They looked at each other and then looked at the ring, as caught up in the unfolding story as any fan.
Anne stood there, dazed by bombarding emotions. The arena became a blur of faces, of signs, of sounds. She could only stand there, just stand there, until Joey suddenly and miraculously sprang to life. He bustled her out the ring.
"Are you all right?" Anne asked, breathless, when they had reached the safety of the pressroom. She padded him down, checking for broken bones. "I was..."
"What were you doing, you dumb broad?" Joey spoke in a nasty hiss.
She shook her head. She had saved his life. She expected thanks, not insults.
"I should call security," Joey said. "Stupid, dumb-ass broad. I hate groupies."
He turned to walk away.
"What!" Anne had never been called stupid in her life. Boring. Yes. Stupid. No.
She ran after him and, tugging on his arm, pulled Joey Flex around to face her.
"I'm sorry. I was trying to help..."
He stopped dead. He looked her up and down to snort.
"You thought it was real? This is sports entertainment. It's fake. Got that? Fake!"
At his words, Anne's eyes widened and her body recoiled from the shock.
"Dumb broad doesn't know when something's fake."
Chapter 4
In the messy disarray of her sister's studio apartment, Anne folded Angel's skirt and top into a neat pile. She placed the clothing on the nearby table and then looked around the room. Her eyes stared at the wall for a long moment while she fought back hot, angry tears.
What a fool I made of myself in front of millions of people. I should have never let Angel talk me into it. I should have stayed where I belong, where I fit in.
If she had stayed in her world, then she would have never met him. She would have never experienced his kisses, felt his body pressed against hers. She would have never known passion. Maybe it would have been better that way. Now. Now! How could she live the rest of her life knowing what she had missed?
Pushing aside a jumble of newspapers, condom foils, and pizza boxes, she placed her carefully edited notes from the Valkon interview on top of the clothing. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote a short note.
At the apartment door, she picked up her briefcase and threw her suit jacket over her arm. She opened the door to come face-to-face with one very angry man.
Valkon of Aesir.
"Okay, Angel," Valkon said. "Spill it. What did you mean by pulling that stunt?"
To Anne, he was Osiris in the warm, desirable flesh of a man. The look on his face-like a visit from that ancient god of the underworld-would have made a weaker woman quail. But Anne was too embarrassed to quail. Sports entertainment indeed!
She sought to intimidate, raising herself to her full height-5'3" in her stocking feet. She looked up, past a barreled chest, past muscular shoulders, past a razor sharp jaw to finally see his face. She tilted her head back and met his gaze.
His eyes were an even darker blue than she remembered, a midnight azure, like the sparkling of the Blue Nile. His eyes did not have that tranquility, however. Instead, they spat a fire hotter than the sands of the Sahara.
A pain shooting up her arm broke off her thoughts. He had captured her wrist.
"Let go of me," she said, giving him a withering look. She affected her best professor's demeanor, the demeanor that she used when dressing down a student.
"Tell me what you are up to. I'm betting a scoop for your newspaper. Right? If you wanted an exclusive, Angel, you could have..."
His accusation trailed off. He stopped to look at, really look at, her.
"You're not Angel," he said.
In the excitement of the ring, he had failed to notice the subtle differences. This woman looked like Angel, like a minted duplicate. The hair coloring was the same tawny shade. The facial structure was the same too, the delicate fineness of white porcelain. The eyes that looked back at him were the same, dark, smoky brown. Nevertheless, she was not Angel. Of that, he was certain. This woman was different. There was a certain sweetness about her face, especially in the curve of her jaw and in the upturned corners of her mouth. And where Angel's eyes were bold and brazen, almost greedy, her eyes held intelligence and a tantalizing mystery.
"No, I'm her sister, Anne, Anne Seymour. Sorry about what happened. I... I... I'm ignorant sometimes." She hung her head. "I didn't know that it was all fake."
"What?" Valkon said, frowning.
