Then again, she’d never know anything more about Darin Russell, party-pooping graveyard keeper. It would mean admitting she was too chicken to actually go on a blind date. Bradleys were not known for freaking out. No siree. Bradleys had extra strong backbones and tons of courage most of the time. Her dad was a judge, for heaven’s sake!
The cab driver was eyeing her in the rearview mirror when Barbie looked up. His look said, Time to blank or get off the blank.
She dug into her purse and offered the cab driver a twenty-dollar bill. He promptly shook his spiky-haired head, declining her fare. “Been paid by the gentleman,” he said, as if that were the way cab drivers usually spoke: nice, polite, and explanatory. He had a slight British accent.
The cabbie waited in his seat as she climbed out of his car, not exiting to open her door, then drove off. This left Barbie on the sidewalk, money still in her hand.
“The gentleman?” she echoed, fingering the bill. “The gentleman paid?”
The cab gone, a chill wafted up Barbie’s bare legs all the way under her barely there skirt. She shivered and straightened on her heels. With one tug at her ice blue silk jacket (another extravagant purchase, like the outfit last night, and just as worth it) and another slight tug at her form-fitting black skirt (slightly tighter for all the cookie-gulping), she inhaled deeply, able to focus more closely on her exotic surroundings.
Relief flooded in. Plenty of people were milling about, some of them rushing here and there on the sidewalk, some waiting to go inside the restaurant. Many couples of all sizes, shapes, and ages stood by the door. Relatively normal-looking people in nice clothes. This seemed to Barbie a good thing, and satisfied Requirement One for a blind date quite nicely: crowds.
She tucked the twenty into her sequined bag and snapped it shut, mentally dissecting the taxi incident. If Darin had paid for the cab, sent it to wait near her apartment, he knew where she lived. Since she’d had only a single conversation with him by phone without any mention of her address, he had to have found another means of information. Which inspired the question, Was this creepy or acceptable?
Reminder in need of attention: I haven’t yet purchased that Texas-sized security bolt.
Assuring herself of the presence of her cell phone by squeezing her bag, Barbie brushed off her lingering anxiety and muttered a personal challenge. “Remember, Bradley, this isn’t marriage, it’s a date. In a public place. You’re being adventurous, like you promised at New Year’s. You’re Adventure Barbie, and that’s all there is to it.”
Suddenly she felt better, and curiously upbeat. With an unconscious calming gesture, she smoothed her skirt a second time and patted her hair. “Let’s get on with it.”
She took a bold first step, head up, shoulders back. . .then hesitated, nearly tripping on her own foot. Some of the people in the doorway had moved aside. A man appeared beneath the garlands and the carved sign, as yet hazy in the shadows of the doorway. The man said, “Barbie, I presume?”
Courage fled—pfft, right out the window. Barbie’s knees wobbled like a big chicken’s might if confronted with a Zacky Farms truck. Shivers piggybacked up and down her bare legs. Talk about an awkward moment. She was experiencing hormonal whiplash!
She had to say something, had to respond. Etiquette demanded it. First, though, she leaned slightly on one hip to better show off her not-skinny knees, and swallowed to level her voice.
“Darin?” Her voice sounded fine. She squinted, trying to see past the shadows.
“In the flesh,” the man replied.
There he was, tucked beneath the overhang: Graveyard Guy. And good lord, he was gorgeous.
No, he wasn’t just gorgeous. He was closer to extraordinary. Super extraordinary. He hadn’t been kidding when he said he had looks enough for the both of them. Barbie’s lips moved before her brain could filter the oath. “Shit.”
Darin Russell was a frigging dream come true. He was as tall as she’d imagined—at least six-two—with a lithe body, broad shoulders, and legs that didn’t end. Darin Russell oozed sex. He wore his hair long, about an inch or so longer than hers, so that it covered his collar. Dark, straight, and sleek. Dark as in almost black. Sleek as in. . .damn him! That shiny black mass swung, seemingly in slow motion, stirred by a breeze. Barbie’s friend Angie might have fallen off her chair and thanked the gods of beauty had she been there, for before Barbie stood a man with a mane, a regal stallion of a man who looked a little like a throwback to some old-world haunt. A Scottish castle, maybe. He should have been wearing a kilt.
