Love at First Bite? - Maria Thermann (most read books of all time .TXT) 📗

Not all Blind Dates go according to plan...

George had been watching her for the last 10 minutes. The way she moved across the dance floor had captivated him from the moment she'd arrived. A preying mantis on the prowl, looking for fresh meat to devour, that was his first impression of her. Then he'd noticed the way in which she threw back her tousled red head and laughed at the lame jokes of that oaf she'd come in with. The lanky blonde youth was leaning ever so casually against the table where the gramophone stood, an area the management called euphemistically the "entertainment zone".

Neither of them were what George's circles would call out of the top drawer, but she'd do. The oaf was somebody famous, ah yes, some crooner from the West End stage, George remembered with a frown. He dismissed the crooner without hesitation and cast his eyes over the redhead's slender ankles. Yes, she'd do very nicely indeed!

George's attention and admiring looks had not gone unnoticed. For a start, Deborah couldn't see herself spending the night with that long misery Hugh, a bloke denser than most, and that was saying something in this joint!

The other reason for Deborah's furtive looks towards the bar was that George cut rather a fine figure on the high chromium stool. Long legs encased in immaculately tailored trousers that could only stem from Saville Row, a debonair pencil moustache that would have made Rudolph Valentino jealous and a cigarette holder the length of the Suez Canal were not the only features marking George out as an ideal night-time companion for Deborah. His shiny black hair, sleeked back with fragrant brilliantine, a lazy bed-room glance around the rows of young women who'd come to hear the American jazz band play, all spoke of the lounge-lizard within. That was a fellow who'd think nothing of using every seduction technique known to mankind to get into a girl's unmentionables. Her friend Doris would have called him perfect romance-fodder!

Deborah snorted ruefully. Perfection, she knew to her cost, came at a high price. The last time she'd fallen for a lounge lizard, she'd lost all her savings and her favourite silver powder compact into the bargain. It had not been a satisfying experience by any stretch of the imagination. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Now that she'd taken a better look at him, she remembered having seen him before. Even better, it made what she had in mind a lot easier to manage. She patted her red shingled bob into place, straightened her boyish, creamy white flapper dress and sidled over to where the "lizard" was currently lounging with a Manhattan in his hand, casting an appreciative eye over the rump of a plump blonde doing the Charleston. Oh my, he was looking even more delicious in close up! Deborah silently cursed under her breath. Out of the way, Blondie, Deborah's arriving on the scene! Here's hoping he isn't one of those men who only fancy girl's with love-handles and big behinds.

"What-ho handsome, I'm your blind date," she lisped into his ear in her little-girl voice, the one she reserved for mustn't-let-him-get-away-men. She had to stand on her toes to reach his ear, but she didn't mind making a diminutive first impression. It allowed her to lay one hand ever so lightly onto his well-cut shoulder, while hoisting herself up into the barstool opposite him. The heat emanating from his body struck her like a force; she removed her hand in an instant, fearing his warmth would burn through her silk glove and sear her hand.

"Are you now?" he drawled in an Old Etonian voice, half turning to get a better look at her. "I wasn't aware there had been any such arrangement for this evening." He raised one black, well-shaped eyebrow. "But you are most welcome to keep me company. Eddie, a Manhattan for the lady," George said, turning slowly back to the barman. He flicked ash from his long cigarette holder into an empty cocktail glass and resumed his quiet contemplation of the female form now clambering onto the barstool next to him.

Deborah managed to wriggle her small person into the ideal position under a large frosted glass shade, showing just enough of her figure and slightly upturned nose to intrigue the male of the species without looking too forward. She knew the reddish halo of her hair drove certain men wild. Finding just the right angle and light conditions, Deborah's profile could see that Garbo off any day. The drinks arrived. Deborah tilted her head like a little bird and cast a twinkling glance out of violet eyes at her blind date.

"But sure, honey bunch, old Tusker Fortescue arranged it. We've met before, ever so briefly, you know, weekend shindig at the Fortescue pile, down in Hampshire, don't you remember?" Deborah breathed over the frosted rim of her Manhattan. Instead of melting the ice a little, her breath seemed to frost up the glass even more. The ice crackled, as she put her lips to it and sipped delicately.

George noticed it. "I say, you haven't been standing around outside waiting to get into this joint, have you? Perishing out there. Goodness, you must be frozen! " He took one of her hands into his and rubbed it gently, the warmth of his palms penetrating her gloves, then every fibre of her being. It made her heart go bump-ity-bump and her stomach lurch with a growl.

