Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy (14 page)

She felt that familiar electric tingle rippling up her back, down her shoulders, and was only vaguely aware as the dance floor filled. Mitch’s plan was working so far. Before the evening was over, she would strut all her “voices,” crooning heartbreaking ballads, warbling country/swing and belting out roadhouse blues. And damn, it felt good.

After finishing the first set of vocals, she finally was able to drop to a small padded stool behind the drums and grab a tall glass of ice water from a tray, catching a drip with a linen napkin before it could spatter her skirt. She dabbed her forehead with the cool, damp fabric, relieved to be off her feet and out of the public eye for a few numbers. She slipped her right pump off and rubbed her little toe. She’d forgotten how much these shoes pinched.

And then she noticed the note on the tray. “SONGBIRD” was scrawled across the paper in bold, black letters. She sighed in disgust as she unfolded the note. “I’d like to meet you. Room 1123 after the dance. Your admirer, Dr. Myron Rhodentucker.” Just as she’d anticipated.
 

Cecilia crushed the paper in her fist. “I must have forgotten and twitched,” she grumbled.

“Twitched?” Jeff’s voice repeated in her ear.

Stunned, she twisted on the stool and saw him towering over her. Her mouth fell open. “Jeff?”

“Shh...” He raised a finger to his lips, then pointed to the name tag on his lapel that read Hello! My name is Myron Rhodentucker, Peoria, Illinois.

“Where did you get—what are you—”

“Hush.” Jeff sat beside her. “I’m operating on the thin assumption that since he didn’t pick up his name tag before dinner, Dr. Rhodentucker left the convention early.”

“But what if he shows up?” She stifled a giggle. “What if someone sees you and knows you’re not... Myron.”

“Why do you think I’m hanging around behind the band?”

“Because you’re hitting on the singer.”

“Sheer coincidence.”

“Seriously,” Cecilia said. “What are you doing here?”

“Being with you.”

She gulped and glanced away, and caught Mitch staring curiously at them. “You’re ruining my reputation.”

“How do I continue to do that without actually getting any of the side benefits?” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Ruining a good woman’s reputation should be more lascivious, more titillating, more scandalous, don’t you think?”

“In this kind of job I have to bend over backward to keep men from thinking I’m open season. I have three ground rules—no alcohol, no men, no exceptions.”

“And I, of course, am intoxicating, male, and the exception.” He grinned.

“No,” she retorted. “And you still haven’t answered me. Why on earth did you crash a foot doctor’s convention?”

He reached for the boa and twirled one fine feather around his finger. “You look... different from yourself tonight.”

“Not different from myself. Just different from the way you usually see me.” She was mesmerized by his nearness, by the way his hand came so close to touching her bare arm, but didn’t. The music shifted into a Cole Porter standard, the last number before her next vocal. Mitch had stopped staring, but Cecilia didn’t feel any less exposed.

Her throat was dry. “I thought you were flying to Houston.”

“I sent McVay, instead.”

“Why?”

He continued to play with the feathers, brushing them this way and that without ever quite touching her skin, yet she tingled with the awareness of it. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you spending your birthday alone.”

“My birth—” She felt a flush spreading across her cheeks. “How did you know?”

“April Fools’?” His hand fell away from her, and his smile was gentle, teasing. “How could I forget?”

The birthday she was working on, because she thought nobody remembered. Cecilia’s fingers fondled the velvety gardenia petals on her shoulder. “I don’t know what to say.”

“How about, 'Yes, I’ll meet you in room 1123 after the dance’?”

“What?” Her fist clenched and the poor gardenia caught the worst of it.

“That was a joke. But really, Cecil, do you mind?” When she didn’t respond immediately, he repeated, “Do you mind if I stay? I don’t want to create problems for you.”
 

He was creating problems right and left.

But still, she found herself saying, “I don’t mind.”

“Then maybe... afterward, we could have dinner.” After a night’s work she’d be exhausted, and definitely not hungry. But, what the heck? It was her birthday. And he was Jeff.

And she refused to examine the significance of the latter when she responded, “I’d love to.”
 

~o0o~

Juggling bags, Jeff swung open the door of his town house, and Cecilia stepped into the cool, sophisticated simplicity that greeted her. She walked across the polished marble floor of the small foyer and thought of the muddy footprints she hadn’t had time to wipe from the floor at home. Night and day.

When she reached the Oriental rug in the living room, a squawking, screeching, vocal assault sent her stumbling backward.

“
Give ’em hell, Harry
!”

She fell right into Jeff’s arms. “Good grief—what is it?”

“It’s only Toulouse,” he explained, laughing. But he held her securely. “My uncle’s parrot.”

“Give ’em hell, Harry!” the bird screeched again.

“Is he going to attack?”

“Come on. He can’t hurt you.” Jeff touched a switch and the living room was flooded with light. But before she could register the effect of the startlingly vivid painting on the opposite wall, the squawking, which had stopped momentarily, reached a new frenzy.

“Hey, buddy,” Jeff said in a soothing tone of voice and snatched a handful of sunflower seeds from an Oriental jar.

But the bird refused to be distracted, and Cecilia was obviously the target of his wild-eyed wing-beating fury.

It didn’t matter that the feathered beast was in a cage bigger than she was. She backpedaled toward the door, her eyes frozen on the gaping, hooked beak.

“I really don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Jeff said. “He’s probably just mad because I didn’t come home earlier for dinner.”

Cecilia stared at the orange eyes. The orange eyes glared back. “I don’t think that’s his problem.” She shuddered. “He hates me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a bird. He’s incapable of hating you.” But the uncertain glance Jeff aimed in her direction when Toulouse shrieked maniacally belied his words. “I’ll give him some mango and let him out on his perch. That’ll calm him down.”