Correction. Angie would have fainted dead away. Barbie herself was close to doing the same thing.
“Your ride okay?” Darin asked, waiting beneath the roof overhang, allowing Barbie a few more seconds to gawk.
Barbie nodded, not quite ready for speech. Her mental inventory was ringing up a preposterous number of visual pluses. His chiseled features were aristocratic. The high cheekbones, whittled chin, tanned skin, and exquisitely shapely patrician nose were painfully beautiful. His dark suit jacket, no doubt terribly expensive, hung perfectly on his frame, and was buttoned over a soft white shirt.
Was there more to admire? Maybe so, but she had to stop there; he was two feet away with his dark, perfect eyebrows arched. Barbie wanted to run right home and pluck hers.
“Barbie?” he repeated with a grin.
She smiled as she met Darin’s eyes, which were either hazel or dark green. It was hard to tell the exact color in the dark, especially with all the noises in her ears. Hubba-hubba would have been the verbal translation of those noises. Or maybe, My place or yours?
Darin wore a grin that was packed with charm. His eyes were bright. Did he know the effect he had on women? He seemed very much at ease. Barbie herself felt tongue-tied.
“Darin? As in not-Bobby?” she said, sounding, she hoped, pretty much in control of her lust.
When he nodded, her confidence rose to a manageable level. . .then immediately melted. Darin’s grin had become a full-fledged smile, changing his face from charming to disarming. There were perfect white teeth between sculpted lips, lips that had brushed hers the night before. Lips that had whispered into her ear and through the phone. And there actually were small laugh lines around his long-lashed eyes!
Oh boy. Try as she might, Barbie just couldn’t stop her male-beauty inventory. She couldn’t stop picturing this guy in the Highlands, in his castle, with very few clothes on. Lord Darin What ever, with Barbie herself as mistress of his keep.
The air around her went warm and fuzzy. Her insides heated up. She needed something to suck on, quick. Oh, geez, she told herself. Like an ice cube!
Chimes rang inside of her head. What seemed like hours of walking to reach Darin must have been seconds, really. At a loss regarding what else to do, Barbie took a death grip on her purse. What she really wanted was to reach out and touch this stallion. This Braveheart! This heartthrob! She felt quite giddy, forgetting how to breathe as he drew her to him by merely nodding his glorious head. Lustrous black hair fell around his face. Her knees closed with an involuntary movement. Snap. She was sure her face reddened, sure he had noticed. His eyes were dancing merrily.
“Lovely,” he said in that. . .that voice.
“You, too,” Barbie heard herself say. So true. Darin’s terrific smile seemed to shine for no one but her. She glanced around to make certain. Yep. For her. It seemed as if a big light had appeared from the sky to descend over the area, highlighting only the two of them. The other people surrounding the restaurant faded away. There were now only two people, Barbie and Darin. One named after the doll, one after the singer. Man and woman. Male and female.
Was it hot here, or what?
Of course, the searchlight wasn’t real. The light was behind them, coming from the moon, big and bright and dripping silver on the sidewalk. She and Darin were in actuality standing beneath the giant roof overhang of a Gypsy restaurant, blocking a busy doorway, concluding a first introduction. It would do her
good to remember that.
Barbie gave her head a little toss. She licked her lips to make sure there was no goofy expression on her face. Chaperone? Hell, she was going to need a bodyguard.
Better yet, considering Braveheart here, a chastity belt.
Chapter Twelve
“Not a disappointment?” Darin asked as she approached him.
“Not completely,” Barbie returned.
Her companion’s expressive eyebrows arched in question.
“You’re much too perfect to be looking for dates,” Barbie said. “What’s the catch?”
“I think I’ll tell you about the catch later. Right now, I’d rather put my best foot forward, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Barbie gave Darin another curious once-over. Finding this guy’s flaw, assuming there was one, took on a certain rabid importance. There had to be something she could pick on or be critical of. There just had to be. If not, if his virtues kept piling up, it would be difficult to keep from feeling inferior.
