Doubling the Pleasure

Sconces resembling white candles bathe weekend revelers with the warm light of a sepia photograph. The maître d’ guides diners to tables draped in white cloth, his tux and ramrod posture distinguishing him from aproned waiters.

I have an opportunity to pierce Ms. Samson’s shell, get inside the citadel of her thoughts and feelings. Find out more about who she is.

Scent her, touch her, muss up her hair, ruffle her feathers…

Tony and I rise from our banquette as our chattering dinner dates come into view. Cleo’s sleek dark head is turned toward her friend, arms gesticulating, lush red mouth moving at breakneck speed. Juliette is almost ethereal, pale and pastel, smiling at the animated verbiage, self-controlled and decorous, even in relaxed moments with a trusted friend.

Watching these beauties makes the tense, edgy parts of me loosen, tightening others. It’s been half a decade or more since the mere sight of a beautiful woman made my gut clench.

Look at me, Princess; let me see your eyes…

Tony’s sharp inhalation reminds me to breathe. Cleo walks straight into my brother’s embrace. I’m conscious of a moment’s longing, but restrict myself to taking Juliette’s hand, bringing it toward my lips for an air kiss. When she meets my gaze, her eyes twinkle with amusement.

She cocks a brow. “Such gallantry. I might need to revisit my views on romance.”

“I am determined to make a believer out of you.”

She tugs her hand out of mine. “You’ve set yourself a difficult task, Mr. DePaul.”

With my hand at her low back, I guide her to our side of the table. “I battle dragons every day, Ms. Samson.”

She glances at my hand on her waist, then manages to look down her nose at me in spite of our height difference. “Stow your armor, Leo. We should be safe enough here at Marcel's.”

My smile widens. Oddly enough, so does hers.

She wants to play? Game on.

The banquette is curved around an intimate round table. She slides over enough to leave room for me. As I work my way into the space, she smooths the white cloth covering the table, admiring the bouquet of yellow flowers displayed in a small, silver bowl.

The women sit together around the back of the banquette. A line from somewhere reminds me that ‘men take up space’. If dodging each other’s legs under the table counts, Tony and I fit the mold.

The waiter brings menus, brandishing them with a flourish. I wince, ready to duck. “What would you like to drink?”

“Just water,” Juliette says, “and then maybe something else with dinner. We’ll see.”

Cleo goes with water, too, while Tony and I order more Glenlivet. The waiter's eyes question the two women, double-checking they don't want more than water, then he disappears.

“Leo,” Cleo plucks a rose from the centerpiece and taps my hand with it. “Thank you for taking time out today to have your fitting.”

“Not a problem, Madcap. I am yours to command.” I wink at Cleo and relieve her of the flower to present it to Juliette. She thanks me and brings it to her nose. Her eyes rove over my face before she tucks the flower back into the arrangement.

In the meantime, I bring my free arm to rest on top of the banquette, behind her head. She slides an amused glance my way and pats my thigh. Tony cocks a brow at me with a smirk.

“Was it in time?” Cleo asks Juliette.

“Yes, there’s very little tailoring needed.”

"I can't believe you spend your day gawking at hunky men modeling tuxes," Cleo whines. "I dance around goat droppings and slimy pacifiers." She huffs and picks up her menu but is sidetracked by the waiter bringing our drinks. Grabbing hers and abandoning the menu, she glances around, glass to her lips. She seems unusually jumpy tonight.

Diners fill the tables around us, chatting with friends, laughing, adding to Cleo's agitation. Tony draws her close and opens his menu. She points to something, and my brother shakes his head. She points to something else, which must meet with his agreement, because she gifts him with a sweet smile and rests her head on his shoulder. He tweaks her chin affectionately with his thumb.

Juliette sits at my side watching the pair, face impassive. Candlelight shadows dance across her features.

“What is it, princess,” I murmur.

“You might want to cool it with the princess bit,” she comments.

“Why? It suits you.”

“And if I start calling you something like Cutie Pie? Or how’s Hunkmuffin strike you?”

I grimace.

She responds with a satisfied nod.

But then I brighten. “You think I’m a hunkmuffin?”

 She ghosts a laugh and glances down at her menu. “I can’t decide what I’m hungry for.”

Oh, Juliette…

My brain hiccups, filling in all sorts of blanks, knowing exactly what it’s hungry for. I must be leering like a prepubescent, because Juliette flushes, grins, and gives me a mock-stern look. “I mean, what to order for dinner."

Her heightened color is gorgeous. “We could order whatever those two are having,” I suggest. Cleo and Tony are absorbed in each other with looks, touches, murmured conversation. Giving into an earlier impulse, I allow my hand to drift from the top of the banquette to finger gossamer filaments of Juliette’s hair. It’s addictively soft and fine, and my fingers are forming a dependency.

“You mean whatever Tony has decided they’re having.” Her voice is gentle, but there’s heat in her sentiment. She pulls her hair from my hand.

My brows arch. “That bothers you?”

Juliette toys with the spoon of her table setting. “Not if it’s really what Cleo wants.”

