Despite being precariously close to tardiness, Diana eschewed the staff entrance on the west wing of the British Museum for the public forecourt and main entrance on the building's southern face. Designed and completed in the mid-1800s, the museum's architectural design reflected the same Classical fever as Fragonard's Diana & Endymion. Massive Grecian columns supported a triangular pediment, intricately sculpted to display the eight stages of mankind. From the right angle, one could almost imagine that an ancient greek temple had materialized in Central London. The view calmed her and as she entered the massive building, her mind drifted to the task at hand.
Someone was stealing art.
Her electronic credentials opened a series of doors as she turned to the office complex in the museum's west wing. In contrast to the beautiful architecture and open design of the publicly accessible portions of the museum, the administrative offices for curators and support staff could have been plucked from any mid-level corporate complex in the world. The floors shifted from polished concrete to synthetic carpet, the lights from 19th-century lamp replicas to sterile fluorescent tubes. Her own office was nestled in the corner of the Greco-Roman Department, but the all-points memo from last night meant that she was going to be headed straight to the conference room.
Through the frosted translucent glass, she could see four silhouettes. Two she recognized immediately. The head curator and her boss, Iain Harris, was a tall broomstick of a man, even sitting with the stooped posture of age. They got on well, and she was glad to see him.
As she entered the conference room she could see the pale brunette woman next to him: Olivia Pierce, Chief of Security for the museum. The only reason Diana recognized her was that Olivia had personally taken charge of the investigation into the stolen art, and had already subjected all of the curation staff to a bruising series of interviews and screenings.
The fourth person was a man. He had fair hair, neatly parted at the side. He was tall-even taller than her, with piercing green eyes atop a sculpted, aquiline nose and a smile that revealed rows of sparkling white teeth. The jacket of his three-piece navy suit hung from a chair at the head of the conference table. The slim-fit vest and pants revealed a lean, athletic build.
Dian analytically cataloged each datum in turn before it dawned on her that on the whole, this was the most beautiful man she'd seen in quite some time. Which was saying something given her unexpected morning with Bruce. She flashed a questioning look at Olivia.
Yes, he's hot. Get over it, Olivia's eye roll seemed to say.
Diana extended a hand, taking a seat adjacent to the one claimed by the handsome stranger. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Diana Prince."
His eyes fixed on her as if she were the most interesting object in the entire museum. The effect was so immediate she wondered if he were a politician of some stripe. "Enchantée, Diana. And the pleasure is mine, believe me. I've read quite a bit about you." His voice was deep and French and surprisingly guttural for a man of his refined appearance.
She blinked, releasing his hand. "I'm sorry?"
He retrieved his wallet just smoothly enough to reveal a gleaming badge. "My name is Inspector Gabriel Dior of Interpol. I've been tasked with assisting in the investigation of the recent art thefts here. There are dozens of senior curation staff from the affected departments and I have a fairly thick dossier on most of them.
She blinked again. Surprises atop surprises. "I didn't realize the case was that serious"
"Of course it is that serious," Olivia snapped from her perch at the rear of the room. "The most prestigious museum in the world and it looks like we have the security of a goddamn jumble sale."
"Now now," Gabriel interjected smoothly. "We can hardly expect the lovely Ms. Prince to be aware of the very security concerns we've worked so diligently to conceal." His smile was all brilliant teeth and dimples. A combination that, to Diana's surprise, seemed to thaw even the imposing Chief of Security.
Gabriel sat down and Diana, Olivia, and Iain followed suit. "Consider this an. . .informal formality," he said. "Forget everything you see about Interpol in the movies. I'm not a police officer so much as a consultant, here at the request of Scotland Yard to screen for any security vulnerabilities among the staff and assist with the investigation into a veritable rash of art thefts regarding recent acquisitions the museum has made."
"I may have heard something about that," Diana allowed. "Though I can't help but feel this isn't so much a staff meeting as a 'me' meeting."
"If it were up to me it would be a you-and-me meeting," Gabriel said, charming as ever. "In my experience, two people talking can accomplish more than a dozen in a committee. You're actually my fifth staff interview this week. Ms. Pierce and Mr. Harris are here at the insistence of your employer, the museum."
"It's a bloody waste of time," grumbled Iain. "Stiff upper lip though, Diana. A formality, like the gentleman says. Just answer his questions as best you can recall. I'll be here the whole time."
