Open Invitation?

by Karen Kendall

  You’re doing it for Claire. He reminded himself of that again, but he knew better. The reality of the situation was that it was Bloody Nigel and Mama who had instilled Claire with their snotty values and beliefs. They’d molded her into a proper upper crust young English girl. So unfortunately it was their standards that he was conforming to. But he’d be damned to hell and back again if they could find anything to criticize about his behavior at this wedding. He had something to prove: that not only was he as good as them, but he could outplay them at their own game. They’d left behind an inconvenient, sullen fourteen-year-old. By God he’d show them that he was now a man to be reckoned with.

  His lip curled. And now Claire probably had turned into a snob, just like them. A cucumber-sandwich nibbling priss-pot. Sodding Nigel would be so proud.

  Dan accelerated onto the highway, which was laughably narrow and confined compared to any road in Texas. Lilia’s a priss-pot. But a very nice and sexy one. At least on the surface.

  He shrugged off the thought, happier to wallow in his stereotypes. And he had a good laugh at the process that Bloody Nigel must have gone through to “civilize” Mama properly. Dan was quite sure the man hadn’t taken her anywhere in public for at least a year, not trusting her to behave properly and not make a laughingstock out of him in front of his English cronies.

  How sad. Yet Dan was equally sure that Mama had been an eager pupil, soaking up all the nuances of the British class structure like a sponge. Sadder still: the people at the top, the ones she wanted so badly to impress, would always whisper behind her back, always snub her—simply because she was American and had been working class. Hell, they’d snub Lovely Nigel, too—because he’d worked for his money.

  England wasn’t the U.S., where anyone could better himself and society was somewhat fluid.

  Dan’s thoughts went back to Lilia. Had she ever had good sex before? He doubted it. She’d been too shocked—and yet delighted. There’d been an innocence to her that didn’t go with her air of worldly sophistication.

  If he were a gambling man, he’d lay odds on the probability that Miz Lil had previously only experienced the missionary position, on a mattress with the lights out.

  He grinned. He was pretty sure that he’d rocked her world, flipping up her skirt like that and ripping off her panty hose and eating her right on the table. She’d behaved like a lady who’d never been partaken of. Was that possible in this day and age? If so, he planned to have even more fun with her.

  Dan went hard again just at the thought of that sweet little mons, the bite-size little breasts that responded to the slightest flick of his tongue and the raw, throaty sounds she’d made. Miz Lilia might have started off the evening a lady…but she sure hadn’t ended it that way.

  Suddenly Dan felt somewhat ashamed.

  Why? She asked you to do it. She damn near sent you an engraved invitation. She begged for it, even if it was in that unbelievably repressed way of hers.

  But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d somehow defiled her, sullied her purity by putting his big, dirty country hands on her and making her scream for mercy.

  Screw manners? Yeah, he’d screwed ’em, all right.

  What was it about Lilia that turned him on? She wasn’t his normal type. He was all about lush-bodied, all-American babes in tight jeans, not tiny, small-breasted exotics in prim suits.

  Had his sexual desire for her risen out of hostility and the urge to rip the fabric of social perfection? Troubling thought. Or had it simply been the natural response of a man invited to seduce a woman?

  Dan told himself that any red-blooded man in his place would have responded the way he had. She’d offered sex. He’d taken her up on it. End of story.

  He arrived at the hotel, parked his car, put the top up. The room was just as bland as it had been last night: blue and beige and faux-cozy in an institutional way. He pitched the three-ring etiquette binder off the bed, shucked off his clothes and fell facedown on it, still able to feel the pressure of Lil’s small heels on his bare back.

  LIL DROVE to the office next morning after a terrible night’s sleep, caught up in dreams which alternated between fantasy and nightmare. Talk about fark lessons! She’d given Dan some, and he’d given her some. Funny how both involved prongs and healthy appetites. Ahem.

  On the one hand, her body was more relaxed than it had been in years. On the other hand, her mind was full of guilt and self-recrimination. Nana’s dining room table, of all places. And Nana’s foyer! What if a neighbor had come along and peeked through the small fan window at the top of the door? Come to think of it, how could she be sure that nobody had? She’d been facing the stairs, after all…. Lil closed her eyes, which was a dangerous thing to do in the morning rush hour traffic.

