He cocked his head to one side, considering. “Too big,” he said finally. “I don’t have a lot in your size, munchkin. I have to stock the big sizes because my clientele—”
“Drag queens?”
“Drag queens and straight guys who like to prance around wearing sparkly stuff in the privacy of their homes. They need the big sizes. Big, bigger, biggest. Let’s try black—it’s a little clichéd, but it should be dynamite with your blond hair.”
I tried on a shimmering black silk Valentino with a bowed-out back.
“Not bad,” Magenta said. “Turn around. Ooh, yummy! Maybe we should test-drive it on Labeck.” He cocked his head and eyed my reflection in the pier glass mirror. “So, have you and the Bonaparte—” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Bonaparte?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Magenta chuckled as he adjusted the back of the dress. “Bonaparte Labeck, that’s his real name. He’s Quebecois-Canadian, born up in one of those schizo border towns where everyone grows up speaking French out of one side of their mouths and New England out of the other. He got drunk one night after he broke up with his girlfriend and told me the whole story. I’m a fellow hoser, darlin’—from Saskatoon originally. My driver’s license name is Howard Pfluge. Well, obviously you can see why I prefer Magenta. I crossed over at North Dakota one year and never bothered to go back. I’m an illegal, a snowback, a fugitive from justice. When I got to Milwaukee, I met Boney. He let me crash at his place while I looked for an apartment. I was hoping something interesting might develop between us, he is such a smoldering hunk of Y chromosomes, but unfortunately he’s as straight as a Nebraska highway.”
I checked myself out in the mirror. Going without meals for the past few days had given my face some interesting new hollows. “If I had any guts I’d give myself up right now,” I said. “This whole charade is going to blow up in our faces. You and Labeck will be arrested for aiding a fugitive. Maybe even deported.”
“Negative thinking gives you frown marks, babycakes, so just stop. Let’s focus on more important stuff. Such as, how is the Bonaparte in the sack?” He handed me a silver gown made of stretchy, beaded fabric. Vera Wang.
“He snores.”
“A-a-nd?”
“There is no and.” My face flared as red as the Gaultier gown.
“But you’d like there to be some and happening, wouldn’t you? Don’t fib to your Auntie Magenta.”
I turned my back to let Magenta unzip the black dress. “All right, busted. The guy is so hot he sizzles.”
“Preachin’ to the choir, sweetikins.”
I stepped out of the dress. “When he first kidnapped me—”
“Rescued you.”
“Semantics. Anyway, I thought he was a rapist-serial killer.”
Magenta gave a bark of laughter.
“But he turned out to be a perfect gentleman. He’s never touched me. The first night I stayed at his place, he slept on the sofa, and last night—well, I couldn’t let him sleep there again, so I told him I’d take the sofa. But he said it was stupid not to share the bed, since we were rational adults who’d established a relationship of trust—”
“Blah, blah, blah. I’m disappointed in Boney. There’s a time and place to be a Boy Scout, and it’s not when you and a beautiful woman are in the same bed.”
“No, he’s right. You should know a person before jumping in the sack with him. I don’t know the first thing about Labeck. I didn’t even know his real name until—”
“Listen to yourself! The two of you make me want to scream. You’re like sixth-graders throwing spitballs at each other, both of you afraid to make the first move.”
He stepped into the dressing room with me and helped shoehorn me into the silver dress. “Know what I think, Mazie? I think you’re head over heels for the guy.”
“I think you’ve sniffed too much hair spray.”
“And he’s got it bad for you.”
“Magenta, are you bilingual? Because that’s merde!”
But secretly I hoped Magenta was right. I remembered how sweet it had been waking up this morning to discover Ben’s arms wrapped around me. I’d felt incredibly safe, protected, even cherished. I’d lain there drowsily, enjoying his warmth, softly stroking the hair on his forearms as he slept. That is, until bad girl thoughts began seeping in, and I started thinking about how it would feel to wake Ben up with a kiss and see where things went from there.