Diana smiled at the reassurance, casting an appraising eye over the agent. "Gabriel here seems harmless enough."
"As a dove," promised the Interpol agent.
Diana chanced a glance at the wall clock. "Before we begin-any idea how long this will take?"
"Got somewhere better to be?" Olivia chipped in.
Yes. "Just wondering if I'll need my overnight bag."
Gabriel chuckled. "Believe it or not, we Interpol agents don't have the power to make arrests, even if we want to. It's a friendly chat, nothing more. I don't have many questions, but you are free to leave any time- though I suspect Ms. Pierce would make your life here quite difficult."
Diana didn't even need to turn around to know that Olivia was nodding in agreement.
"Well," she said. "That is. . .a relief. I'm your witness."
It was, in fact, the furthest thing from a relief. Careless, complacent fool, she thought ruefully. The museum's frenzy over the art thefts was swiftly turning from amusing to existentially dangerous. Her documents and backstory, largely fabricated, could survive cursory examination. Her latest passport had been forged by the best. It was even linked to a national insurance number in the United Kingdom and French social security number. Ironclad against all but the most probing of examinations.
She suspected those measures would be put to the test. The damn Interpol agent had no doubt already begun cross-checking her background. And she didn't buy the charming 'just a consultant' act for a second. He had the calculating eyes of a born inquisitor, his words akin to moves on a chess board. The slightest crack in her defense or chink in her armor, and she might lose the life she had carefully constructed for herself here in the world of Men.
"First of all, Ms. Prince, I must confess your resume is. . .spectacular. Two advanced degrees, along with glowing letters of recommendation from the Louvre, Museo del Prado, the Met. . .you evidently have a keen eye for acquisitions. You're one of the few curators currently employed by a major museum to have personally led an archaeological expedition. You've published extensively in academic journals. I suppose my first thought is that it's hard to see why you're not running the place."
Diana heard Iain's snort, though in truth it was a comment her superior often made himself. She smiled. "All that flattery without even looking at notes. Maybe you could get them to give me a raise."
"I've no doubt you've earned it," Gabriel said. "Though you seem to be doing alright financially. Two separate residences in London and Paris. Two new vehicles. You appear able to work wonders with a curator's salary."
"Well, I could hardly manage a collection of priceless artifacts if I couldn't balance my own checkbook."
He chuckled. "You would be surprised. At any rate, I suppose it's not really that great a surprise you haven't advanced further in this department. You rarely stay in one place-no time to rise through the ranks."
Diana shrugged. "How do you say this in French? La bougeotte, I believe. Suffice it to say that once I got a taste of the world, my wanderlust never let up."
Gabriel nodded. "A woman after my own heart. And were you aware of the stolen paintings?"
The shift in topic was so smooth that it caught Diana off-guard.. "The um-the what?" she asked lamely.
"The stolen paintings." His posture was utterly relaxed, his gaze neutral, but Diana felt the first telltale bead of sweat forming on her scalp.
"I think everyone on staff has heard that something happened," she allowed. "I'm not aware of any specifics though, and I can assure you that none of the acquisitions in my department have been lost or stolen."
He raised his hands reassuringly. "Of course. And it is very fortunate indeed, that the collections under your supervision have remained unscathed. You should be commended."
Diana's face was as guileless as a lamb. "I can take no credit for the security measures which, frankly, are above my pay grade. Like most of us, I've always been happy to leave such matters in the capable hands of Ms. Pierce."
"Oh don't start-" Olivia sputtered.
Gabriel's grinned. "Your insinuations to the contrary, , the museum security is phenomenal, in no small part due to the ingenuity of Olivia Pierce. I've investigated these sorts of crimes the world over. The anti-theft measures here are second to none."
The security woman blushed faintly at the praise which, to Diana's ear, was sincerely given. And yet. . .
"With such competent security, how do the thieves manage?"
Gabriel clapped his hands, startling her. "Now that is an interesting question. You might say that is the question that put me on a red-eye flight from Lyon to London last night. How do the thieves manage? As far as I can tell, it is impossible. There are cameras. Lasers. Biometric scanners. Armed security guards. Armored cars." He chuckled. "Most thieves go for the transport. It's where security tends to be the weakest. The company contracted by the museum for transporting valuables spends about five million dollars on each vehicle, turning it into an indestructible, impenetrable behemoth. You would think you were in a warzone, watching one of those convoys."