  What was she going to say to Dan Granger this morning? “Thanks for the fark lessons, cowboy?”

  And what if Shannon could somehow tell what they’d been up to? Shan was far, far too good at reading body language. Lil shuddered. Then she tried to think of a way to get back at her friend for putting the carrot juice on her desk yesterday morning. The nerve!

  The idea came to her with perfect timing: the local Stop n’ Shop was visible on the right. Lil pulled into the parking lot, hopped out of her Camry and headed for the diet aisle. She came out within two minutes and popped back into the car with a bag of rice cakes.

  Next stop: Krispy Kreme, of course. She got a half dozen fresh doughnuts straight out of the oven and the extra empty box she asked for.

  Then before driving the final mile to the Finesse offices, Lil took the rice cakes out of their bag and placed them into the empty Krispy Kreme box. She covered them with a piece of bakery tissue so the deception wouldn’t be discovered until Shan actually opened the box, slavering with anticipation. Mwah ha ha ha…

  Then she called Jane on her cell phone and filled her in so she wouldn’t spoil the ugly surprise. “I’ll have the real ones in my office,” she said. “In a file drawer.”

  Dan had once again beaten her to Finesse. Lil parked beside his Mustang and told the little butterflies in her stomach to fly away. She smoothed her hair and checked her lipstick. Excellent. No signs of last night’s shameless hussy who’d spread her legs on the dining room table. Ugh. Had she really done that?

  A most unladylike grin commandeered her mouth and flashed into the rear view mirror. Yes, indeed she had. And oh, what a ride!

  Stop it. Lil ripped the uncharacteristic, renegade leer off her face and got out of the car with her two boxes and elegant handbag. She approached the glass door carefully today, her knee still bruised from Granger’s attempt at chivalry yesterday morning.

  There was no need for her caution: he sprawled, gently snoring, on the camel-backed reproduction sofa in the reception area, the flowered upholstery incongruous with his Western wear. He opened his eyes and yawned as she came in the door. A smile spread across his face. “Mornin’, Lil. Sleep well?” And Dan winked.

  A hot blush suffused her face as he zeroed in on the Krispy Kreme boxes and sat bolt upright. “Here,” she said, “take this one back to my office. Ignore the one I’m putting in the kitchenette, okay? It’s not what it seems.”

  He cocked his head at her and took the box. “Hmmmm. Okay. You gonna explain over coffee?”

  She nodded.

  He headed down the hall with the real doughnuts, and she took the ringers to the little kitchen, setting them on the counter. She poured two cups of coffee and followed him, waving “hi” to Jane as she passed her friend’s office. Jane was on the phone but waggled her fingers at her.

  Dan looked up as Lilia entered. “So what’s in the other box, Lil?”

  She smiled evilly. “Rice cakes. Payback to Shannon for the carrot juice yesterday.”

  “Yeah, what was that all about?” He looked intrigued.

  “Oh. Nothing. She just knows that I, um, hate it. So did you sleep well, Dan?” She blinked, all innocence, and set his coffee in front of him on the desk.


  He nodded his thanks and grabbed a doughnut. “Mmm,” he said, and to her discomfort, he licked at the glossy, wet sugar on the pastry without biting it. Then he circled the inner hole with the tip of his tongue, stabbing it through a couple of times.

  “Stop that!” she hissed. “You’re disgusting. And my partner is across the hall.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled devilishly and he showed no sign of remorse. He took a big bite of the doughnut and groaned. Once he’d swallowed it, he said, “I had a wonderful time last night, Miz Lil. Thank you for everything. Dessert was beyond incredible.”

  Lil heard papers rustling in Jane’s office. “It was my grandmother’s recipe,” she said a shade too loudly.

  “Oh, I seriously doubt that.” He smiled.

  She squinted at him in what she hoped was a menacing manner, and looked at the clock. “Bring that doughnut and your coffee with you. We’ve got an appointment with Jean Pierre this morning.”

  His smug smile disappeared. “And who, exactly, is Jean Pierre?”

