A/N: It would have helped a great deal if I'd remembered to upload it on Wednesday night. sigh
Chapter 21
"What is this?" Laura asked, indicating the large white box wrapped with a bright red bow, lying in the middle of the bed in the master suite. Mick shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned his backside against the dresser, crossing his legs at the ankles while smiling wide.
"Why don't you open it and see," he suggested. Sitting on the bed, she reached over and fingered a tail of the velvet bow but neither moved the package closer to her nor opened it.
"What's this for?" she questioned. One corner of his mouth quirk up higher.
"If you open it, I imagine it will be self-explanatory." Still fingering the bow, her eyes never left him.
"It wouldn't be for the plans you hadn't made for this evening, would it?" she indicted. Bloody hell, the lass tickles me. Never gives so much as an inch. He laughed aloud.
"You know it is," he conceded. Stubbornly, she held her ground.
"That puts me at a distinct disadvantage, Mick," she noted, with a lift of her brows. She caught him off-guard with that remark.
"Oh? How is that?"
"I didn't get you anything," she pointed out.
"Of course you did. A sail around the bay and the magnificent tour," he countered, then with a lift of a brow of his own directed at the box, said again, "Open the box, Laura."
For long seconds, she continued to stare at him, then seeming to have come to some form of compromise with herself, picked up the box, sat it on her lap, removed the bow and opened the lid. Her eyes flickered from the envelope sitting atop the pink tissue paper, to him, then back to the envelope when his face gave nothing, whatsoever, away. Lifting the flap, she extracted two, thick, rectangular pieces of paper.
Her head snapped up and she looked at him with disbelief.
"The ballet? You're taking me to the ballet?" she asked, not bothering to conceal the soft wonder in her voice.
"Followed by dinner and drinks, yes," he confirmed with a grin, utterly enchanted by her reaction. "What else do we have?" he asked with a nod towards the box.
Laying the tickets on the bed next to her, she peeled back the tissue and gasped. Setting the box aside, she stood and lifted the red, floor length spaghetti strap gown from the box to admire it, then paired it with the cape that complemented the dress to perfection. She didn't even wish to hazard a guess at the cost, certain that it easily rivaled their night's stay at the Mark Hopkins. Draping the dress over the side of the bed, she found undergarments that considered the cut of the dress, stockings, and a box yielded a pair of shoes that matched the gown. As a thought occurred to her, her smile faltered then turned into a frown.
"What? What is it?" he asked with concern. "Do you not care for it?"
"It's beautiful," she assured him.
"Yet you seem to disapprove," he observed. She lifted a hand and dropped it.
"Not disapprove, exactly," she corrected. Then elaborated, ruefully, "I suppose I'm not used to a man dressing me and I don't know how I feel about it, to be honest."
"Would it help to know a man didn't dress you? There are people all across large cities paid well to put together a wardrobe on demand. I merely provided your size and a suggestion on the color." The last earned a curious look.
"And how would you know my size?" He had the decency to look a bit chagrined.
"I may have glanced into your suitcase as you were getting ready this morning." She gave her head a single nod.
"I see." She scanned the room. "Given I don't see anything that's been delivered for you, what will you wear?"
"I was taught to be prepared for any contingency, even when I travel," he shared. "I've something with me." She assessed him for a long second, then a smile slowly lit her face as she recalled his words from earlier in the day.
"Let's live a little, huh?" she echoed those words.
"Let's live a little," he confirmed.
"Then what's say we start getting ready."
The ballet – a pas de deux, Four Norwegian Moods, had been amazing, all that Laura had ever imagined, and she'd been held spellbound throughout the performance. Mick, on the other hand, had watched her as much as he had the stage. The pure joy on her face made her even lovelier than she already was and he spent a good deal of time marveling at how fate had seen to it their paths crossed.
He'd been correct in his color choice for her gown, for she was positively... stunning. A quick trip to a store nearby as they'd dressed for the evening had allowed her to pin her hair up, highlighting her elegant neck, making his fingers fairly itch to caress it. It had taken him three days to answer the question that had chased him from the first moment of their meeting…
What is it about the lass?
She was an intoxicating mixture of the warmth of the sunshine and the heat of a roaring fire. She was free-spirited, yet grounded. He'd caught glimpses of her stubborn nature now and again, yet she was remarkably, willingly compliant in others. She was intelligent and intuitive. Most of all, unlike all the people in his life to date, he needn't wonder what her angle was, for with her what you saw was what you got. It was utterly refreshing.
That she seemed oblivious to how lovely she was only added to her allure. Together, they continually drew the eye of passerby, and not a single time did she primp or preen – something he himself was prone to doing, flattered that after a lifetime of being invisible to those around him he was now being seen. But while he was certain the looks of admiration coming from some of the women when they entered a room were for him alone – just as there were some men who looked at Laura with lascivious thoughts in mind – far and away it was they, as a together, who drew people's stares.
As they were doing now as they walked through the doors of Marty's…
Laura simply couldn't wipe the smile off her face. The ballet had been… magical. Yes, magical, that was the only way to describe it. So much so, that she'd had to resist the impulse to call out 'Encore! Encore!' at its end. She could see it a half dozen times… a dozen… a hundred and never tire of it.
She'd remember this night forever.