But I hadn’t acted on that impulse. I’d slipped out of bed and dressed, giving myself a mental pat on the back for resisting temptation. Once Labeck was up, he’d barely looked at me, just grabbed a Pop-Tart for breakfast and headed out the door.
“I have to talk to my lawyer,” he’d explained, probably glad to have an excuse to get away from me.
Meanwhile, I’d stayed hidden in the apartment, recuperating from my near-death experiences and jumping every time I heard a noise. Finally, late in the afternoon, Magenta had arrived bearing a disguise for me. Camouflaged in a wig and oversized jacket as Riff Raff, the Rocky Horror caretaker, I’d been able to walk the few blocks to Magenta’s Brady Street shop virtually unnoticed.
Magenta had put the Closed sign on his front door so no one would disturb us while he worked his voodoo. Although this was ordinarily his busiest time of day, he’d sacrificed his profits so he could turn me into the kind of femme fatale who could waltz past security without being recognized. The bad guys would be looking for a singed-around-the-edges woman in a baseball jersey, not a glamorpuss in a designer gown. You shall go to the ball, Cinderella.
I finally wriggled into the silver number. “Too tight,” I said, emerging from the dressing room to check myself out in the three-way mirror. “And too low cut.”
Magenta hooted with laughter. “No such thing, darling. It’s perfect. You’ll knock Labeck’s socks off.”
He tugged the neckline still lower. “And hopefully, the rest of his clothes too.”
Escape tip #30:
Blondes really do have more fun.
It was nearly ten that evening before we left Magenta’s shop. I slipped into the godawful Riff Raff costume again and we walked back to Labeck’s place. Magenta gave a complicated series of raps, the secret code he and Labeck had arranged, the idiots.
Labeck opened the door.
Magenta thrust the bright purple shopping bags into his arms. “Handle with care—pricey gear inside. Mazie, show him your hair.”
I pulled off the Riff Raff wig.
“So? What do you think?” Magenta put his hands on his hips, blatantly fishing for compliments.
“Nice. I like it.” Labeck tucked a strand of my newly bleached hair behind my ear. Magenta had trimmed it to even out the sides and now I didn’t feel so lopsided. I wished Labeck wouldn’t stand so close. He pulsed male pheromones the way some men gave off body odor. “But I liked you as a brunette, too,” Labeck added.
“Thanks for everything, Magenta.” Standing on tiptoes, I kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a prince.”
“Or princess.” He bent and whispered in my ear. “Go for it, baby.”
Howard Magenta Pfluge, part pimp, part yenta.
The men started going over details of the plan, actually using words like Zero hour minus twenty and operatives. I just rolled my eyes and headed for the bathroom. Seeing a blond person in the mirror gave me a jolt, and for a split second I thought I’d walked in on someone else. Being blond was going to take some getting used to, but I thought I was going to like it. For one thing, I now could wear colors brunettes couldn’t. Magenta had done a trial run on my makeup, too, slathering on a creamy foundation that concealed most of my scratches and bruises, although he’d had a hard time covering over the burn mark, which today flared angry maroon.
A centipede crawled out of the drain. I gave a shriek, then realized that one of my false eyelashes had fallen into the sink.
There was a light rap on the door. “Mazie? You okay?” called Labeck.
/> “False alarm.”
“Want your stuff?” The door opened a crack. Magenta’s shopping bags appeared, attached to Labeck’s oversized hands.
I took them. “Is he gone?”
“Yeah.”
I sighed in relief.
“You don’t like him?”
“Of course I like him. I love him! He’s a great guy. And he does a terrific manicure. But four straight hours with Magenta is—”
“Like being in a bar where the only thing on the jukebox is Cher?”
I’d been thinking it was like being slowly strangled with a feather boa, but the Cher image worked, too. I untied one of the bags and delved into the tissue paper. I’m a sucker for clothes wrapped in tissue paper. Even K-Mart footsy socks look elegant swaddled in layers of white tissue. I pulled the brassiere out of its tissue. Magenta had ordered me to wear it under the gown. It was long-line, like a bustier, the kind that squishes your waist and lifts your boobs so they look like pears served up on a platter. It was champagne-colored and lacey and hooked up the back. Since there hadn’t been time to try it on in the shop, I decided I might as well do it now, in case it had to be exchanged for a smaller size tomorrow.