“Thanks for the ride,” she remarked, hoping to pry loose some information on how he’d gotten her address.
He simply smiled that disarming smile. “It’s the least I could do. You did agree to meet a complete stranger. And I did the asking.”
“Yes, well,” Barbie admitted, “I might have to take back what I said about your lack of civility. Good thing I’m not proud.”
“Are you shivering?”
She nodded. “Blood-sugar drop.”
More like panty drop, Barbie admitted to herself. Or the anticipation of one. Of course, she wasn’t going to have that. Not to night. Remember that resolve!
“Food will cure you,” Darin suggested. “Food in abundance.”
The next thing she knew, Barbie was curled up against him. God, where was her self-control? How had she gotten there, hugging him? Some kind of brain stall? Her hips were pressed lightly, though not too suggestively, against his. Her dreams had come to life in the doorway of. . .the Den of Iniquity. How apropos.
Barbie tipped her chin downward to make absolutely certain Darin wasn’t wearing a kilt. Nope, no kilt. But that meant . . . Oh, God. Yes, this was reality. It was not a dream.
Darin’s lips, when she glanced back up, were barely inches from hers. Barely. And they were sort of hovering, turned up at the edges. What was he smiling about, exactly?
“This is a restaurant, isn’t it?” she asked.
“What else could it be?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “A bordello?”
Darin chuckled and backed up to gesture her inside. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
However, Barbie noted, those weren’t hunger sounds in her stomach she was hearing now; they were wailing sirens. . .in her head. On top of all the bell-ringing and chiming, this guy was tripping all her warning signals. Too perfect, her mind was crying. Too frigging perfect. There had to be a hitch. Like, he was an actor in town visiting and having the time of his life bursting hearts right and left. A male model doing the same. A government experiment in the latest Bond-type spy guy, doing his training here.
Was he faster than a speeding bullet? Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Or possibly he was a homicidal maniac with a million-dollar smile.
“Come inside,” Darin said.
“Lead the way.”
Darin shook his head, tossing that mane of glorious black hair with a stallionlike gesture, and said simply, “Shall we go in together?”
The man, in this day and age, was a gentleman.
Side by side they turned to enter the restaurant. Together, like young sweethearts moving in time to the sound of the drums originating somewhere deep inside of Barbie’s body. And what did the drums say? Barbie Bradley, you might actually, really, truly have a fairy godmother after all.
Yay.
Inside was a blur. How could Barbie possibly glean any details, when Darin’s fingers had closed over hers, electrifying her nerves? She absently took in dark corners, randomly placed lights with stained-glass shades, candles aglow on tablecloths of tapestry and lace, tables that were all occupied, except for one. Without a host or maître d’, Darin ushered her to that unoccupied corner deep inside the place, far from the door, and pulled out her chair. He waited for her to sit, then pushed it in. Gentleman to the max.
Long-stemmed crystal glasses sparkled on the lace tablecloth like stars fallen to earth. Each table had its own light, all of them looking like little islands of illumination on a darkened sea.
The ceiling was low and dark stained, truly cavelike, providing a warm, muted canopy to a place as romantic as all get-out. Soft violin music drifted from somewhere unseen. Before Barbie could whisper her approval, a server appeared. Male, about thirty-five. He filled her glass with a liquid so deep red it looked to be made of strained rubies. Then he filled Darin’s glass as Darin settled himself opposite her.
A length of ivory lace stretched between them, at least two feet, studded with gold flatware. Barbie was grateful for the distance. Breathing room. She felt the need for some air, and also appreciated the direct approach to further scrutiny of the Russell charms. As it was, the dimness, the candlelight, the violins, and the sparkling crystal, coupled with the hot hunk across from her. . .all pointed with the subtlety of a gigantic neon arrow in the direction—sometime soon, and at the very least, sex.
She’d never had a one-night stand. Not for a lack of guys trying. She’d never met a man she’d wanted to throw caution aside for. Could this Adonis across from her be the one to change all that? All her senses screamed yes.