Including how the man beside her looked.
She'd been bowled over when Mick had appeared in their suite wearing a tuxedo. She didn't know a single boy or man who owned a tux, let alone who would travel with one. He'd taken her breath away. It was no wonder that everywhere they'd gone that evening people's eyes had been fully upon him – most notably those of the women, whose salacious looks had suggested they'd like to take him to bed and devour him.
He'd known it, too, every once in a while meeting a woman's eyes with his own and giving her an almost indistinguishable nod.
And there it was again, as they walked across the dining room in Marty's.
"Does it ever bother you?" she wondered, aloud, as he eased her chair forward.
"Does what ever bother me?" he asked in return, as he took the seat across from her. She turned her head and looked around the room.
"That half the women in this room are looking at you as though they want you for their next meal," she answered bluntly. His eyes followed the trek hers had taken. He lifted a shoulder and dropped it.
"You've a fair share of men who look at you much the same." She straightened slightly and laughed.
"I do not!" she proclaimed. Just as he'd suspected, she'd no idea the effect her natural beauty and grace had upon the men within her vicinity.
"A pair right now, as a matter of fact," he disputed. "Two tables to your left, in the tan leisure suit and at the bar, the gentleman in the navy pinstripe." She surreptitiously glanced at the men he'd pointed out. He wasn't wrong. She crinkled her nose in distaste. "Not your type?" he guessed with a smile.
Conversation paused when their waiter arrived at the table.
"Would you mind if I do the ordering?" he requested. The woman sitting across from him was the independent sort and might take umbrage at such an assumption. She closed the menu she hadn't even glanced at with finality.
"By all means, have at it," she agreed, easily.
"Mozarella marinara to start, followed by veal piccata – not to heavy on the lemon butter, if you don't mind – with linguine in clam sauce. A bottle of Dom Perignon, as well," he recited, then eyed Laura for approval.
"Sounds wonderful," she agreed with a wide smile.
"I'll be back momentarily with your champagne," the waiter intoned, then disappeared.
"You don't approve of your admirers, I take it," he prompted.
"The man in the leisure suit is wearing a wedding ring, as is the woman with him," she assessed. "I feel sorry for her, actually. As for the man at the bar," she shifted her eyes for another look, "He's attractive enough, I suppose, but what he looks like doesn't matter."
"Oh, why's that? One would think finding another person attractive was an essential ingredient to accepting an invitation of any sort," he debated.
"It doesn't matter how attractive someone is if they lack substance," she argued. "Take yourself, for instance. Did I find you attractive when we first met? Yes, I did. But had you been a creep, I wouldn't have given you the time of day."
There was a lull in the conversation as their waiter returned with the champagne. The couple shared a smile as the cork was popped and the fizzing liquid was poured expertly into a pair of crystal flutes. Once again, the waiter disappeared as unobtrusively as he'd arrived.
"To chance meetings?" he proposed, then lifting a single brow at her added, "And not being a creep?" Her eyes sparkled with delight and her laughter tinkled musically in the air.
"To chance meetings," she echoed, lifting her glass and tapping it to his. She sighed a little as the cool, bubbly liquid slid over her tongue and down her throat. "I'm really beginning to enjoy champagne."
"What's not to enjoy?" he wondered, still smiling. "You were saying you think the poor chap is a creep?"
"Poor…" she sputtered, then shaking her head and giving him an amused smile, she took another sip of her champagne before answering. "In the two minutes since you pointed him out to me, he's winked at me, and has given me the 'come hither' tilt of his head, both of which show a lack of good manners and class." She turned and openly looked at pinstripe casting upon him a look that clearly read 'get lost.' He scowled in return and faced the other way, looking for someone new to bestow his attentions on.
"You, Laura, are a woman of fascinating contradictions," he mused. "You don't know if you believe in marriage, yet you are a devotee to the concept of monogamy."
"I take it you're not?" He shrugged a shoulder.
"I've never seen proof that fidelity of any kind at all exists," he shared. "Not to a partner, a spouse… not even to one's own family. It seems a fleeting fancy, at best."
They fell silent as their mozzarella marina and plates were set before them, and their glasses of champagne were set down before them.
"It seems to becoming less and less common, I'll give you that, but I've seen some instances. My sister and her husband, come to mind," she continued the conversation as though uninterrupted. "Frances and Donald have been together five years, married three, have a two-year-old son and one-year-old daughter." She took a bite of her mozzarella marinara. "These are good," she complimented.
"Mmmm, yes they are," he agreed. "You believe they'll beat the odds." Her brows furrowed slightly as she mulled the question.
"Yeah, I do. Frances can be as high strung and neurotic as they come, but she thinks Donald walks on water and Donald not only loves her in spite of her flaws, but maybe as much because of them." He looked up at her through his lashes as he took another bite of his food, a smile playing on his lips.
"You seem to like him a great deal," he observed.
"Yeah, I do," she confirmed, fondly.
"And you think he'll never stray?" The question made her laugh aloud.
"Donald?" she said his name as though the very idea was absurd. "Not a chance. Not only does he believe the sun rises and sets on my sister, but he is anything but a smooth operator. Frankly, I'm not sure either of them would be able to function without the other anymore."
"Tell me about your sister. Are you close?..."