Stripping off the T-shirt I’d borrowed from Labeck, gritting my teeth, I embraced the iron maiden. It was the first time in days my charlies had been restrained and they hated it. The tiny hooks, located in the most inaccessible parts of my spine, were murder. Having one hand bundled in bandages didn’t make it any easier; it was like trying to crochet a doily wearing an oven mitt.
“Need some help?” Labeck called from the other side of the door.
“No.”
“You’re handicapped. You probably need a personal assistant.”
I blew out a breath, knowing this was a bad idea. “Okay. But keep your eyes closed.”
“Sure. I’m legally blind.”
Labeck came in, one hand held ostentatiously over his eyes, and groped around. “What do I need to do?”
“Fasten hooks.”
“I’ve never fastened. I’ve always unfastened.”
“I’ll bet.”
I felt his hands at my back. They were big, warm, and surprisingly deft with the tiny hooks. They moved to my waist. He hadn’t kept his eyes closed. They were wide open, taking in my reflection. I flushed, embarrassed at my own sudden voluptuousness. The bra created instant cleavage. I could have been a Victoria’s Secret model. Third string, of course—one of the girls who does the clearance sale catalog, but still, this long-line thing was not just a waist-whittler; it was an ego-booster.
“I don’t think I can breathe,” Labeck choked out, eyes smoking.
“Oh, please. Try wearing the stupid thing.”
His hands splayed along my ribs. “What’s this stiff stuff here?”
“Boning.”
“Boning?” His eyebrows zinged upward; I could see him in the dresser mirror. He laughed. He had a great laugh. Deep, booming, contagious, and it made him look—deceptively, of course—helpless.
Boning. I started laughing, too. It made my constricted ribs hurt. Magenta was right; we both possessed the maturity level of sixth-graders. Out in the hall, Muffin began yapping.
Labeck put his hands on my shoulders and turned me around until we were facing each other.
Oh, very bad idea.
There wasn’t going to be any hanky-panky, I reminded myself. It had been more than four years since I’d stopped having hanky-panky with Kip Vonnerjohn, Mr. Priapism, who was bonking everything but the vacuum cleaner. I didn’t think I even remembered how to commit hanky-panky.
Labeck slid his hands up and down my arms, which broke out in gooseflesh.
“You’re incredible,” he murmured in my ear, and the hairs inside my ear, hairs I didn’t even know I possessed, stood up on tiptoes.
Then I wriggled out of his grasp, pulled on oversized flannel pajamas, and went out to sleep on the sofa.
That’s what I did in my mind’s eye.
What I really did was slide Labeck’s shirt off his body, run my hands over his chest, glide my hands along the sculptured muscles of his back, caress the lovely big bumps of his biceps, bring his face down to mine, and kiss him.
He was a wonderful kisser. His lips were warm and full, and when he slid his tongue into my mouth I lost every last ounce of resistance. I wanted him with painful intensity; every fiber of my body ached with my need for him. We staggered our way to his bedroom, shedding clothes. He kicked the door shut. I knew it was to keep Muffin from interrupting, but there was something thrillingly cavemanlike in the motion.
“Wait,” I said.
“What?” He was standing behind me, unfastening the hooks he’d just done up. “Oh, right.” He started frantically going through his dresser drawers. “Where did I put them?”
“You mean condoms?”
“Isn’t that what you meant?”
“I’m on the pill,” I said. “To regulate my periods.” Twenty-one days on; seven off. Today was the seventh day. I was pressing my luck here; I was committing the birth control equivalent of jumping out of a barn. My pills were back at Taycheedah. How was I going to get a new prescription without being turned in by a pharmacist?
A smile spread over Labeck’s face. “And I’ve been a good boy,” he whispered. “So no worries.”
“I mean wait, we shouldn’t do this.” This was the good girl side of me, making a last-ditch effort, warning me that all men were the same. They didn’t respect you the next day.
