Dance of the Rogue

by Cris Anson

  From the corner of his eye he saw Rolf saunter back into the bar with coffee mug in hand, apparently having sniffed another female ripe for plucking, and slide onto a stool in the center of the bar. Soren’s tense shoulders relaxed. Apparently she wasn’t his type. Rolf’s typical lay was model-thin with overly done makeup.

  Soren moved to stand before his newest patron. Under the bar lights, the pale fabric of her outfit enhanced the creamy shade of her skin. Her eyes were a deep, clear green as she looked directly at him. “You are Soren Thorvald, I believe?”

  Startled, Soren nodded. Transients never cared to know the bartender’s name.

  “My name is Fantine Mercier.” She thrust out a hand whose well-trimmed fingernails, he noted, bore the same shade of fire-engine red as her toes, and accepted the handshake. Her grip was firm, no-nonsense and brief.

  She slipped her butt onto the stool and eyed the menu of beers printed on tent-cards. “I’d like to talk to you, but first, I’m intrigued by the range of boutique beers you carry. I’d like to try a Dark Chocolate Stout. Just the bottle. No glass.”

  Soren controlled the urge to raise an eyebrow. Most women considered drinking from the bottle to be a masculine trait. He took a bottle from the cooler, opened it and set it down in front of her atop a cocktail napkin. By the time he took her cash, rang it up and set the change down, she had lifted the bottle to her glossy lips and taken several long swallows with gusto. He placed a bowl of salted peanuts before her, every bartender’s subtle way of making the patron thirstier.

  “This is a really great beer,” she said, licking her lips. She took another swallow and closed her eyes, apparently savoring the way it tasted going down her throat. He knew the sensation. The beer had a distinct chocolate flavor and was thick on the tongue.

  She set the bottle down and looked at him closely. “I’m looking for some information and I’m hoping you might be able to help me. You’re busy, so I won’t intrude on your time while you’re working. Might I make an appointment to speak with you when you have some free time? Perhaps after the weekend?”

  “Information about…?”

  Fantine Mercier dipped into a pocket of the raincoat lying on the adjoining bar stool and produced a business card, which she handed to him.

  Soren moved to a small spotlight illuminating the liquor bottles arrayed on shelves in front of the long mirror so he could read the small print. “You’re a college professor? Romance studies? What kind of information could I possibly give you?”

  “I just wanted to show you that I’m not a flake. I’m tenured, and have been teaching there for nine years.”

  “Where’s this college located? I never heard of it.”

  “It’s a small liberal arts college in Sussex County, in northwestern New Jersey, near the Delaware Water Gap. But my quest has nothing to do with my classes. I don’t teach in the summer.” She lowered her voice. “I promised to help a friend trace her family tree. She discovered that one of the branches mentions a Thorvald in this area around thirty or forty years ago and I’m just following up to see where it leads.”

  Something inside Soren stilled. This was dangerous territory. This woman had all summer to dig around, so stonewalling wouldn’t do any good. What if something he’d suspected for years turned out to be true? Would it hurt all of them?

  “When I Googled the name,” she continued, unaware of his subtle distancing, “I found a Magnus Thorvald who’s a wood sculptor in upper Bucks County, but I couldn’t find an address for him, although there was a photograph of him taken at an art gallery near Philadelphia. Then I found your name in connection with Thor’s Hammer in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania business records and stopped here first, since it was on my way to the art gallery. As soon as I saw you, I knew you must be related to Magnus Thorvald. You look enough like the man in the photo to be his brother.”

  “Hey Soren, another round here, okay?” The pair of dart throwers had come up to the bar. Soren gave a cursory nod to Fantine Mercier and filled their order, his mind working. What would Magnus do? Should he call him? More to the point, he was expecting the relief bartender shortly. Should he slip out and avoid the woman altogether? Hell, if she was tenacious enough to have a Ph.D. and be tenured, hiding from her was no answer.

  A couple of men in jeans and T-shirts strode in. “Is the poolroom open?”

