenty-fifth anniversary. “To the woman I love, with a face that could stop a clock.”
His parents’ friends had gasped at the ugly implication, until his dad added, “So that time stood still to worship your beauty.”
Now Abby waited at the curb, looking expectantly at Brett, as if she didn’t know quite what to do next.
He knew he should say something but words failed him. She was a vision in black silk and satin. If only he could freeze this moment in time, and the beauty and radiance of the goddess who would be his tonight.
Sweet Jesus. He took a deep breath, swallowed hard and hurried across the sidewalk. He took her hands and spread her arms, drinking in every inch of her.
“Abby, you look…good lord, you look fantastic. The dress, your hair—everything.” He wanted to wrap her in a huge bear hug, surround her with all the feelings roiling around inside him. And never let go.
Words tumbled out of him, silly awkward things that sounded like they came from a moonstruck ten-year-old.
To his great relief, Abby looked up at him and whispered, “You don’t look so bad yourself, sailor.”
Brett and Abby stayed outdoors a few minutes longer. The moon had risen and its reflection shone brilliantly on the water.
“Aunt Rose never took me into the hills when I lived here. I had no idea views like this existed.” She turned back to Brett. “It’s breathtaking.”
His gaze had never left her face. He saw a flush rise on her cheeks when he answered, “I’ll second that.”
She laughed softly, yet with the tiniest edge of uncertainty.
By god, she’s as nervous as I am.
“Think of all the plays you’d write if you spent a few days up here with your laptop.”
This time, her chuckle held a dose of skepticism. “I doubt Whispers would approve of someone sitting on their front stoop with a laptop.” She arched a brow and threw back her shoulders. If she did that again, he wouldn’t be responsible for what he did with his hands.
“Besides, were you honestly thinking only about my career as a playwright?”
He searched for the perfect answer until she gave him a friendly poke in the chest. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”
She had. “I thought it sounded good. Don’t I get points for trying?”
She shook her head. “You’re going to have to work a lot harder than that to score points with me tonight. Remember, you promised magic.”
Brett slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Then let the magic begin.”
Looking at Whispers from the sidewalk, Abby thought it a curious shape for a restaurant. One long, rather narrow low-slung building with a pavilion, circa 1920, rising up from its center. Weathered wood, several generous panes of stained glass, and topped with a marvelous glass dome.
“Was this a house at one time?” she asked. “Or a small planetarium?”
“Both,” Brett answered. “At least what you see from here.”
“It’s so much smaller than I imagined.”
“Let’s go inside. You’ll be surprised.”
To Abby, that was the understatement of the year. Not even the review she’d read the day before prepared her. She saw she hadn’t walked into a restaurant or resort or whatever Whispers claimed to be. She’d walked straight into another era.
The décor, Art Deco meets Al Capone, plunged them into the twenties and thirties. Part museum, part movie sound stage, part parallel universe, it was enough to make her wonder whether, if she looked into a mirror now, she would see herself transformed into a flapper wearing a sparkling chemise with a rope of pearls falling almost to her knees.
A portly man with slicked-back hair and dressed in a double-breasted tux ala Capone’s gumbah, met them at the front door.
“Brett, how nice to see you again.” He extended his hand and pumped Brett’s enthusiastically.
“Costas, this is my friend Abby,” Brett said. “Abby, this is Costas. He’s been a part of Whispers from the beginning. No one knows more about the design, the art, or the food and wine than he does.”
She took his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. This is an amazing place.”
“Only a reflection of the loveliness of our guests.” His gaze swept over her, his appreciation obvious. “It would be my pleasure to give you a private tour.”
Brett chuckled. “Watch him, Abby. He moves faster than I do.”
Not by much.
With Brett’s hand on her elbow, Abby followed Costas through the pavilion, along a balcony, and down a wide curving staircase to a group of tables that ringed the dance floor. They passed dozens of guests waiting to be seated along the way.
The perks of fame. She’d spent most of her life watching others receive A-list treatment. Tonight it was nice to be the recipient.
The tables formed a crescent along the dance floor, with a small orchestra seated on a raised dais in front of a shimmering backdrop. Like Costas, they, too, wore vintage formalwear and played a song Abby recognized as Glenn Miller’s.
She leaned toward Brett. “This is definitely another world.”
“The first time I saw it, I expected Bogie and Edward G. Robinson to come flying across the stage, machine guns spitting fire.”
“Aren’t we a little too close to Valentine’s Day for memories like that?”
“Please watch your step,” Costas cautioned. He’d slowed his pace. Abby failed to notice. She was so caught up in her surroundings, she walked right into him.
“I’m s-sorry.”
“No, no, it was my fault.”
It was no one’s fault except Whispers’. Too much to see, too much to soak up. How could a place that looked so small and unassuming from the outside turn into something so cavernous and grand? The property must sprawl leisurely down and along the mountainside, she thought. How many tiers hid below the ballroom? Is that where they’d find their dining spa?
Costas stopped at a table at the center of the dance floor’s edge. Like the others in the crescent, it was dressed with linens, champagne flutes and, in a side pedestal, a sterling silver ice bucket. A bottle sat in the bucket, a white napkin fastened around the neck and draping downward.