Diana tried to conceal her impatience. "I take it our thieves don't go for the cars."
"We should be so lucky. No, they target the vaults. And these are very meticulous shoppers, mind you. They know the exact contents of the vaults they hit, and they only abscond with particular pieces in each vault. Almost as if they're working their way through a shopping list. We suspect a buyer or consortium with very deep pockets and very particular tastes is ultimately responsible. Why else leave a perfectly good Rembrandt when absconding with a Van Ruysdael?" He paused, but not long enough for her to answer the rhetorical question. "By the by, your birth date. . ." His brow furrowed with recollection. "March 22nd, 1985. Do I have that correct?"
Another whiplash. Diana set her jaw and took a deep breath. "That is correct, yes."
"Parents' birth dates?"
A flash of panic. She knew the basics of her fictional biography well, but not the birth dates of her imaginary Mum and Dad. Not offhand. Was that a thing people were expected to know, here in Man's World?"
Gabriel glinted with amusement. "Just kidding. Why would I need to know that, right?"
Annoyed, Diana said, "When having a 'friendly chat,' I generally find it helpful to proceed in a logical and direct manner. It lessens the risk that I might be wasting someone's valuable time."
"Hear hear," grumbled Iain. "Honestly, Inspector. Where's this headed then?"
Gabriel's gaze flitted around the room before returning to Diana. He seemed utterly unsurprised by the rebuke, almost if he'd expected it. "Your point is well-taken, of course. Allow me to be a bit more direct. These thieves have access to information that could only be obtained by accessing electronic logs and manifests held on the security contractor's encrypted server. This would require either world-class cyber penetration capabilities-scary thought. Or compromising a senior staff member. In my experience it's typically the latter. Now the funny thing is, when I tally all the staff members who were recently credentialed and engage in frequent international travel, your name ends up atop a very short list. So I rerun the background checks and I find that your file is about as thin as a slice of sashimi."
Diana's smile was even thinner than her file. "It seems this meeting is going to be more adversarial than I thought."
"I hope not," Gabriel said. "If you're innocent and forthcoming, I think we'll get along famously."
"By prying into my past?"
"Not prying," Gabriel assured her. "Less a crowbar, more a scalpel. I need to be able to rule you out as a suspect, but from looking at your records it is hard to say who the real 'you' is. I'm hoping you can help me fill in some of the blanks."
Diana shot a look of incredulity at Iain, but her boss merely shrugged. Nothing to be done.
She would have to settle in for a long afternoon. And hope that her cherished civilian identity could weather the scrutiny of the mercurial Interpol agent.
She took a deep breath. Turned back to Gabriel. "Like I said before, I'm your witness."
Plato's was unusually crowded for a Friday evening. The night's headliner, a powerful alto named Gladys Rivera, was apparently a rising star in the Latin jazz scene, and could command a solid audience, even with the ten quid cover at the door. Bruce had forked over a hundred pound note with the understanding that the bouncer would usher Diana in past the rapidly-lengthening line. She was a few minutes behind schedule and he didn't want her to run into the early patron rush.
That had been forty minutes ago. The headliner's opening set had just ended and while Bruce found himself clapping enthusiastically with the rest of the patrons, he'd been only half- engaged with the performance. Any other woman and he'd wonder if she'd been waylaid en route. Lateness wasn't like Diana, and he pitied the poor mugger who dared to ply his trade in her vicinity.
"Care for a refill, love?"
He was startled out of his pensive reverie by the bartender, an attractive, red-haired woman in a ephemeral blue halter crop top that displayed the intricate tattoos covering each arm. They gave her otherwise cheerful face a hard edge, a balance that he decided suited her well. He knew that she was asking from genuine interest and not a desire to shoo a slow customer away from the bar. He was one of the few patrons in the back of the space, away from the intimate concert floor by the rear bar. But he'd tipped well and unless he missed his guess, she actually recognized him.
He summoned a smile and flicked the empty pint of Bud Light before him. "Somehow, even the American beer tastes better here."
She grinned back. "I wouldn't know. But it'd be near-criminal of me to keep charging you for that horsepiss. Especially if you're who I think you are. . .Mr. Wayne."