  Soren waved them on. “Sure is. Want anything before you go in? I’m alone right now, the waitress is on her break.”

  They came to the bar. As he filled two mugs with draft beer, the chef stuck his head through the swinging doors. “Soren, that distributor says he can’t deliver our meat order until Friday. We’ll be out of ground sirloin by tomorrow night. Wanna talk to him? He’s on line two.”

  He shoved the beers to the pool players and picked up the extension at the opposite end of the bar. While he was negotiating for his delivery, he saw Rolf slide off his stool and approach Fantine Mercier. Soren gritted his teeth. Not good. Not good at all.

  * * * * *

  “I’ve been watching your mouth make love to that bottle.”

  It took Fantine a moment to shift mental gears and process the comment. She’d been pondering Soren Thorvald’s reaction. He’d acted like a typical pseudo-friendly bartender until he heard her request. Then he seemed to close himself off. Oh, he was far from obvious, but after so many years of dealing with student excuses and attitudes, she’d become somewhat of an expert on body language. And her intuition told her Soren Thorvald didn’t want to meet with her. Well, she’d just hang around until he did. Even if it took all summer.

  Turning just her head, she glanced at the young man standing to her right, slouched against the bar in a cocky, here-I-am-you-lucky-woman pose. Devilishly handsome and he knew it. Crow-black curly hair in need of a good barber, chocolate-brown eyes with long lashes, and—wouldn’t you know it—a Kirk Douglas dimple in the middle of his chin, emphasized by the two-day growth of beard that seemed to be the rage among males of the species.

  Deliberately she turned back to the bar and picked up a few peanuts, slipping them one at a time into her mouth. At any other time, he’d be a pleasant few moments diversion, but right now she needed to focus on her quest.

  “I like to see a woman with her hair down. Yours looks like it might come halfway down your back. Am I right?”

  Soren Thorvald hung up the phone and strode to them. “I hope you’re not bothering my patrons, Don.” He seemed to bite out the last word through clenched teeth.

  “Not at all. I was just admiring her hair.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Thorvald. I eat little boys like him for breakfast and spit out their bones on the big pile in my cave.”

  She thought she saw one side of Thorvald’s mouth twitch up, but it was so quickly replaced by his bartender façade that she might have been mistaken. But Don stood up straight from his slouch. “Ooh. A woman who bites. I like that.”

  Ignoring him, Fantine concentrated on her target. “Would some time Monday morning be convenient? I assume Mondays are slow.”

  The young man looked at the bartender, speculation in his eyes. “Is this something your fiancée should know about?”

  “That’s enough, Don. Why don’t you go find a barn to tear down?”

  The two men stood glaring at each other. Then the gigolo shrugged. “See ya around,” he said to her with a wink then sauntered to the door as if he had not a care in the world.

  “I apologize for his behavior,” Thorvald said. “Can I get you another stout? On the house.”

  “No thank you, but I would like to meet with you. If you’re too busy the next few days, it’s no big deal. I booked a campsite in the next town for the weekend, since I drove down in an RV. I can hang around here as long as I need to.” She hoped he understood she wasn’t going away until she’d gotten answers.

  She could see the moment resignation appeared in his eyes. He nodded curtly. “Monday morning at eleven o’clock would be good. Come to the
employee entrance around the side and go upstairs to the office. It’ll be unlocked.”

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  He walked away to serve a couple of patrons who had settled in one of the booths. Fantine stayed at the bar, nibbling on peanuts while she finished her beer, pondering her next moves. She could drive down to Bryn Mawr to speak to the gallery owner about Magnus Thorvald. Or come back here at dinnertime, maybe ask some questions when the pub was busier, when more staff would be on board.

  A glance out the small window in front told her the rain had stopped and the sun was trying to come out. According to her internet search, a library with a hot zone was down the road a few miles from the pub. She could go online there and do more research.

  Decision made, she slid off the barstool, tucked the hat into her raincoat pocket, folded her damp coat over her arm and, slipping her purse over her shoulder, left the bar.