Costas snapped his fingers with practiced flourish. Their captain raced over, seated them and popped the cork. Once he and Costas left, Brett raised his glass. “To magic.”
She touched the rim of her glass to his. “And more.”
They sipped their bubbly, quietly watching the people around them. Most were dressed in formalwear or business suits, although she’d seen several couples who waited for a table dressed in resort wear.
She leaned over and whispered to Brett, “Pinch me. I want to make sure I’m not dreaming.”
He grinned. “Let’s save the pinching for later.”
At that moment, the orchestra moved seamlessly from swing to a ballad Abby had heard many times before—Someone to Watch Over Me.
Brett held out his hand to her. “Shall we?”
Abby slid into Brett’s arms as easily as if they’d danced together for years. With the extra inches added by her spiky heels, she stood tall enough for Brett to graze the side of her temples with his lips.
Gooseflesh covered her arms and tingled all the way to the top of her head. “Umm,” she said with a sigh. What could be better?
Brett tightened his grip on her waist, pulled her closer and rested her hand gently against his chest. She splayed her fingers and felt his heart hammering in her palm. She knew it wasn’t from the exertion of the dance.
To Abby’s surprise, Brett danced a decent two-step. Not that Michael Flatley had anything to fear, but he knew how to lead, where to place his hand on the small of her back and for such a large, muscular man, had an excellent sense of music and rhythm.
“What do you think? Do I make the grade?” he whispered in her ea
r.
“Straight As so far.”
Too soon the dance ended. Instead of leaving the floor like the other couples, Brett surprised Abby by keeping his arm around her waist and staying put. She didn’t object. Dancing was one of her favorite forms of foreplay.
She exhaled a contented sigh, her first relaxed breath of the day. Dancing always had that effect on her.
Dancing in the arms of a man she craved, made all those feelings that much stronger.
Until the orchestra struck the first note of the next piece, Villoldo’s timeless tango, Kiss of Fire.
She went rigid in Brett’s embrace. “This is a tango,” she said, her tone sharper than she wanted. She tried to pull away from him. “Surely you don’t want to—“
“Surely I do,” he mimicked her. “Hush now. Try to follow.”
Try to follow? She could tango circles around him. She only hoped he didn’t make complete fools of them. “Lead on.”
To her surprise—no, more like shock—he straightened his spine, rose on the balls of his feet and pulled her to his side, turning her to face him in the classic tango embrace.
Too stunned to do more than react, Abby placed her left hand on his upper arm, above his biceps, raised up on tiptoes until her cheek was within an inch of touching his and allowed him to lead her into la Caminata, the tango walk.
Each new step surprised her more than the last. There couldn’t be another man in Seaside able to hold his own in the Argentine Tango.
Brett matched her step for step, led her through the intricate footwork and into the high extensions. Now she understood why Madame had insisted upon the slash in the skirt of her dress. Without it, she couldn’t have raised her leg beyond her knee.
She was breathless from more than the dance. Brett had listened when she’d told him about the tango club. Not only listened, but remembered and carried the message to Madame. But when, and how?
And where had he learned to tango? The dance took days to learn, weeks of dancing with a new partner to build the trust and synchronicity they’d found in a few minutes. It had to be kismet.
When the dance ended, he swept her up into his arms. She collapsed against him. Both of them struggled for breath, and their skin was covered with the sheen of perspiration. That didn’t stop him from spinning her into a deep bow at the applause from the guests at ringside, and those who watched from the balcony.
“You’re incredible,” she said during their last bow. She knew they’d made a dozen mistakes. Brett must have known it too, but it had been the most fun she’d had in months.
He didn’t comment, but drew her into another dance. They tangoed twice more, alone and in the spotlight. Each step came more easily, each leg kick a little higher, their bodies closer, their passion building. A sensuous dance, every beat sent prickles through Abby. Now the steps were coming more naturally, muscle memory kicking in where she’d had to concentrate when they began. Their bodies were so in sync, if one misstepped, the other compensated. In those few minutes, they’d managed to master something far more important than the precise footwork and high leg extensions. They’d found el alma del tango—the soul of the tango.
By the end of their third dance, both were ready to wave the white flag.
“That was unbelievable,” Abby said between gulps for air and the twinge in her side. Her legs ached where the muscles were tightening in her calves.
At their table, Brett held her chair then dropped into his. “Don’t ask me to do it again tonight, or you’ll have to call the paramedics.”
Their captain, who appeared out of nowhere, waited for them to be seated before he refreshed their champagne. Abby clicked the edge of Brett’s glass with hers. “To shared gurneys.”
“Here, here.”
After a sip, she put hers down. “Okay, the truth and nothing but. Where did you learn to dance like that? Not on a football field.”
He took another long sip, more like a gulp, then mopped the beads of perspiration from his brow. “You mean ex-jocks aren’t supposed to dance?”
She ran her finger across his knuckles. “You’re not an ex-jock to me,” she said. “You’re a gifted dancer who happened to throw a football.”
