Romantic Interludes

ROMANTIC INTERLUDES

14 Romance Short Stories

Janet Woods

1 . . . . . BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S

When Poppy James saw Ian Cordel for the second time, he was striding along the middle of an isolated stretch of road, the sequins on his pink skirt glittering in the moonlight.

Slowing to cruise alongside him, she stuck her head out of the window to take another look. 

His eyes were a glitter of darkness as they slid towards her, his voice a menacing growl. ‘Don’t you even dare crack a smile, lady.’ 

She hung mental weights at each corner of her mouth.

‘Is there a hotel or boarding house in the district?’ he asked.

‘About two miles from the cross roads, back there.’

‘It can’t be much further, then.’

‘That depends if you intend to circumnavigate the district, or not. It’s in the opposite direction to the one you’re going in, you see. But it’s closed at this time of night, and anyway, the proprietor, Fred Harper, wouldn’t allow a guy in pink spangles to cross his doorstep.’

His curse was understandable. ‘Despite my appearance I’m perfectly normal.’

If normal was tall and drop-dead handsome.

He peered intently at her and put a hand on the car, as if it would prevent her driving off. ‘Are you crazy?’

Imperceptibly she edged the speed up, in case he was the crazy one. ‘That rather depends on whether I’m seeing Ian Cordel dressed in a pink gown sashaying along the road to Knowere in the early hours of the morning - or not seeing him.’

‘Ah, I see . . . nowhere . . . is a town.’ His breathing was becoming labored. ‘That’s right, it’s spelled, Knowere.’

‘How did you know my name?’

‘I was at the charity concert and reception, and I helped do the cleaning up, afterwards. How did you get yourself into this predicament?’

‘It’s my birthday and I was shanghaied by the road crew. Look, could you slow down a bit. I’m bounding along like Giselle with her pants on fire.'

She giggled and brought the car to a halt. ‘You’d better get in.’

‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘Hey, I thought I told you not to laugh.’

‘You told me not to smile. A different thing altogether.’

He managed a chuckle himself, as if the funny side of the situation had just occurred to him.

‘Didn’t you have anything manly in your luggage to change into?’

‘Do you see any luggage? It was thrown on to the bus, along with everyone else’s, along with my wallet and mobile phone. I have no funds, not even a credit card . . . and absolutely nothing else to wear.’

She nodded at the frustration in his voice. ‘I’m a woman, I understand the concept perfectly.’

‘If the press get hold of this I’ll be laughed off the planet.’

‘Hmmm . . . I wonder how much they’d pay for the story.’

When his eyes sharpened she gently smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I live not far from here, if that will help'

He slid into the passenger seat and hunched into his billowing pink tulle like a ruffled and very sparkly flamingo. 

‘Happy birthday,’ she cooed.

‘Thank you, Miss . . . um.’

‘James.’ 

‘Home then, James, and don’t spare the horses,’ he said.

She grinned and put her foot down.

* * * *

Poppy woke before her guest. It was gone eleven. She quickly showered and dressed before gazing round the door at him.

He was sound asleep, sprawled on his stomach amongst a heap of rumpled bedding, his long lashes quivering against his cheeks. One foot stuck out from under the covers. He sighed and turned on his side, momentarily flashing a taut, terrific and very bare backside.

Quickly, she pulled the door shut, then headed for her car, an appreciative grin on her face.

Outside, the air was humid. Black clouds piled high in the sky. Poppy ransacked the Knowere General Store, slash post office, slash newsagent, for something that looked as though it might to fit her guest - though she had to dodge Millicent Mason’s questions about why she wanted men’s clothing.

‘What time does the bus come though, Millie?’

‘Early, and it’s gone. I’ve just had news that the road is closed at the moment. It’s flooded. Here’s your weekly magazine. At least you’ll have something interesting to read. Why did you want to know about the bus? Expecting a visitor?’

‘Oh, I thought I might go somewhere,’ she said, using the standard joke that clearly told the woman to mind her own business.

Poppy was back home within twenty minutes, chased by a fierce squall that blew her hair into a curly squall of its own.

Ian had showered in her absence. He looked totally desirable with a bath sheet wrapped around his waist, though he’d have looked just as wonderful in a dustbin bag. His eyes went to her hair and he grinned. ‘I thought you’d run out on me, but I see you’ve been having your hair done.’