She rushed on, her words clipped. "I was covering for my sister." She slid towards the open door, wanting to close it in his face before his mind took it all in, before he knew the entire truth and figured it all out: that it was she, not Angel, who had engaged in that sexual exhibition with him. "I had to cover for her. I'd never been to an event like that. You see, I didn't know that it was fake."
She shut the door, or tried to shut it. She glimpsed a bulging forearm, then well-developed biceps reaching around. With a push and a nimble two-step, he was in the apartment. No, he took up the apartment. Anne, who had excavated in the near-airless tombs of the pharaohs, felt smothered by his largeness.
"We have a situation here," he said, "which you created, intentionally or not."
"Situation? Look Mr. Valkon, I said I was sorry. It seems to me that..."
"You really don't know, do you?" He read the puzzlement in her face. "It's all over the Internet. It's the lead item on the TV spots. Even the mags and the cable shows have picked it up. My God! Everyone thinks that Valkon of Aesir has turned wuss."
He let out an exasperated moan.
"Woman, you have emasculated the IWC champion."
Chapter 5
Anne surveyed her surroundings with interest. The Rittenhouse Square restaurant was cozy, quiet, and exclusive. Weston Myckale-Valkon had told her his real name on the drive over-must come here often. Rather, he was probably recognized as a celebrity. The pretentious maître d' had seated them at once, waving them past a long line of elegantly clad diners. In the twinkle of an eye, they had been escorted to a secluded table in a corner of the restaurant.
She fingered the oversized menu. Weston had mentioned a plan for what he called 'the restoration of Valkon's machismo'. She wanted no part of any more schemes. If Weston's-Valkon's-machismo needed restoring, he would have to do it without her help.
The wine steward, the accouterment of his profession hanging from a wide ribbon around his neck, rushed to their table. With an extravagant flourish, he presented Weston with an engraved wine list. Anne pressed her lips together. She studied Weston while he reviewed the selection.
Poor man, she thought. He probably has difficulty reading English, let alone a wine list.
She was proven wrong when Weston ordered in fluent, faultless French. He passed the list back to the steward with a smile of thanks.
"As always, Monsieur Myckale's choice is distingué." The steward beamed his approval, before bowing off.
"Mr. Myckale, about this plan," Anne began, needing to address the subject at hand. She was learning too many intriguing facts about this man. Like he could speak French. Like the melodic inflection of his voice when he spoke in French. Like the way his golden blonde ponytail danced about his sinewy nape. She wanted to learn more. Like whether he spoke French in the heat of passion. Like whether his golden blonde hair would tickle when he...
"Call me Wes."
"Huh?" Anne said, fascinated by his lips. They were just ordinary lips, she scolded herself. But the way his lips sucked that oyster from its half-shelf. His technique! The comparison brought warmth to her face. She resisted the urge to fan herself, wishing that she could turn up the air-conditioning or turn down the heat. Strange, she was both hot and cold.
"Call me Wes. There's no need to be formal. We've been pretty intimate."
Her temperature shot up at his pointed reference to their kiss. She hoped that her face did not reveal her turmoil. She gave a silent thanks to the Nile gods, when a waite
r appeared with an assortment of breads. To hide her confusion, she dallied over the selection.
*
She really is a flustered little lady and so tiny, Wes thought. He was not usually attracted to petite women. He went for the tall, statuesque type to complement his build. But there was something special about her size. It made him feel protective. He wanted to carry her around in his pocket like his private sex toy.
His prick stirred and rose. He shifted, uncomfortable.
Down, man! Down!
Damn! He had never wanted a woman this badly or this strongly. He had always been able to restrain himself. Now, he was like a randy buck, craving it and out of control for it. He wanted to sweep everything off the table. Scatter dishes, plates, glasses with a stroke of his arm, clearing a place for him to take her. He wanted to pull her out of that overstuffed chair and onto the table. He wanted to flop her onto her belly, his hand planted firmly in the hollow of her back. He wanted to lift up her skirt, peel down her panties. Her sweet, plump ass would be bare, exposed to his desire. She would be at his command. He would raise her high, stretching apart her legs. He would insert his hand, cupping her, bringing forth her juices to run down her legs.