“Dancing, football, they’re the same.” His tone was off-handed, yet she saw the pleasure he’d taken from her compliment. “If you practice anything long enough you can do it well.”
Was that genuine humility? This was the second time he’d surprised her.
Abby leaned back in her chair. “You’ll get no argument from me about practice.” She raised her glass to her lips. “But you can’t practice something you haven’t learned. That’s the story I want to hear. You didn’t learn to tango reading the back of a cereal box.”
She saw the answer in the way his expression changed. Not a drop of innocence in sight.
“Sylvina, my sister’s suitemate at Duke, came from Buenos Aires. Melanie is renowned for her two left feet but somehow Sylvina managed to teach her to tango. Besides her two left feet, my sis always has to be in charge.”
“Was she a quarterback too?”
“Nope, just captain of her soccer, basketball and field hockey teams.”
“Got it.”
“Sylvina spent Christmas with us one year. Mel insisted she teach me the dance so she’d have a permanent practice partner once Sylvina went home.”
“And you didn’t mind?”
“I was sixteen, big for my age, but still at the bottom of the Kincade hierarchy. My sis was setting academic and athletic records at Duke. Even with regular visits from NFL scouts, I had to earn my way up that ladder.” He smiled into his glass of champagne, obviously remembering something pleasurable.
“You don’t look like you minded too much.”
He chuckled. “I’d had a crush on Sylvina from the day I met her. That Christmas, I got to know her really well.”
“A hands-on instructor?”
“Let’s just say that Sylvina had a special way of rewarding a pupil who studied hard.”
Hard being the operative word. “And that’s when you discovered a ‘good dancer‘ equaled ‘babe magnet’.”
Brett grinned. “Pretty much. I also had a coach in college who made us take dance—ballet, no less. Thought it would enhance our moves on the field. I can do a jete and pas de chat that’ll knock your socks off.”
Abby laughed out loud at the vision of Brett leaping sideways in a pas a chat. “So many Bretts,” she said. “Let’s see, there’s Tango Brett, Practice Brett and Ballet Brett.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t have quite the same ring as Bullet Brett.”
He leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow that said much more than his words. “There’s another Brett you haven’t met yet either.”
Her breath caught. “Um…I think I might have met him last night?”
“That was an appetizer. Tonight’s the main course.”
Her throat went dry while his gaze sizzled over her.
He reached for her hand, raised her fingertips to his lips and smiled. “I’ll be anyone you want me to be, just don’t ask me to wear a tutu.”
She leaned across the table until their lips were only inches apart. “Tonight’s not about what you’re wearing—it’s about what you’re taking off.”
Chapter Eight
With another snap of his fingers, Costas summoned the motorized carriage that waited to take Brett and Abby to their dining spa. Their driver, a man who introduced himself as Raoul, spoke with a charming accent.
The carriage reminded Abby of the ones ridden in by Princesses and their Prince Charmings in the fairy tales her mother had read to her. Smaller, less pretentious and without a team of white horses, but with its pumpkin-shaped design, the soft leather seats and silken fabric accessories, it had a definite royal feel. Each new thing she discovered—whether the elegance of the silk against her fingertips, the softness of the leather, the fragrance of wildflowers, the way her hand fit perfectly into Brett’s—all of it told her
a magical night awaited her.
“Breathe in the scent of redwoods, Abby, and the ocean.”
“I’m awed. Do you think my aunt even knows a place like this exists in Seaside?”
Brett answered with an odd look and a chuckle. “Trust me, she knows.”
Abby thought about asking why Brett was so sure, but then she caught a fresh glimpse of the hills surrounding them and the beaches several hundred feet below. Their path turned, circling back and forth between views of the ocean and the stands of pine and fir. From all sides, she was overwhelmed by the perfume of the wildflowers, the beauty of the moon reflecting off the water, and more stars than she’d count in a lifetime.
After they’d stepped outside the ballroom, she’d shivered at the first bite of the cool night air against her skin. Brett had immediately put his arm around her. In the carriage he continued to hold her close. As they began their descent, the foliage grew denser, adding warmth to the air. Still Brett held tightly to Abby, like he feared she’d disappear into the fog if he let go.
Abby remembered the magazine’s review said Whispers had several dining spas. She knew it had to be true, but they were camouflaged so cleverly they blended into the mountainside, the trees and the foliage.
“It’s so lovely here, Brett,” she said, and dropped her hand into his lap. It seemed such a comfortable and natural thing to do. Beneath her fingertips, the muscle in his thigh tensed for a second. Fabulous. She wasn’t the only one primed and ready for their upcoming adventure. “Where are the spas?” she asked. “I know there has to be more than one.”
“They’re all around us.” He ran his hand gently along the inside of her forearm and dropped a light kiss on her shoulder. She shivered from more than the night air. “Whispers started with five, and now there’s fifteen. They’re designed to ensure complete privacy.”
She closed her eyes to enjoy his touch even more. Through a contented sigh, she asked, “How much farther to ours?”
He kissed her temple. “Can’t wait to get started?”