‘Watch your wit, Cordel. Remember, I have you at my mercy. I’ve just been shopping on your behalf. This was the best I could find, I’m afraid. And you can’t go anywhere, since the road out of town is closed.’

‘I’ve never been to anywhere, what’s it like there?’

 ‘Similar to somewhere, I guess.’

As she handed him the package his eyes met hers for a few seconds. ‘Thank you, James. I hope I haven’t been too much bother.’

‘Only a little . . . did you sleep well?’

‘Like a dream. It’s nice country around here. I like the cottage; it’s secluded, and unusual. Most of all, it’s peaceful.’

‘My grandparents built it. They were hippies. The area started out as a commune, and the cottage was named after my grandmother, Tiffany.’

‘It’s a pretty name. And your parents?’

‘Dad disappointed them. He’s very establishment, and manages a bank. The parents are overseas at the moment, enjoying a second honeymoon. I’m twenty-four, single and live in Fremantle.’

Ian grinned. ‘What do you do for a living, James?’

‘Teach. It’s school holidays now, though. And I do a bit of painting; water colors mostly - flowers, birds, butterflies; Gran sells them on her stall.’

‘You have pretty blue eyes, you know, and a seriously nice butt. Not every woman looks as good as you do in jeans.’

Which brought an instant recollection of his bare butt.

 He grinned when she spluttered, ‘Stop being cheeky. Go and get dressed, I hope it all fits.’

It did. Thank goodness for tee shirts and stretch jeans.

‘Does the phone work?’

‘It did the last time I used it.’

Ian dialled. Poppy heard the phone ringing at the other end as she separated the rashers of bacon and laid them next to a quartet of pork sausages sizzling on the grill. Ian looked like a man who needed plenty of protein.

 He gave a frustrated sigh, hung up, and then switched the radio on.

‘Police have been searching since dawn for record producer, Ian Cordel. He was last seen walking in the direction of Knowere, and was reported to be wearing a pink ball gown. Bad weather has forced the police to call the search off."

‘I’ll kill that crew,’ he said.

A gust of wind rattled the house as they looked at each other. Nicely browned toast shot out of the toaster just before the radio went dead. The phone lost its dialing tone.

She quite fancied this man, and everything seemed to be conspiring to help her. She flicked open the magazine and came face to face with an article headed Ian Cordel - Australia’s most eligible bachelor.

Eat your heart out, girls, I’ve got him all to myself for today, Poppy thought. ‘The telephone line must have come down,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to my mobile; it’s on the sideboard. I hope it’s still got some juice left in it.’ Calmly, she cracked three eggs into the frying pan to join the sliced tomato and mushrooms, knowing it hadn’t.

He managed to get through to the police. ‘It’s Ian Cordel . . . I’m all right. I decided to stay the night with my friend, Miss James. James! Tiffany Cottage. No . . . not symphony. Tiffany!’ He frowned at her. ‘Doesn’t anything work around here?’

‘Yes, the gas cooker does. So do I. Stop looking so peeved.’ She grinned at him and set two loaded plates on the table. ‘Here you are, then. Breakfast at Tiffany's. You should have worn your dress and tiara.’

‘Audrey Hepburn, I’m not. Besides, the dress is too small. Mmmm . . . that looks good,’ and he pulled out a chair for her. ‘After you, James.’

‘My name is Poppy,’ she said.

Afterwards he prowled around the house like a caged cat. He was obviously, not a man who took to inactivity kindly. She challenged him to a game of Scrabble.

‘The winner gets a kiss?’ he suggested.

She considered for a moment, and then smiled. ‘That sounds a fair enough arrangement. The loser gets to cook breakfast tomorrow.’

By the end of the day they’d gradually kissed up a storm between them. This man was dangerous, she realised.

Dinner was grilled steak and salad, and a bottle of sparkling wine, which had quite a kick in its bubbles. Ian discovered her grandfather’s abandoned guitar, tuned it and serenaded her by candlelight.

‘I’ve been thinking . . . ’ he murmured when it was time to go to bed. And somehow, she knew exactly what his thoughts had been.

‘So have I. Goodnight, Ian.’ He looked surprised for a moment, and then chuckled. ‘So, I ended up the loser, after all.’