  Outside, clouds were breaking up, the sun limning their edges with shimmers of gold. Patches of blue sky promised clear weather. Raindrops clinging to the edges of green leaves sparkled in the ginkgoes lining the street. With a brisk stride, she rounded the corner of the bar into the parking lot and toward her RV.

  She had unlocked the passenger’s door and tucked her coat and laptop case on the seat when someone called out, “Wait! Hold on!” Turning in that direction, she spied the young stud from the bar approaching her.

  “Hello again. Is this yours?” He patted the hood of her twenty-three-foot Star-Runner.

  “It is.” She’d bought it new and was proud that it would be paid off this year. In five summers it had logged twenty thousand miles, as the place decals decorating the side windows attested.

  He ran the fingers of one hand through his dark hair and down the back of his neck, drawing her eyes to the way the curls clung to his nape. “Look, I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Don’t worry, it only matters on the dance floor.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I get it. ‘Wrong foot’. You’re sharp.”

  “Sharp can sometimes draw blood.” She smiled, enjoying the sparring.

  “Does that mean you’re a vampire? Do you have fangs?” His gaze zeroed in on her mouth, and she suddenly wondered how his own mouth would feel on hers.

  Blinking the thought away, she retorted, “Excuse me, all these questions, are you taking a survey?”

  “No. Not yet.” He stood tall and took a deep breath, the effect puffing out his chest under a snug-fitting black T-shirt with the bar’s logo emblazoned on the front. She couldn’t help but notice the sinuous curves of muscle under the well-worn fabric. No doubt that had been his intent. “I won’t dance around, because I don’t know what foot to start out with. I just wanted to see if your skin was as smooth and pretty in the sunshine as it was under the bar lights. He uses rose-colored bulbs, you know.”

  Stifling a smile, Fantine crossed her arms in front of her in a body-language stance that conveyed I’m not buying any bridges in Arizona.

  “And it is. Your skin. You could model for a cosmetics company. It would come out flawless in a close-up.”

  One corner of her mouth tilted slightly upward anyway. That was fairly inventive.

  A streak of color to one side of his head claimed her attention. “Don’t move,” she whispered, slowly reaching out her hand. “Let’s see if it will land on my finger.”

  Her attention focused on the butterfly, with its black stripes on yellow wings, but she could feel Don’s gaze on her. She moved her hand an inch, coaxing it, and was delighted when it alit on her knuckle.

  “Turn real slow,” she breathed. “It’s an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  From her peripheral vision, Fantine could see Don’s gaze flick between her and the butterfly.

  “I couldn’t choose which one’s prettier,” he murmured.

  For a profound moment they stood silent and still, watching its antennae move, as if it were sniffing her finger searching for food, then it flapped delicate wings and flew away.

  “Do you do everything so intensely?” he asked.

  The spell broken, Fantine allowed her smile to grow. “There’s so much beauty all around, I try to immerse myself in it whenever I see it.”

  “That’s a great philosophy. What I’d like to see is the beauty of your hair. When you move your head, I see strands of cherry, chestnut, amber, walnut, mahogany and who knows what-all. I’d like to see exactly what color it is and how long it is.”

  When she just raised an eyebrow at him, he said, “You don’t have to be afraid of me. We’re in the middle of town. The police station is at the end of the block. I’ll even stand on the other side of the hood if it’ll make you feel better. Just, would you mind very much if I ask you to take the pins out of your hair and let me see it?”

  “If I do, then you’ll go away?”

  He favored her with a smile that could make an angel weep. “Depends. If your hair is as beautiful as I think it is, I might just turn into a pillar of salt.”

  She couldn’t help it. A laugh erupted from deep down within her and she let her arms uncross. “You certainly sound like you’ve kissed the Blarney Stone a few dozen times. You’ve got to be Irish.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m—” He stopped, and a muscle in his jaw jumped. “My name is…Don. What’s yours?”

  She thrust out her hand. “Fantine.”