“You let that bird out of that cage and I’ll—I’ll—” The threat died on her lips when Jeff left the room. She exchanged venomous glares with the bird.

“Hussy.”

Cecilia’s mouth fell open.

“Brazen hussy!”

“Jeff, your uncle’s bird is insulting me!”

The bird screeched, then cocked its head and glowered. “Round up the usual suspects.”

“What?” Appalled, she called out to Jeff, “What is this crazy bird talking about?”

The parrot fanned the green feathers on its neck. Its eyes were glowing orange accusations aimed directly at her. “If she can stand it, I can.
Play it
!”

Jeff returned with a palmful of mango pieces. “This isn’t like him at all.”

“So you keep telling me,” Cecilia muttered from her spot safely within reach of the French doors on the other side of the room.

Jeff deposited the fruit in the cage. “There you go, you crotchety old bag of feathers.”

“When is your uncle taking him back?”

“Never. He died three years ago. Left Toulouse to me in his will.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” For the first time, Cecilia noticed the seed shells and feathers spattering the otherwise immaculate carpet, and knew instinctively how much of an adjustment Jeff had had to make. “What a dreadful inheritance. Do you ever consider giving him away?”

Jeff sighed, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. “When Uncle Harry asked me to take care of Toulouse, I didn’t realize how much trouble a bird could be.” His laugh was wry. “I can’t imagine anyone else putting up with him for long.”

“I can’t imagine you putting up with him at all.” Cecilia’s gaze swept the room. “Especially you.”

“
Brazen hussy
!” Toulouse squawked.

“You know, my uncle didn’t like females in general. So I’m thinking this isn’t about you personally, but about you being a woman.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” Cecilia said, straight-faced. “What are you, a student of bird psychology, or something?”

“When I inherited him I read a lot about Amazon parrots.” Jeff opened the door of a teakwood cabinet. At least a dozen books on parrots, particularly double yellow heads, were neatly arranged. “When this type of parrot is raised exclusively by one person, they can get rather hostile toward other people, especially those of the opposite sex. Uncle Harry lived alone, so...”

“Give ’em hell!”

“Rather hostile, you say.” Cecilia sniffed.

“Why don’t we leave him alone until he calms down?”

“Why don’t we just leave him alone indefinitely.”

“Why, Cecil, I believe you’re afraid of him.” Jeff was clearly amused.

“He has a beak that would puncture an armored tank and talons like razors, all of which he’d like to sink into me. Why should I be afraid?”

Jeff led her into a dining area and sat her down in front of the table where he’d spread a selection of take-out Chinese food.

“Open your mouth and eat,” Jeff ordered sternly, then softened it with a grin. He popped open two cans of soda and slid one across the table to her.

At this late hour they were both too hungry to chat at first. After finishing off her fried rice, Cecilia paused, a shrimp dripping sweet-and-sour sauce halfway to her mouth. “No candles, no seductive music, no booze. What kind of bachelor are you?”

“The kind who’s trying very hard not to scare you off.”

A piece of shrimp lodged in her throat. She choked and sputtered, “Oh, my.”

“I’d rather not scare myself off, either, if you’d like to know the truth,” he admitted over the top of his soda can. “So, tonight, let’s just be old friends.”

“Oh. Old friends.” She sipped from her can. “That’s fair enough.” So why did the flutterings in her stomach suddenly quiet into a disappointed lump? She slid a glance around the room. “I would like some music, though.”

“I should think you’d be tired of it.”

“Tired of Mitch Delaney’s shenanigans, yes. Tired of music? Never.”

“I am totally amazed by the way you can sing.”

Cecilia chewed her food deliberately.

“How do you do it? All those songs were so different— and so were you, for each one.”

“You’ve heard of being multilingual? Well, I’m multi-singual. You name it, I do it. I twang, I grate, I croon, I swoon, I can choke back a sob or grind out a threat, all in perfect pitch.” She smiled, quite unabashed at her own boastfulness. “It’s what makes me such a valuable commodity.”

“Valuable?”

“Sure. A commercial singer has to be versatile above all.”

“And a damned good singer.”

She shrugged. “That goes without saying. But my point is, there are a lot of damned good singers out there who couldn’t last an hour in a commercial jingle studio because they lack the range. I just happen to be someone who can.”

“And it’s steady?”

“Getting steadier all the time.” Cecilia toyed with a barbecued rib. “The elite in our business make six figures, easy.”

“Good grief!” Jeff almost sputtered his cola, but managed to get control of himself. “And you... you’re in that category?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Not yet. But I plan to get there.”

“That should take care of your bouncing checks?” he teased, eyes dancing.

“Jeff, my checks didn’t bounce because I overspent. I’m just a haphazard bookkeeper. And my checking account runs low because I keep stashing money in savings for my education.”

Jeff set down his glass thoughtfully “You know, for someone who’s planning a career in education, you certainly have a talent for postponing it. You haven’t taken a single class in... how many years?”

“I’m going to,” she began defensively. Hadn’t she been through the same hassle with Robert? “I’ve just been too busy.”

“And profitably so, it would seem.”

“Well... yes,” she admitted, mollified.

“Cecilia, tell me the truth. Do you even went to be a music teacher?”

“I love kids. I would be very good at it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Damn him. She met his gaze head-on, and was furious at him for asking the single question nobody else had asked. “It’s not exactly what I want, but I love music, and I think I’d be very happy teaching. Plus it’s very practical. I’d work the same hours and have the same holidays as the kids, and—”

“Cecilia Evans, I’m ashamed of you.”

She gasped, too startled to speak.