He crushed the nectarine in his hand. The fruit juice ran through his finger, wetting his pants.
He cursed, dabbing with his napkin. The last thing that he wanted to do was scare her with his passion. Seduction had to be done right, with first things first. He had to court her, win her, and then bed her.
"Are you in communications, too?" he asked to distract himself.
Anne had been asked that question so many times. For once, she wished that someone would ask her, "Is Angel an archeologist like you?" She reined in her irritation, not wanting to alienate him until she found out about the plan.
"No. I'm an Egyptologist," Anne said with a smile.
"Really," he said, showing interest. A cleverly posed question here and there was all that it took to put her at ease. He sat back in his chair, enjoying her animation, enjoying the way her hand fluttered as she emphasized her point, enjoying just looking at her. Her half-glasses were perched on her pixyish nose. With her short, curly brown hair and her petite daintiness, he felt as if a Lilliputian had pranced into his world.
"...and, of course, the 1995 find is a treasure trove," Anne gushed. "I suspect that it is the burial site for some of Ramesses' children. Probably not all of them. He fathered 162 children, 52 sons. History does not acknowledge him as the greatest of the ancient rulers without cause."
"One hundred and sixty-two children." Wes nodded. "That's a lot of sex."
"Uh-huh. But he had eight wives, not including concubines. If you think about it and do the math..." She stopped, perplexed. How did they get on the subject of sex? And how had he drawn her out? She was usually reserved. With Wes, her tongue had been running on wheels. She changed the subject.
"That's enough about me. What are your interests?"
"I have a passion." He paused over the last word. "A passion for philately."
"Stamp collecting!" She could not imagine him pouring over albums of stamps, magnifying glass in hand, giddy over a rare specimen.
He read the skepticism on her face. He pushed aside his entrée to spread his hands on the table.
"I am nothing like Valkon of Aesir. He is a persona, part of my job. Valkon is arrogant, egotistical, a cocky S-O-B. I'm nothing like Valkon and he's nothing like me."
She had to ask.
"How does one become a sports entertainer?"
"Lot of ways. For me, weight training, body building, fencing. I met some guys in the biz at Gold's Gym, and it all sort of fell into place."
"Valkon fences? Did you ever live in France?" she asked, still confused by his unusual, dual lifestyle.
"Valkon wouldn't know an appuntata from a passate sotto. I do. And, yeah, I lived in Caen for two years after I graduated from UCLA."
The waiter returned to place the dessert, a flaming compote, in the center of the table. Looking at it, Anne's heart dropped at the realization that her time with this intriguing man had ended. He seemed to read her thoughts.
"We need to deal with the media fallout," he said.
"Ah. Yes. Valkon's emasculation," Anne said, laughing softly.
"You don't realize it, but you put on quite a show. You're an overnight hit. And no, this isn't going to blow over," he said, anticipating her response. Lucky for you, I have a way out."
"If your way out involves me..."
"Actually, it doesn't. It involves your sister since she got you into this mess."
Of course, it doesn't involve me, Anne thought. When will I learn? If this gorgeous hunk of a man had the opportunity to be with one of the Seymour twins, he wouldn't pick me.
"Tell your sister to show up for Backfire this Sunday. I'll have it all arranged. She'll slap Valkon. Valkon will take her down with the Thunderlock. We'll choreograph it, practice a few times before broadcast. That should silence the fans and the critics."
"Take her down with the Thunderlock," Anne said, concern creasing her brow. "Th ... that ... that sounds dangerous."
"Don't worry. I'll stabilize her back through the somersault, all the way down."
Anne was not so sure, but held her tongue. "Angel will love it, but..."
"She'll be fine."
Wes gave her a rakish wink. A little of Valkon peeped out.
"I stabilize my woman when she's on top, especially when she goes down."
Chapter 6
For days thereafter, the feel of Weston's kisses lingered on Anne's lips.
After dinner, he had driven her home. They had accomplished the drive to her rustic farmhouse in Blue Bell in companionable silence. Wes had tooled the car through the winding, twisty roads, and Anne had followed the movement of his hands on the steering wheel with fascinated eyes.