Her look was non threatening- mildly flirtatious even, but in the amiable way of barmaids. He withdrew another hundred pound note from his billfold and slid it across the bar. "A pint of Guinness should do. No change needed."
"Excellent choice."
"And another pint for yourself, naturally." In his experience, bartenders in any part of the world were always game for a few rounds on the customer's tab.
She stared at the note before picking it up and working the register. "Even my service isn't that good."
"It is if we can pretend for the night that I'm just an ordinary American tourist. Nothing more."
"Ah." The bartender winked at him. "We can pretend anything you like for the night. That is if your ladyfriend doesn't show up."
He did a double-take, impressed. "What lady friend?"
"I don't imagine you're checking that timepiece and the door every half minute for the fun of it. My guess is you've been stood up, love. More fool her." Her body swayed with the music as she poured the pint, leaving a perfect layer of creamy foam atop the dark, reddish-brown liquid.
The bartender grinned at him. "She must be some woman, leaving an 'ordinary American tourist' like yourself dangling on the line."
"You have no idea." He spared another glance at the entrance. A tall, dark-haired woman was surrendering her jacket at the coat check station. A glancing similarity to Diana, but no dice.
"Ooh, so close." The bartender stroked her chin thoughtfully. "You should've seen yourself though. Little cartoon hearts practically popping out. Is she your girlfriend? Some famous Hollywood actress or model?"
He took a measured sip. "No and no. Just a. . . friend from work."
She snorted. "Right. Another ordinary American tourist?"
"She lives here actually. I'm the one visiting." Bruce had no idea why he was divulging this, or even why he was still in the bar given that Diana was clearly a no-show.
"Well, judging by that bit of mistaken identity we know she's the tall, willowy sort. Long dark hair. And a bit rude, apparently. Sorry, on behalf of all the women of London."
"Oi!" Both she and Bruce turned to see a red-faced man on the other side of the bar, obviously wanting her attention. He thumped the wooden surface for emphasis. She smiled at him apologetically. "Duty calls. I hope you figure things out with your missing coworker. If not, feel free to hang out with me back here all night. As you can see, the company leaves a lot to be desired." She raised her pint glass, clinking it with his. "The name's Sloane by the way."
"A pleasure," Bruce said. He watched her glide down to the other end of the bar, instantly pacifying the waiting customer with a dazzling smile. She was cute, no denying that. And certainly charming enough. But then, so were most people when they realized who he was. He downed some more of the Guinness and resolved to make it his last indulgence for the night. If Diana truly was a no-show, then there were other matters that would need his attention tonight.
He checked his phone once more.
Nothing.
The Gladys Rivera band was game for a three-set show, and Bruce found himself enjoying their sound enough to remain in place long past the downing of his drink. He could see the beads of sweat on the singer's forehead and the raw scratchiness that had entered her mix of Spanish and English vocals, all of which only served to enhance the experience. Whoever was working sound and lights was a pro, nimbly splattering the stage with purples and blues that accentuated the slower, more soulful set. The bass guitarist, a wiry, gray-haired woman in a sleeveless vest and trilby, was amped way up. He could feel each strum in his bones. But she was a delicate hand, working in tandem with the vocals and melody so that no element overwhelmed the other.
He felt a jab on his arm. Which almost never happened because there were few people on earth who could get close enough to touch him without his knowledge. Apparently, jazz pubs were the exception. He turned to see Sloane, smirking at him from behind the bar.
"You don't get out much, do you?" she said.
Bruce turned fully around. "What makes you say that?"
"I can tell these things. Most of the folks here are enthusiasts. They're used to spots like this. You look like a kid seeing the inside of Willy Wonka's factory."
"Maybe I'm just observant," said Bruce.
She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Look what's just walked in, Mr. Observant."
He whirled toward the entrance far more eagerly than he'd have intended to. Probably another false alarm, his brain started to think.
And then he saw Diana. Unmistakable. Beyond beautiful. He'd noticed her just as she was stepping out of a nearly-floor length burgundy overcoat. It was like watching petals bloom from a rosebud. The dress underneath was a shimmering black sheathe that hugged every curve of her body. It began conservatively, high on her throat and with full sleeves that contoured the athletic shape of her arms. The fluid striations of her shoulder blades flashed from beneath a cutout that ran the length of her spine, an oval of bright, tan skin against dark fabric. The dress stopped at a length just on the proper side of scandalous that still revealed miles of perfectly toned legs. The closed-toed heels she wore lent a stature unmatched by any other woman in the room. She'd dispensed with the glasses and brushed her cascading ebony hair to one side so that it spilled over her left shoulder and revealed the intricate jewelry that climbed the outer edge of her right ear like a silver wing.