  “Uh-uh. Soren might shake hands. I don’t.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushed his lips across her knuckles. An unaccountable tingle spread down her hand and all the way into her belly. She discounted her reaction. It had to be the mild scrape of his beard stubble.

  Still holding her hand to his mouth, he murmured, “I have a better idea. How about if I pull the pins out?”

  She pulled her hand away. “How old are you, twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

  “I’ll be twenty-nine in October, and I’d be honored if you’d celebrate it with me.”

  “Look, Don, I’ve got ten years on you, and worlds of experience.”

  “You’d be surprised how much experience I have.”

  “No I wouldn’t. I’ll bet it’s all cock and no life.” Leaving every hair and pin in place, she turned to the RV and set one foot on the step. “You strike me as the type that doesn’t make love. You only have sex.”

  She stepped inside and reached back to close the door. “It was delightful chatting with you, but I’ve got work to do.”

  She stepped over the center console and settled into the driver’s seat. As she pulled away from the parking lot, she tried to catch a glimpse of him in the side-view mirror, but he was already gone.

  Just as well. That one had trouble written all over him, with a capital T.

  Chapter Four

  He didn’t get it. Women just didn’t refuse him. Especially not a woman who looked like she did, with her skin glowing in the sunlight, those lush, ripe curves, her green eyes so…alive when she studied that butterfly. He tried to remember if anyone had ever looked at him so intensely, as if nothing else in the world was more important at that moment. He didn’t think so.

  And her attitude! Splashing in rain puddles like a carefree child. Made him happy just to watch her be happy.

  So what if she was older than he? A mouth like that sure wasn’t a virgin. Not the way she fucked that bottle with it; probably didn’t even know she was doing it.

  But he didn’t like her comment, all cock and no life. He’d have to show her how wrong she was, Rolf thought as he raced to his ancient Mustang. Her RV had headed south on Main Street. How hard would it be to catch up to her and follow her? He had an advantage in that she didn’t know what he was driving.

  A few minutes later he was rewarded by the sight of her vehicle about five cars ahead of him, still heading south. He glanced at his gas tank. Half full. He’d be fine if she didn’t have the notion of driving all the way to South Carolina or someplace like that. He settled comfortably in his seat and wat
ched the road.

  After a while the RV turned left. Rolf slowed the Mustang to do the same. And smiled when he saw the sign. Stonehedge Campground, two miles. He hoped that was her destination. He had a feeling she was trying to do something with—or to—Soren and was planning to see him again. He should have moved closer while they were busy talking. He couldn’t hear their conversation over the din of the ball game on TV. Whatever they talked about, Soren had frowned a couple of times. Was she a bill collector? A lawyer? If it had to do with the business, Soren could have asked her to wait a half hour until Trang came in to relieve him at the bar, and then go upstairs to the office.

  Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. Dip into Fantine’s honeypot and get some info out of her during after-sex pillow talk. And show Soren his little brother wasn’t merely a big lump of testosterone by preparing him for what that woman might spring on him.

  Bingo. The RV turned into the campground. Rolf drove past it then made a U-turn a half mile down. He pulled to the side of the road, sat with the radio thumping to a wild reggae beat. He’d give her twenty minutes to settle in—meaning, take her clothes off—while he cruised around the park to find her rig. And then he’d surprise her.

  * * * * *

  “Aunt Rosalie! What the devil are you doing, lying on the ground in the heat of the day?”

  Pearce Kelleher stood with hands on his hips as he surveyed the scene in Rosalie Dwyer’s garden. The old woman lay sprawled on a layer of mulch between two rows of her much-fussed-over dahlias, a woven Panama hat squashed under her head. Her bib overalls sported dirt spots on the knees and one of her rubber clogs had slipped off her foot.

  “I’m so glad you came by, Pearce. Help me up.”

  He squatted on his haunches at her side, hoping he wouldn’t have to dirty his freshly pressed linen trousers by actually kneeling. “What happened? Did you have heat stroke?”

  Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he helped her to a seated position. She groaned.