There’s not going to be a next day, you moron, sneered my bad girl. Last chance. Offer expires at midnight.
Labeck took a deep, ragged breath. He stroked my back, kissed my neck. “Don’t you want to?”
“I don’t know.”
He kissed the spot between my neck and collarbone.
“Mmm-m-maybe.”
He kissed more spots. His hands were everywhere, caressing, stroking, awakening.
This was probably the only chance I’d ever have to be with a gorgeous male, I reminded myself as every corpuscle of blood drained from my brain to my tingly parts. Was I going to fling away this last opportunity for rapture? All I knew was that I desperately wanted Ben Labeck and was going to die if he didn’t make love to me.
“I should shave my legs.”
Labeck laughed deep in his throat. More growl than laugh. “I’ll take my chances with bristle burn.”
Oh, so will I, hot stuff, bet on it.
We kissed again. He kicked off his shoes. He unzipped his zipper and stepped out of his jeans. He pulled off his shorts. He stood there fully sprung and vibrating like a tuning fork and he made me forget to fret. It all came back, the incredible sensation of bare skin on bare skin, the urgency. It came back, better than I’d ever imagined it could be. There was nothing but him and me and the feeling of him being in me. We acclimated to each other, we found our rhythm. He murmured dirty words in French, which were an amazing turn-on—not that I needed to be any more turned on—and when I came I screamed and Labeck came at the same time and yelled and Muffin started barking outside the door.
After what seemed like a long time our breathing slowed. We were sprawled sideways at the foot of Labeck’s bed. His chest was shining with sweat, his lips were swollen from kissing, and he looked so incredibly sexy I wanted to grab him and do it all over again.
He traced the curves of my face, my lips, touched his sweaty forehead to mine. “I don’t think I could have held out much longer,” he said, smiling into my eyes. “Last night when you ran your fingers over my palm—I thought I’d explode. When you’d bend to pick up Muffin, I almost—it got to be painful to walk.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t know what to say. I’m not the romantic type. Plus, I thought there was a good chance you’d punch me.”
Labeck may not have considered himself romantic, but he wasn’t a roll-over-and-fall-asleep guy by any means. He left the room for a minute and when he came
back he was modeling his tuxedo. Well, part of it anyway—just the cummerbund, wrapped dashingly around his waist so he looked like a cross between a buccaneer and a porn star. He was holding a bottle of wine, two glasses, and an opener. “It’s just El Cheapo sparkling,” he apologized. “If I’d known I was going to get lucky I’d have had Cristal Brut on hand.”
Get lucky?
I’d just had the most fabulous sex of my life with a man who could have repeated the Gettysburg Address in French and made it sound like pornography. I ought to be feeling as bubbly as that champagne. Instead I felt as though splinters of brassiere boning were jabbing through my veins.
In the old days, with Kip, I’d have swallowed down my hurt. I didn’t like fighting. I didn’t want to be a drama queen. I’d just simmer in quiet resentment for days, afraid to explain why I was upset. But over the past few days I’d outfought rapists, outfoxed killers, and outsmarted politicians. I was a lot tougher than I’d dreamed. I’d earned the right to say I was mad when I was mad. I’d flung my heart at this Canuck clod and he was talking about getting lucky? Suddenly I was well and truly steamed.
I heaved myself upright. I stood up on the bed. I was naked, and I didn’t care. “Getting lucky is talking a woman into going home with you ten minutes before the bar closes,” I yelled. “Or banking in a shot in a stupid hockey game. Getting lucky is scoring. Is that what this was about—scoring?”
Labeck’s Adam’s apple bobbed up, down, up. The dark eyes blazed into mine, and I had to resist the urge to flinch away from that flame. “Getting lucky,” Ben Labeck said in a quiet voice, “is finally making love to the woman I’ve been crazy about for four years.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “We’ve only known each other four days.”
He approached the bed, keeping a wary eye on my foot, which was within striking distance of his most vulnerable parts. “I guess we should have had this conversation before you jumped me and dragged me off to—”
The Escape Diaries: Life and Love on the Lam Page 24