Goddamn, Diana. He knew she was a beautiful woman. He'd even gotten used to the beat his heart skipped in her presence. Seeing her now was like bracing for a punch and getting hit with an artillery shell.
"That's her, innit." Sloane went on staring at the new arrival in tandem with Bruce.
"Yep." He took a reflexive drink from his empty pint glass, pulse suddenly pounding.
"That woman is well fit." Sloane pronounced. "Out of your league, that's for sure."
Bruce straightened his sports coat trying to tamp down the emotional rush at seeing Diana so that he didn't look like a grinning fool when she saw him. "No argument there."
Diana instantly had the sensation that she'd overdressed for Plato's. She'd suspected as much in the line outside, and now seeing the place clinched it. As she handed her overcoat to the coat check attendant, she could feel the gravitational pull of attention. A Catch-22. How to knock the Batman's socks off without generating a black hole of unwanted attention?
"Excuse me, I just had to come over and say-"
Diana was surprised at how little time it took for the first guy to hit on her. Seconds. Maybe she'd underestimated the dress after all. She didn't need to look at him to smell the loud, synthetic cologne, and he likely would have escaped with a mere brush-off had his hand not landed below the small of her back during his approach.
She pinched the nerve at the intersection of the offending thumb and forefinger with a minute fraction of her strength. Which was why the pickup line died in his throat with a pained gurgle. She walked on, unmolested, leaving the handsy stranger to cradle his temporarily disabled digits.
Where are you, Bruce?
The question was answered almost as soon as it formed. Unlike most of the pub patrons, Bruce was leaning on a bar in the much-less crowded rear of the venue. Stupidly, it had never occurred to her that Batman-Bruce- would drink. Even after he'd invited her to a pub.
It wasn't conscious, but her mind couldn't help but draw comparisons between Bruce and the decidedly unangelic Gabriel Dior. As much as she resented the agent's sudden intrusion into her work life, Diana had to admit that he was attractive. Beautiful, even. That was the word. And he knew it. She'd known many women capable of weaponizing their beauty. Few men. But Dior wielded physical magnetism like a scimitar. It had reduced Olivia Pierce to a blushing schoolgirl. And while Diana liked to think she'd been immune to his good cop routine, the interrogation had awakened a vulnerability she'd not felt in decades.
She forced her thoughts away from her predicament and back to the present. Bruce looked good. So very much unlike either the scowling Bat or the vapid billionaire. No one would ever accuse him of being beautiful, exactly, but she enjoyed drinking in the classical planes of his face, the strong jaw, the fit of his jeans and sports coat that revealed the physique of a veteran athlete. She'd seen him just that morning and yet her heart was beating like their reunion was years in the making.
Gods, Diana. Get it together.
He beckoned her. Not the crooked finger 'come here' that men sometimes used, as if they couldn't tell the difference between a woman and a labrador. For Bruce, it was the tilt of the head. An invitation. His eyes were too far away to read, but she could still feel the heat in his gaze from across the floor. She brushed past a gaggle of suits that had formed around her like they didn't exist, coming to stand right next to Bruce at the bar and never losing eye contact.
He had an amazing smile. Not the kind of filtered, artificial billboard smile you saw in Hollywood movies. Not all teeth and dimples like some teen pop idol. When he really smiled-which was rare- he did it with his eyes. Like a private message, only intended for her. A woman could get used to looks like that. Even when she didn't deserve them.
The bartender she hadn't even noticed was the first to speak. "I was wondering about the kind of bird that'd stand you up, Bruce. I figured her for a looker but damn!" She turned to Diana, extending a hand across the bar. "Name's Sloane. I've been keeping this one company while he waited. You know, bringing him tissues and the like. Consoling him with overpriced alcohol. The works."
Laughing, Diana shook the other woman's hand. "Nice to meet you, Sloane. Diana. And my apologies to you both then, I am so sorry for my lateness it's . . ." she struggled to find the words.