  “Jean Pierre’s going to teach you some ballroom dancing.” Lil picked up her own coffee and her keys while her client grimaced, trying to talk herself out of the calories in a doughnut. Useless. Why try? She fished one out of the box, offered Dan another, and took the remaining three in to Jane, who stuck them in her bottom drawer.

  Then they headed for Jean Pierre and his business, DanceMaestro, in the picturesque little town of West Hartford.

  A Parisian transplant, Jean Pierre La Croix had relocated to Connecticut to join the love of his life, Simon James, who owned the catering business that Lil had gotten the food from last night.

  Jean Pierre’s dance studio was located in one of the few modern buildings close to West Hartford town center, and he had a passion for all things art nouveau and art deco. The place was smothered in Erte prints, Tiffany glass and modern rugs modeled on Gustav Klimt paintings. Lil found it a bit much, and never failed to laugh at the horrendous painting by Simon which featured Jean Pierre’s face on the body of a sleekly draped 1920’s woman in black. She/he gazed coyly out from a red background, with cupid’s bow lips and pin curls to die for.

  Jean Pierre, when not modeling in dresses for paintings, looked like a peaked version of Clark Gable and stroked his waxed mustache a lot.

  “Bonjour, Leelia!” he exclaimed when they walked in. He sprang out of his chair and kissed her on both cheeks while Dan gazed around the office space in bemusement.

  “Bonjour, Jean. Comment allez-vous?”

  “Très bien, ma cherie. Et vous?”

  “Bien, merci.”

  “And you have brought wees you J.R. Ewing, yes? From Dallas?” He inspected Dan from head to toe, his mustache quivering like an inquisitive mouse’s whiskers.

  “Haaaaaaa,” said Dan, looking unamused.

  “‘Allo, allo! Baaht, where are your spurs?” Jean Pierre threw up his hands and looked at Lilia. “You want I should teach zis man ze waltz? He is more for, how you say? Ze sheet-keeker dance.”

  Dan’s expression got darker. “You callin’ me a shit-kicker, you little frog?”

  “Oui, ze keeking of ze merde! Ze, ah, Cotton-Eyed Jean? Line dance?”

  Lil intervened. “Dan, he is fascinated by Texas culture—”

  Granger stared down from his superior height at the little Frenchman. “Cotton-eyed Joe, froggy.”

  “Yes! Yes!” Jean stuck out his arms and embraced two imaginary friends on either side of him. Then he began to hum and skip, doing some Western abomination of the cancan. “Yee ha, la la la!”

  Dan burst out laughing, to Lil’s relief. “Where the hell did you find this idi—uh, guy?”

  “Yee ha, la la la!” Jean Pierre galloped around the room in a circle.

  “By reputation. He’s very good.”

  “Not at line-dancing, he ain’t.” Dan shook his head.

  “Try to remember to say ‘isn’t.’”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Well, if he’s so bad, why don’t you show him how it’s done?” Lilia challenged Dan.

  His response was a snort. “Are you kiddin’? I’m not snugglin’ up with that guy.”

  “Then how on earth do you think he’s going to teach you to waltz or to fox-trot? You’ll be holding hands with him soon enough.”

  Dan looked horrified.

  Jean Pierre completed his circle of the room and clapped for himself. “Oui! C’est bien!”

  “C’est sucked,” muttered Dan under his breath.

  Lilia ignored him and turned to Jean-Pierre. “Dan will be attending a formal English wedding, Jean, and—”

  “Pah!” Jean Pierre spat. “Ze English.”

  Dan brightened. “You don’t like ’em, either, eh?”

  Jean rolled his Gallic eyes. “Zey are smug, zey are fat, zey are repressed. And ze English food! Pah! Horrible!”

  “I’m changin’ my mind about you, Froggy. I think we might get along.”

  “Now, gentlemen,” said Lil. “I have wonderful English friends. These are gross generalizations and you should not take them to heart.”

  Dan snorted. “You ever need a reason to hate the English, I’ll introduce you to Lovely Sodding Nigel, my stepfather. You’ll be rushing to generalize in no time, I promise.”