Some men are better at handling the steering wheel than others. Wes had elevated steering to an art-form. His large, beautiful hand spread over the center of the wheel. He had turned it effortlessly, the big black Lexus responding to his every movement as if there was a mating of man and machine.
She had imagined the circular movement on her back-right before he pulled her into the grand finale kiss. They would have just finished making love. The bed-sheets would have fallen in disarray to his waist, concealing his flaccid manhood. His chest would be sweaty; a rivulet would run down to tease his nipple, making it hard and firm. She would climb on him like a seductive snake. Her breasts would jiggle ever so slightly with each movement. He would take one breast in his mouth, sucking, as he pulled her close, with that circular rhythm, his hand sprawled across her back. They would be a tangle of legs and limbs as they fell asleep in each other arms.
Her eyelashes had felt like lead. Somewhere in the distance, an owl had hooted. She had listened to the sound until it had faded. Her eyelids had fluttered, fluttering again, and had then closed.
Anne was jarred from her daydream by Mrs. Z's familiar huff-puffing at the door. Anne smiled when Mrs. Z managed to maneuver her largeness through the narrow space. Mrs. Zsarnovszki, fondly know as Mrs. Z, was a determined woman. Nothing stopped her from reaching the top step of the steep stairs to Anne's attic apartment. Nothing stopped her, period. Whether it was turning out the best baked breads and pies on this side of the Susquehanna River or surviving the Nazi death camp at Auschwitz.
"Childie," she said between gasps, "those steps get worse every day. Can't you put some of that book learning to good use? Build me a slide like you showed me in one of those pyramids."
"Mrs. Z, I wish you wouldn't take those stairs."
Anne braced herself when the old lady lumbered into her arms and supported her to the nearest chair. Mrs. Z collapsed into it, adjusting her overhang with a loud whizzing sound.
"Let me catch my breath." She smelled of fresh baked cookies and jelly donuts. There was a smidgen of flour on her ample cheek. "I'd come up those stairs a thousand times to find out what yo
u're going to do." She fanned herself with her copious, white apron. The smell of cookies and donuts grew stronger.
"I know, but I wish you wouldn't," Anne said.
"Imagine you and Valkon going to dinner together."
"So we could make plans."
"And on television too."
"Even my students saw it. Thank God, people thought that it was Angel."
"I take it that she's loving the attention."
"Hmmm. I guess so. I haven't spoken to her."
"You haven't." Mrs. Z watched Anne out of sly, knowing eyes. "I saw it all on a rebroadcast, on that cable show. How many times did he kiss you?"
"I don't know. I lost count. Mrs. Z!"
The old lady's mind was like a steel trap, and Anne moaned at how easily she been tricked.
"I never want to see him again." She folded her arms across her chest. "I'm not pretending to be Angel tonight."
After brooding-Mrs. Z had called it sulking-all week long, Anne had finally disclosed Wes' plan to her. Mrs. Z had liked it, with one change. That Anne take her sister's place.
"Oi, childie. Why not?"
"Because it's wrong. It's deceitful. It's ... it's ... it's..." Anne faltered under Mrs. Z's watchful glare. "Besides, it wouldn't work."
"Then why haven't you told your sister?"
"I honestly don't know. I did try, but... No good can come from tricks," Anne said, as if she were quoting one of the Ten Commandments. "Wes is a nice man. He doesn't deserve to be deceived."
Anne meant that. Wes was a gem. He was so sweet on the drive home, smoothing over her embarrassment about falling asleep, escorting her to her doorstep with old-world courtesy. He had even kissed her, French fashion, on both cheeks.
Mrs. Z said nothing, biding her time. Like a skilled general, she knew when to attack and when to retreat. She watched as Anne paced across the wood floor.
The silence grew until Anne broke it.
"He wants Angel, not me," Anne said.
"He wants somebody, a pretty thing, to play this character. You can do that as well as your sister. Better even. Didn't he say that you did a good job before, that you were an overnight sensation?"
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