"Don't give it another thought," Bruce said. "I'm just glad you made it out at all." Concern brushed his features. "Everything alright?"
She gave it her best grin. "Absolutely." In a more private setting, she might tell Bruce about all that had happened. But for now, she wanted to put it as far as possible from her mind.
"Glad to hear that," Sloane remarked. "You do know you've just turned this man into the envy of the whole floor, right? Are you sure you've got the right pub?"
Diana laughed. "After the day I've had, I'm not sure there could be a wrong one."
Bruce looked like he wanted to ask more, but thankfully he bit his tongue and held up two fingers. "Two Macallans, one neat, one on the rocks for the lady."
"Good taste," Sloane complimented him. "Single or double?"
"Double for me." He shot a questioning look Diana's way.
"For me as well," she said, wondering what the hell a McCallan was.
Sloane stepped back. "Coming right up."
As they waited, Bruce said, "I don't think I've ever seen you drink before."
"I don't very often, but when in Rome."
He leaned in. "Do Amazons get drunk?"
She waved the notion off. "Please. If I can survive bullets and grenades, a bit of alcohol shouldn't be a problem."
"If you say so." The drinks arrived, and Diana was surprised to note that she could actually smell the alcohol. Some kind of upscale Scotch whisky. It was a masculine, yet pleasant aroma with hints of smoke and woods.
Sloane said, "Enjoy, you two. It looks like the bar's getting busier, but wave me over if you need anything, alright?"
Bruce promised they would, and when Sloane left they were finally alone, ensconced in as much privacy as one might find in a place like Plato's. Diana fought back a nervous ripple at being the subject of Bruce's undivided attention. She hadn't put this much thought into her attire in years. It was a date in all but name, and she had the distinct feeling of tipping over the slope of a hill with no brakes. Where would the night even end? Where did she want it to end?
She thought all of this but she said, "Cute bartender."
Bruce just nodded amiably. "She was nice enough to take pity on me once it was clear I'd been abandoned."
"Oh stop."
"Discarded. Forgotten in the rubbish bin like-"
"Drama queen," she laughed. "Was that the first time a woman's ever left Bruce Wayne waiting?"
"The first time since middle school at any rate. Though if that extra time was spent on this look. . ." he gave her a pointed once-over. "What's the saying? Well worth the wait."
Something in his timbre unleashed a surge of heat that blossomed from her legs to the tips of her ears. She felt emboldened enough to say, "Keep talking to me in that tone of voice and I'll think you mean it."
Whatever he was about to say in response was interrupted by the beginning of the next set. The soulful Gladys Rivera had been replaced by a DJ who was pumping a mix of tropical hits. The first song, a salsa, began with the brassy snarl of trumpets over the distinctive patter of conga drums.
Bruce raised his glass. "What should we drink to?"
It felt like a test of some kind, even though it wasn't. More like an opportunity to shape the interaction. The perpetual back and forth between them: he volleyed with an invitation to drinks. She could return with. . .what?
She raised her glass. "Al placer de la compañía de hombres excepcionales. Salud" It was indeed a pleasure to be able to effortlessly switch languages with a fellow polyglot. Time to time in the Batcave, they'd shared private jokes in foreign languages. A necessity in the presence of an alien who could hear a heartbeat from across a football field. They were silly things mostly. A wry observation about Barry's lame puns or Victor's proclivity for American football metaphors. And yet those were among some of her most precious memories.
His eyes were as dark as coals, but she could still see the approval in them. His glass met hers. "Well put. Salud."
The alcohol was heady and burned all the way down her throat. It was in the aftertaste that its true quality emerged. The same smoky, woody notes she'd smelled earlier. She could see why men liked it.
She hated it. A century in Man's World and she was still a novice to alcohol. And despite her bravado, she was beginning to suspect that her Amazonian heritage didn't afford much in the way of protection against the effects of hard liquor.
On the other hand, there was that delightful buzzing sensation. The music sounded richer. Sexier. She set down her glass. "Tell me, Bruce, do you know how to dance salsa?"
He eyed the rapidly filling space in the center of the floor where couples had begun to form. "I. . .don't really dance."
"You invited me to a jazz pub."
"For the music."
"What is music without dance?" She pushed off from the bar. Gave his sleeve a playful tug. "Perhaps I can teach you something for a change."