  “As I was saying—” Lil ignored him and turned to Jean “—Dan needs to learn some basic ballroom steps. He should be smooth and not step on any toes. He needs to be able to lead a lady confidently, in front of a crowd. I imagine he’ll be dancing with his sister, the bride.”

  Jean pursed his lips and walked around Dan as if he were a 4-H prize goat. “Oui. You will get J.R. some, ah, choes? Ze sheet-keekers, non. Not so good for dancing.”

  “Boots are fan-friggin’-tastic for dancin’, froggy.”

  “You vil not call me zis ‘froggy.’”

  “Then you vil not call me J.R. Got it?”

  The two men eyed each other appraisingly. “C’est bien,” declared Jean Pierre. He leaped toward Dan and grabbed his hand. Then he clasped him around the waist and pulled him close. Dan stiffened like a maiden broomstick.

  To Lilia, Jean said, “Be still mine heart. He ees ’ot, he ees buff. If I were not spoken for, and eef he did not wear so ’orrible a belt, I would ’ave him. Oh, yes, indeed.”

  “The hell you would!” Dan growled and sent him flying. Luckily for Jean Pierre, he was agile and so he didn’t crash into the wall.

  “What is meaning of zis? Brute!”

  “I’m not touching that guy,” Granger said to Lil.

  “Dan, he’s harmless!”

  “Zis J.R., he ees violent, Leelia!”

  “Jean, behave. You did provoke him.”

  “He ees not…gay?”

  “No, he is not!” Dan thundered.

  Lilia rushed to explain. “Listen, Dan, in Paris it’s really only the gay men who work out, who have muscle like you. He just assumed—”

  “Last time I checked, we were not in friggin’ Paris!”

  “Everyone, calm down. We are here for a simple dancing lesson. Nothing more, nothing less. Now, can we get on with things, gentlemen?”

  “I am not gettin’ snuggly with that man,” Dan said.

  Lilia threw up her hands. “Fine. Then I’ll dance with you. Jean will direct us both. All right?”

  Some of Dan’s anger dissipated and a gleam appeared in his eye. “Now that,” he said, “works real well for me.” He walked over to her, took her hand and pulled her against him, glaring at Jean.

  His big silver belt buckle was cold through her blouse, but Lil’s stomach flipped and the butterflies returned. Little electric shocks zipped through her body.

  Dan made a very male sound of satisfaction.

  Jean Pierre sighed and pulled at his waxed mustache. “Quel tragedie. No, Beeg Tex is not gay. Alors, we waltz.”

  10

  AS THEY LEFT the dance studio, Dan congratulated himself on not having punted the little frog through h
is fussy stained-glass window and into Main Street traffic below.

  “See, that wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Miz Lilia said to him as he opened the passenger door of the Mustang for her.

  He snorted.

  “That’s not the sort of noise a gentleman makes, Dan. The polite response is, ‘no, not at all.’ Graceful and noncommittal.”

  “And another whopper! That man touched me, Lilia.”

  “Oh, please. He hardly had a chance to bounce off your belt buckle before you tossed him into the wall! Which, by the way, is not at all polite, either.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “And he apologized before we left.”

  Dan snorted again. “The man was staring at my crotch when he said ‘no, ah, hard feelinks, eh?’ You call that an apology?”

  Lil pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “He was mourning.”

  Dan stared at her incredulously before speeding out of the parking lot. “Miz Lil, you are not as innocent as you let on, and I ain’t goin’ back there.”

  She sighed. “Unfortunately I am, and you are. Going back there,” she clarified. “You have to learn to dance, Dan.”

  His jaw worked. Then he shot her a sideways, calculating glance. “I’ll go back there if you’ll spend the night with me.”

  “Dan!”

  “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll think about it. Now, take a left at the next street. We’re going to see Enrique for your haircut at eleven.”

  Dan frowned at the car’s digital clock. “It’s eleven-fifteen.”

  “Enrique’s always late. He’s an artiste and cannot be rushed.”

  Dan groaned. “Oh, no. What are you going to put me through now?”

  “Enrique is marvelous.”

  “Uh-huh. Does Marvelous Enrique lead an alternative lifestyle, too?”

  “Enrique is married with three beautiful children. Don’t stereotype, Dan. It’s rude and displays a narrow mind.”