What I want is to know what’s fueling Juliette’s discomfort. “That could be construed as romantic.”

Her lips thin and I feel her withdraw from me. “Do you think so?”

I close the menu and reach for my cocktail, examining its color in the candlelight. “If it demonstrates trust.”

She studies me. “More of your romantic ideas?” She’s scoffing, but the ladylike tone of her delivery bemuses rather than insults me.

Other women in history have possessed that quality. Audrey Hepburn set Rex Harrison back on his aristocratic haunches in My Fair Lady with such a quality. Jackie Kennedy could probably have called Khrushchev names with that quality and still have him scrambling to haul his missiles out of Cuba. The late Princess Diana of Wales hung out the dirty royal laundry yet managed to charm the world with that demure, ladylike quality.

Juliette looks back at the affianced pair engaged in their own private murmurings. “Where’s the line between demonstrating trust and sublimating will?" she asks.

Tony and I have had this discussion before. I’m not sure the response he gives me will satisfy Juliette Samson. “Have you asked Cleo that question?”

“Yes.” She cranes her neck, searching over the heads of the other diners. “Have you seen our waiter?”

I'm not letting her skate away yet. “And what does Cleo say?”

“She says he doesn’t exert control unless it affects her or their relationship directly or unless she asks him to step in.”

My brother is a control freak, but not a tyrant, so Juliette’s comment tracks. “Is that a problem for you?”

She refocuses on me. “I see the potential for serious problems, yes.”

“Unless there’s trust.”

She sighs deeply. “Unless there’s trust that his focus is on Cleo and the health of their relationship and not solely on himself. But speaking of trust…how far do you trust women?” She turns in the banquette, pulling her legs in, so she’s facing me.

A businessman in a shiny suit settles into the banquette next to ours. The woman he’s with stands gazing at him, waiting for something. He glances her way and his lips move. She slides in next to him, but they don’t touch.

I skim one hand down the back of Juliette's head and the hair I’m falling in love with. “Depends on the woman.”

“Do you trust me?”

One side of my mouth pulls up in a lazy grin. “As much as I know about you.”

She leans into me and unclasps my hair. When she runs her hands through it, I have to stifle a groan.

“That’s a lot of power to hand over to someone else.”

“It is indeed.”

Gray-green eyes delve into mine, brimming with languorous heat. A finger of my free hand runs along the downy softness of her cheek. It reminds me of a butterfly’s wing I touched as a child. Delicate and powdery soft.

She captures my hand and holds it against the side of her face with a coy gaze through her lashes. Maintaining eye contact, her lips press my palm.

My lips tilt. “That’s why you should never consider marrying someone you didn’t completely trust.”

 

*****

 

He’s absolutely right, you shouldn’t.

The follow-on thought is, since no one can be trusted to that extent, no one should marry. I know I never plan to again.

But we aren’t talking about marriage.

I drop Leo’s hand and glance over at Tony and Cleo, hoping they’re too wrapped up in each other to observe the calculated seduction going on across the table from them.

I needn’t have worried. Cleo and Tony hold hands and whisper together, as close as April and May. But out of the corner of my eye, I spot a figure in the distance. My stomach lurches and my heart stutters.

A second more direct look proves the space empty of the man I was afraid I saw, the man who used to haunt my dreams, who abused every ounce of my trust. I shake my head to clear it. Too much talk of romance. The last thing I need right now is my mind playing sadistic tricks with my emotions.

I reclaim my hair a second time from Leo’s grasp, shrug off the intensity of my thoughts, and pick up a menu. “Chicken marsala,” I mumble. Then, with more assurance, “I think I’ll have the chicken marsala. What’s everyone else having?”

The lovebirds' attention returns to the room around them. “Uh…let’s see. We’re going for the chicken pasta primavera,” Cleo says. “What about you, Leo?”

He studies me, a question in his eyes. “Chicken marsala sounds good to me.”

I hope I can choke some down.

Leo signals the waiter. “Shall we have wine?”

I want a drink. In fact, I crave a drink. “Yes, please.”

“White seems to go with all our dishes. Any preferences?” Leo asks.

“If we’re going with white, I’m partial to Mosel wines.” The friendly informality of tastings in a kellar in Zell, dark, damp, redolent of fermenting wine in wood casks, swamp my memories, calming my emotions.

“A Riesling then.” Tony and Leo confer and our waiter scuttles off with our orders.

“That’s where our favorite castle is, isn’t it, Juliette? On the Mosel?” Cleo’s exuberance bubbles out of her. "Leo, how did you know that Riesling would appeal to Juliette?"

"An educated guess, Madcap. our Ms. Samson is someone who exemplifies their pure, refreshing beauty."

"Aww, Leo, that's so sweet," Cleo coos, trying to catch my eye.

But I close them on her, and sift through memories of a vacation she and I took together one year. “Burg Eltz, in the heart of Germany. A beautiful gem tucked down in an ancient forest.”

“Down?” Tony asks. “Aren’t most castles built high up on a hillside or mountain for protection?”

