Carrie Alexander - Playing With Fire

The question was relayed to Eddie, who guarded the front door like a concerned father. The answer made its way back via Genevieve, who had once been an editor at Vogue and now ran a vintage clothing store in Little Italy. With an unerring fashion instinct, she’d supplied Lara’s dress.

“No Daniel. Just the chauffeur.”

“Ooh, a chauffeur,” said one of the gang on the bed. “How bourgeois,” chimed another voice. “But fun,” said a third.

Bianca handed over a silver beaded purse, another loaner since Lara hadn’t come to New York expecting to be swept off her feet. They embraced. Lara said, “You’re sure it’s okay for me to leave after I offered to baby-sit—”

Bianca grabbed her face and smacked a kiss upon both cheeks. “Go. Have a good time.” She pushed Lara toward the door, clearing discarded shoes and trampled scarves with a sweep of her foot. “Gah, I feel just like a mother sending her daughter to the prom!”

A smattering of applause broke out when Lara was paraded through the living space. Eddie enveloped her in another of his big hugs when she reached the studio. “But something’s missing,” he said worriedly, holding her out to look her over. “Little black dress. Gloves. Pearls. Bow in the hair. I know. The sunglasses. I might be balding and middle aged, but I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s too, ya know.”

“Sunglasses at night? That’s overkill,” Bianca said. “You have no subtlety, Eddie.”

He made a comical face. “Isn’t that the point?”

“I knew it.” Lara tore the silly black silk bow out of her hair, leaving in the rhinestone pins. “We’ve gone over the top.”

“No, no, leave the gloves,” Bianca urged as Lara went out the door, tugging at them.

The chauffeur waited at the curb, holding the door open on a long black limo. Lara stopped. Her stomach did a flip. She turned back to Bianca and Eddie, who were watching arm in arm from the lighted doorway, along with the crowd pressing behind them and up against the studio windows.

I can’t back out with everyone watching, Lara thought, bolstering herself. The front of the glass studio was painted with bright, boisterous graffiti that distracted from the chipped cement and gritty windows. The place was on the shabby side of humble, but it was her safe home in the city, far more comforting than her parent’s expensive town house in Gramercy Park.

“I don’t know this guy from Adam,” she blurted. “I don’t even know his last name. What am I doing, getting into his limo? This is crazy.” She offered up a smile, recognizing the drama. “Crazy, I tell you!”

Eddie’s brows knitted. “Maybe she’s right….”

“Savage, ma’am,” said the driver. “Daniel Savage. I have his address for you. He said you might be concerned.”

“Oh. That was thoughtful of him.” She took the card and stepped over to press it into Bianca’s hand with a hollow laugh. “In case I disappear, you’ll know where to start looking.”

“This is romantic,” Bianca reassured her. “Don’t look so worried.” She pinched one of Eddie’s love handles so he’d stop frowning. “You’re going off with a chauffeur, not a white slaver.”

Lara muttered, “Uh, yeah, thanks for bringing that up,” but she allowed the driver to escort her into the car. It was luxurious, with a tastefully done interior of soft gray leather and burled walnut. As the limo slipped away into traffic, she turned and waved to Bianca and Eddie and all the rest, who were cheering—or jeering, given their individual levels of cynicism—as they watched her go. She stripped off the gloves as soon as she was beyond Bianca’s scope.

All well-equipped limos had ice buckets. In this one, a freshly opened bottle of champagne nestled into a bed of crushed ice. A thin trail of vapor curled from the bottle’s neck, inviting her to partake. Lara reached for the crystal flute, then decided that she was tipsy enough without aid. Tonight she’d need her wits about her.

A florist’s paper cone rested on the seat beside her. She picked it up and peeled back foil and tissue. Calla lilies. Beautiful. They were strong flowers, sleek and smooth and assured.

“Me, too,” she said, stroking a lily, glossy on one side, soft on the other. “For tonight, me too.”

A minute later, she realized that the limo wasn’t leaving the East Village. She’d expected to rendezvous with Daniel at an expensive restaurant, but instead they were pulling up to an area of typical side-by-side row houses, the fronts flushed a rosy gray in the dimming light. The process of gentrification had recently struck. Or possibly stalled out. Most of the houses were nothing special—grimy two-and three-flats, showing their age. Several had been renovated and upgraded with freshly painted trim and handsome matching urns at the stoop.

The limo circled twice, looking for a parking spot. A flotsam of vehicles clogged the streets. Even the illegal spots were taken, though the fire hydrant would soon be clear because one unlucky soul’s car was being towed.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” the driver said at last, giving up on his only possibility—six empty feet between an oxidized red Trans Am and a rusty Buick. “I’m going to have to let you out on the street.”

“That’ll do,” Lara said, smiling at her pretentions. So much for Cinderella’s stylish arrival at the ball. “Just point me in the right direction.”

“I’ll do better than that.” Disregarding traffic, he put the limo in park and stepped outside. Lara hurriedly scooted across the seat as horns blared.

“Move the effing car,” yelled a burly, tattooed guy, obviously practiced at leaning on his horn and flipping the bird simultaneously. Not a talent singular to New Yorkers, but one they’d clearly perfected.

Despite the increasing chorus of complaint, the chauffeur insisted on escorting Lara past the trash at the curb and up the steps of her destination. He rang the doorbell, muttered an apology, then raced back to the limo just in time to shoo away a wino with his eye on the silver ice bucket.

Which was why Lara was laughing when the door opened.

Daniel—Daniel Savage, she thought with pleasure—smiled at her, his eyes burnished like pewter in the soft glow of the entry light.

“You came,” he said. “I’m so pleased.”

She sobered, puckering her lips into a flirtatious moue even though she was kinda sorta awestruck inside. “What girl refuses a limo?”

“And you’re so very beautiful,” he continued as if mesmerized, “I think I’m forced to kiss you.”

Her eyes widened, but in the next instant she was in his embrace and his lips were on hers, kissing the pucker right out of them. It happened too fast for her to react. No time to savor the flavor of his warm mouth. No time to absorb the woodsy, masculine scent of him. No time to appreciate the sensation of being pressed against his wide, hard chest.

He kissed her quickly but fully, and then he was drawing her inside the close, dim entry of the brick row house and she was looking around, gaze darting like a chickadee, landing everywhere but on his face. The dark woodwork needed refinishing. A jagged crack ran though the only window—a small, square, stained-glass panel near the door. The limited space was crammed with mailboxes, crumpled takeout flyers, inline skates, hats, jackets and a bike frame that had been stripped of its wheels.

“You live here?” she said, incredulous, his kiss burning on her lips.

“A humble abode, but mine own.” To one side was a long narrow staircase that turned back on itself when it reached the second floor. On the right a door opened off the foyer, emanating light and warmth and cooking smells. Daniel shut the front door and herded her toward the open one. “Let’s take our kisses privately for a change, shall we?”