‘Or I did. We’ll never know; because I stopped keeping a tally ages ago.’ ‘Don’t count on it, James,’ he said.

* * * *

He dropped into my lap and I didn’t take advantage of it, Poppy thought ruefully, as she waved him goodbye on the bus the following morning. Ah well . . . he’d cooked a good breakfast.

The following Sunday she read in the gossip column of the paper: Sources report that Ian Cordel, Australia’s most eligible bachelor, was recently holed up at Tiffany’s with his best mate, James. Guess who’d taken his pink frock out of the closet for the occasion?

Poppy snorted as she picked up the receiver and informed Ian’s answer phone, ‘It seems that you need rescuing again, so I’m taking matters into my own hands. I’ll be in Tiffany’s restaurant on Saturday at 9.30 am. Black tie.’

* * * *

Poppy’s heart beat hard as the limo drew to a halt.

Ian looked like the dish he was in a black tux. His eyes filled with amusement when he saw the pink gown she was wearing. ‘I must admit, it looks better on you than it did on me.’ When he stooped to kiss her, cameras clicked. He gazed into her eyes afterwards, a tiny smile on his face.

‘What’s the lady’s name, Ian?’ someone shouted out.‘ James . . . Poppy James, and I’m crazy about her.’

‘How crazy?’

‘Well now,’ he whispered, his grin curling into her heart, ‘I can’t help thinking that this is the beginning of a very long love affair. How about we go to my place afterwards, and play Scrabble. Winner takes all?’

‘Sounds fair to me, but first . . . ’

‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,’ they said together.

2 . . . . . LOVE ON THE LINE

The Jaguar purred as it drew level with Tansy’s Volkswagen. The horn offered a refined beep. She couldn’t see the driver clearly through the tinted glass, but it was all male.

Tansy had sworn off men since she’d been almost stood up at the altar. The rat had run off with her best friend the week before the wedding. She’d sworn off best friends, too. Who needed them?

 As she had the previous few mornings, she studiously ignored the driver of the Jag, forcing her gaze to stay on the road ahead.

Another day and another dollar, she thought. She could see her office building. It loomed into the sky like a rocket about to take off for the moon. Sometimes, when she was bored, and needed to prop her eyes open with a couple of matchsticks to keep them focused on her computer, she wished it would.  ‘The day is going to be a scorcher,’ the radio informed her.

 ‘No kidding?’ She decided to risk asphyxiation by sticking her head out of the window to gaze up the line of cars. The lights turned green and she edged forward. In the other lane the Jaguar kept pace with her, a cool, sleek animal purring deep in its throat.

 Perspiration trickled between her breasts and she gave the other car an openly envious glance before growling back at it, ‘It’s all right for you; you’ve got air conditioning.’

The lights turned amber, and then flicked to red as she reached the white line. Her long, pearly fingernails drummed on the steering wheel. ‘Damn! I’m going to be late for work.’

Music reached her ears, soothing stuff, rising above the garbled static coming from her own dashboard. It sounded as if the Jaguar was conveying an entire orchestra into the city. Her thumb stabbed at her stereo button.

    The Jag’s window slid partially open, revealing a tantalising glimpse of the top of a sleek, dark head. An aroma of leather flirted with something expensively male, then drifted out with the air-conditioning.

    ‘Nice’ she sighed.

‘Johann Sebastian Bach.’ The driver had one of those voices - cream poured over malt whisky with a flake of an accent thrown in for garnish.

Tansy’s brain was prepared to fry when his window was lowered a bit more. Disappointment. His eyes were hidden behind gold-rimmed sunglasses, his eyebrows smudging dark at the upper edge. She bet his eyes were blue, with long, thick lashes. She was a sucker for blue eyes.

‘I know,’ she replied, showing off a little, because she figured that just because she was blonde, it didn’t mean she was dumb. ‘It’s the Max Sciandri recording. One of my favorites.’

‘I knew you’d have green eyes.’ A smile edged across his mouth, one so tempting that she wanted to leap into his car and eat it for breakfast - and to hell with the calories! Just when she’d sworn off men, along came one who shared her taste in everything - and seemed to own it.

The car horn behind her blasted her out of her reverie, and her neighbor chuckled as she swore and mashed her car