“Ordinarily, yes. But that’s one of the things I like best about Burg Eltz. It’s so unexpected. You park up high, on the ridge of mountains above the Mosel River, then begin the trek down the backside to the medieval castle. With every step farther into the trees, you feel as though you’re walking back in time, shedding decades, until, poof, you’re there, drawbridge beckoning.”

“Magical,” Leo murmurs. I luxuriate in the warmth of caramel-colored eyes. With his hair loose around his shoulders, DePaul could almost be a knight living in the castle, guarding it and the surrounding land. Ever since I met the man, he’s plagued me with fairy tale images. Where’s that drink?

“You should see the pictures,” Cleo says. “Beautiful artwork painted on the ceiling beams in the master bedroom.” Her arms fly up in the air, sweeping back and forth, her excitement building, as though she’s painting the beams herself. “And what surprised me most was that even back then, the owner put an en suite off the master!”

“That’s right,” I say, laughing. “I supposed you’d call it that. A wooden seat over an opening in the wall, angling down the side of the castle and into a tributary below.”

“Oh, you’re making me homesick to go back there!”

As she speaks she bounces on the banquette, and Tony surreptitiously lays a hand on Cleo’s thigh. She draws a breath, stops bouncing, and her arms lower to her lap. Her energy level ratchets down, and she smiles at Tony. His intimate response is transmitted via half-lidded eyes.

Through this process, he pushes the conversation along. “Quite progressive for a medieval structure. When was this castle built?”

The food arrives, wine is poured, and stories about interesting vacation sites and experiences continue. By my third glass of wine, when the waiter clears our table, I’m very mellow. Leo’s arm rests again behind my head, on top of the banquette. Cleo has draped her legs over one of Tony’s thighs splayed under the tablecloth. I know she’d be sitting in his lap if we weren’t in a public place.

"Where are you and Cleo going for your honeymoon?"

“Not on your life,” says Tony.

“I’m sorry?” I ask, confused by his abruptness.

“It’s a secret until after we get back.” Cleo giggles and snuggles closer to her fiancé.

Leo laughs out loud, a deep, full-bodied rumble. “Coward.”

Tony gives his brother what I think may be one of the best stink eyes I’ve ever seen. “Survival."

“You’re afraid I’ll prank you.” Leo looks down at me with a devilish grin that features his sexy dimple. The Riesling-tainted vision warms me. “He’s right.”

“Four of us brothers,” Tony explains to me, his tone long-suffering. “A lifetime of pranks.”

Through the coziness of the wine and reminiscing, I imagine the loving chaos of their big family.

Tony stares hard at his big brother. “We’d actually like to enjoy our honeymoon.”

Leo lifts a shoulder, good-naturedly.

“And on that note,” announces Cleo, yawning, “I’m ready for bed.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to her. Realizing what she said, she giggles again. “I don’t mean that."

“But let’s not dismiss the idea.” Tony lowers Cleo’s feet to the floor so he can climb out of the banquette.

“Good night, Maid of Honor.” We kiss before she slides over to her fiancé. Once standing, she leans in and kisses Leo’s cheek. “Good night, best man.”

He returns her peck. “Good night, Cleo. Take care of my little brother.”

“My pleasure.” She kisses Tony on the jaw. His response is not nearly as chaste.

Oh, my…please let this love last.

I sit up to slide out, too, but Leo’s hand touches my shoulder. “Help me finish the wine."

The bottle is still more than half full. I’m mellowed enough I shouldn’t spend time alone with Leo in this condition. Perversely, my body settles back into the banquette.

“All right, I’ll be happy to. And I’ll also be happy to help pay the check.”

“Hardly.” Leo pours more wine in each of our glasses.

“Don’t be antediluvian.” The leather holder containing the bill is just out of reach.

“I think not, princess.” Leo’s longer arm snags the holder.

“DePaul—"

“No debate.”

Tony breaks off kissing Cleo. “Tell you what—I’ve got it.” Leo pushes the holder out of his way, too. He signals the waiter and fits a credit card into the pocket.

“We’ll leave you to hash it out between you, then.” Tony takes Cleo’s hand and calls over his shoulder, “Don’t leave any marks or bruises that might show up in the wedding photos, okay, you two?”

“SO not the look I want to capture for posterity,” Cleo chimes in, sleepily.

The vibration of my phone drags my attention from the retreating couple. The number is unfamiliar. “Juliette Samson,” I answer formally.

Leo sips from his glass, but his eyes are on me, scanning.

“Anyone hurt?” After a beat, “On my way.” I end the call and look up at the concern etched on Leo’s face. “The front window at my shop was smashed. The police are there now.”

Leo’s already on his feet. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Thanks, but it’s not necessary –”

“You want to waste time arguing about this, too?” He takes my hand and tugs me the rest of the way out of the banquette.

I don’t have the time or energy to deal with you right now, Leo. “I can handle it, DePaul.”

He grips my waist, propelling us forward, steering me out of the restaurant. “I know you can, Juliette. But I’ve got you anyway.”