He let her lead him to the outskirts of the makeshift dance floor. There was practically no room, though anyone who jostled into Diana quickly discovered that they had better hopes of muscling through a concrete pillar. She was an electrifying sight, her hips, tracing a mesmerizing figure-eight to the fast-paced tempo of the music.
"It's very simple," she said, her voice rising to be heard above the speakers. Her left arm came up, the hand finding purchase on his broad shoulder. She could feel the muscle even through layers of shirt and jacket. She raised her right arm perpendicular to her torso, her forearm bent ninety degrees with the palm out. "Your right hand goes just above the small of my back." She stepped in to make the hold easier for him. "And your left hand meets mine like. . .so."
He achieved the frame with enough ease that she suspected he wasn't the novice he claimed to be. "Shall we go over the steps?"
His response was to step forward with the grace and mastery of a trained salsero, easing her into the rock-back step of the beat and then expertly twirling her on the second half of the eight count. His lead was so swift that the turn sent ringlets of hair in front of her face.
They returned to the basic step, Diana shaking her head with laughter. "Liar."
"I didn't say I couldn't dance." He led her through a flawless hammerlock variation, then transitioned to a delightfully intimate copa, their bodies melding together for a beat before springing apart in the perpetual push-pull of the dance. He was, to her astonishment, a fantastic lead. His movements lacked the flamboyant stylings of the other leads on the floor, many of whom seemed determined to wrest attention from their partners with flashy kicks and hand flourishes. Bruce's movements were casual, yet precise. He didn't whip her around like a ragdoll (not that he would have been able to), but instead led her through increasingly intricate combinations with perfect control of the kinetic energy poured into each spin and transition. An outside observer would only have eyes for Diana, whose undulating hips and dizzying footwork cried for attention. But from her perspective, Bruce was the star of the show.
As the song entered it's closing measure, he twirled her into an outrageous dip so low that she could see the floor behind her. She hung there, her weight almost entirely in his arms, his right hand large and firm on the glistening skin left open by the cutout in the back of her dress. It was positively euphoric. As he slowly pulled her back to a stand, she threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him tightly. They were both breathing hard, less from exhaustion than sheer exhilaration.
"Bruce, you are. . ." the words eluded her. Where on earth did you learn to dance?"
They were so close that she could feel the laughter in his body. "I could ask you the same question." His lips were fractions of an inch from her ear. "Didn't know they taught moves like that on the island."
His thumb had begun to absently roam the exposed space between her shoulder blades, the shallow divot at the curve of her spine, all the way down to the bottom of the cutout. It occurred to her that without the dress, his hand would have a lot more access.
"Um," she said. Since when was she the type to get tongue-tied in front of a man?
She was rescued by the music yet again. She could hear the opening croons of the next song, a rousing salsa by famed sonero Marc Anthony. Valio la Pena. . .Diana knew it well, though it had been a decade since she'd heard or danced to it. She pulled back just far enough to look into her partner's eyes. "Another drink?"
He was taken aback. "For fun? Or because of whatever happened this afternoon-"
She kissed the corner of his mouth. "Bruce. . .ça n'a pas d'importance."
That shut him up good. No witty comeback. For just a moment, she could see the boyish fluster beneath his carefully crafted facade.
He started to lean in, his eyes dropping to her lips.
"I'll pick the drinks this time," she said.
His mouth stopped just short of hers, tension crackling between the two. "I'm starting to see a different side of you, Diana."
She coyly tugged him to the outskirt of the dance floor and toward the bar. "And the night is still young."
To be continued. . .
AN: Yikes. What exactly does the night have in store? What exactly is Bruce's mysterious business in London? And what the heck happened during Diana's 'interview'?
More to come soon.
I think, despite my best efforts, I've drifted from writing a series of vignettes to something more like an actual story. Such is life, I suppose. This fic is almost entirely me shooting from the hip. Writing blind, as it were. Little if any superhero hijinks. Just fun character moments and situations. Pre-pandemic, I was an avid social dancer and the thought occurred to me that it would be fun to show the kind of physical chemistry dance can create. Sadly, that is the only element where I can claim to write from personal experience. So as always, my apologies for geographical/linguistic/cultural/procedural errors.
Thank you so much for reading, and your feedback is always appreciated.
-C