Barbie waited until she felt confident enough to look Darin in the eyes without hearing distant strains of the “Hallelujah Chorus” before raising her glass. Darin raised his. He placed his lips on the rim of the glass. Barbie did the same, envying Darin’s glass the touch of that remarkable mouth.
The wine not only looked dazzling, it smelled wonderfully exotic. As Darin took a sip, Barbie did also, continuing to eye him over the rim. Liquid rubies. . .yes, she noted happily, her lips stinging from their first encounter with liquid opulence. And Darin hadn’t drooled or anything. No flaw there. Darn.
“You like the wine?” he asked, green eyes hypnotic.
“I’m not exactly a connoisseur,” Barbie confessed. “It’s nice. Smells sweet, like nectar.”
Darin smiled. He really was trying to please her, Barbie decided, quite possibly making up for the sack-of-potatoes business of the night before. She wondered what he’d do if he knew she’d swap every single bottle of ancient wine in the restaurant for one real peek at his pecs, which she already knew were spectacular.
Smiling to herself, Barbie watched Darin take a second sip of wine before she did the same. This time, her taste was a tad larger. The lip sting became a buzz that tickled her tongue and heated her throat.
“It’s hot,” she remarked with an astonished gasp.
“The burn will diminish in a minute. It’s a rare old wine.”
Barbie was having a minor meltdown. Everything the liquid touched burned, and there wasn’t any water in sight.
As if wanting to get in on the meltdown, her shoulders became warm, then her upper back. Barbie’s arms heated, elbow to fingertips. Her cheeks again flushed hot, and most likely a shade of bubble gum pink. Who needed headstands, anyway?
“Truly like drinking fire,” she declared, beaming at Darin, wanting to fan herself with her napkin.
He rewarded her with a conspiratorial smile. “A special wine for a special night.”
Gad. Darin’s smile sent the spreading heat rapidly downward, toward there, the spot he’d reached just by talking to her on the phone. Barbie moved in her chair, repositioning to stop that particular feeling, determined to keep herself in control.
“How old is the wine?” she asked. The words brilliant conversationalist came to mind in relation to her lack of skills in a time of need.
“A hundred years,” Darin replie
d.
“Really?” Barbie swirled the dark red liquid in her glass before taking a third sip. Her teeth were now numb. She coughed and let out a spurt of laughter before admitting, “I like it! I really like it.”
Darin chuckled. “Good. I’ve ordered a light supper. Of course, for this place, light means a feast.”
“A feast is no problem,” Barbie said. Or it wouldn’t have been, except for all those calories consumed the night before.
She looked up to find Darin staring. Squirming beneath his scrutiny she said, “I’m not on the menu, am I?” Man! Had those words come out of her mouth? Barbie touched her fingertips to her lips and applied a little pressure. Both of Darin’s eyebrows arched in question.
“You’re staring,” Barbie explained, marveling over how she could speak when she couldn’t feel her tongue and realizing Darin was likely taking a silent inventory of his own. A good-sized drink of wine was the only way to go. She needed to show him she was no lightweight, and that she wasn’t concerned about what he might be thinking.
Rats! Mistake about the large ingestion of wine. Her fourth sip—a gulp, really—went right to her calves. Her knees appeared to be stuck together.
Giving up on the leg position, Barbie was startled to find Darin sitting beside her when she again glanced up. Right beside her. Truly faster than a speeding bullet. Maybe he had slipped through a ripple in the space-time continuum?
He offered her a bite of something he held in his fingers. She hadn’t even noticed that some of the food had arrived! Not knowing what else to do, she took the offered food between her teeth, nibbled, swallowed. Yum. Nice, chewy, phyllo-covered thing. Artichoke? Spinach? How was she to decide when her heart was hammering? When her legs were glued together? When the handsomest man she had ever seen was feeding her finger food with his own fingers—and she had an urge to lick those fingers clean?
Their eyes locked for a heartbeat or two. Heat singed the air. Darin slid her glass toward her.
“Not hoping to get me drunk, are you?” she asked.
“The thought crossed my mind,” Darin confessed, reaching up to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Although I’m afraid I prefer my women conscious enough to participate fully in what ever we’re doing.”
Barbie & The Beast Page 8