"I'll soon get your temperature up, my dear," he grinned. "It's simply criminal the way the doorman keeps young ladies in their silky gowns standing about out there for hours. I expect you left your mink coat at home, thinking you'd be sailing in here with your famous date?"

Had he just winked at her to make light of this cheeky put-down? Mink indeed! She pulled herself up. Her dress and shoes were top drawer, even if she wasn't quite quite - no need to rub it in! Irritated, she pulled back a little, but then she remembered her unpaid tailor's bill. Would this fine specimen of night owl pay for it? It was no good losing her head over yet another lounge lizard with nothing in this pockets but betting slips and receipts from the pawnbrokers. A girl had to eat and live in the comfort she was accustomed to, that was a fact to hold onto. She held out her hand resolutely. "Deborah Crossland. Of the Surrey Crosslands," she added quickly, when his eyebrows shot up again.

"Nice to meet you...again...Deborah. George Frobisher, Honourable for my sins. The Pater has a pile in Sussex," he grinned. George offered her a cigarette, but she refused. "Quite right, you don't want to spoil such a pretty pale complexion with yellow teeth and grey-ish skin," he smiled, slipping the gold cigarette case back into the breast pocket of his black evening suit.

Deborah laid one hand on his wrist, stopping him from picking up his cocktail. "You know, I was saying exactly that to one of my friends the other day. A girl cannot be too careful with her looks. They're precious, aren't they, withering so quickly? Of course, I'm blessed with pale skin and rosy cheeks, so I don't have to resort to powder or blusher, ever so bad for the pores, I read in some magazine. Clogs you up something terrible, it does," she added breathlessly. Noticing George's thirsty expression, she released his wrist and took up her own cocktail glass. "Bottoms up," she smiled, putting the glass to her lips. He gulped down his drink in one go. She managed to throw the content of hers with a practiced air over her shoulder, narrowly missing a passing brunette on her way to the powder room.

"Eddie, another two Manhattans over here, if you please," George demanded, clearing his voice with a slight cough, when he saw her glass was empty. His cocktail had gone down the wrong way. George's be-ringed hand flew to his voluptuous mouth. Deborah clapped him forcefully on the back. So forcefully, she nearly swept him off his barstool and into the row of people waiting to step out onto the dance floor.

She apologised: "I don't know my own strength sometimes! Blame it on all those doubles at weekend parties in the country. I do so love a game of tennis, don't you? Oh, I say, is that an emerald on your index finger?" She made a grab for his right hand and held it up to the Lalique lampshade next to her. "Oh my sainted aunt, what a beauty! Must have cost you a bundle, or is it one of those heirlooms that comes with a pile in Sussex?" she giggled. George nodded, but rather reluctantly, evidently put off by the mention of anything as vulgar as money. Deborah reminded herself with a sharp stab to her hip that "Honourables" never referred to money matters, if they could help it. Just wasn't done in polite society.

After chatting at length about tennis, Tusker Fortescue's pile in Hampshire and the forthcoming season of debutants - it transpired George had a young relative about to come "out" - they moved onto the dance floor, where hot Jazz and even hotter kisses behind the giant palm made up for the lack of a formal introduction via said Tusker Fortescue, who, as it turned out, was an old school chum of George's. The stuffy air in the ballroom soon drove them into the dark back alley, where a row of luxury automobiles with bored drivers was awaiting the return of inebriated owners.

"Oh goody, what a sight for sore eyes these shiny motors are! Where are you taking me, Georgie, the Ritz or the Café de Paris...or better still, the Kit Cat Club in Haymarket?" Deborah squeaked excitedly.

George shook his head. Ordering his driver to take them to the Trocadero, George ushered his blind date into the back of the car, where Deborah sank into the comfortable leather seats with a sigh.

"I guess that means no dinner then?"

George draped one arm around her shoulders and the car purred into action, gliding out from the dark alley into the even deeper blackness of the metropolis like a giant sea creature on a hunt at the bottom of the ocean.

"Who needs dinner? At the Trocadero they've got the best jazz bands; we'll be dancing until our feet blister and we are too sweaty for decent society!" He nudged her with his elbow. "My club's not far from there...and the stewards are very discrete, you know."

George began to list his favourite songs, ignoring the rumbling coming from Deborah's stomach. She frowned. Surely, a girl couldn't strike that unlucky twice in a row? Not another skinflint who won't stand a girl dinner and expects his blind date to go all the way on the first night!

Humming bits of Tiger Rag, At the Jazz Band Ball and I'm sorry I made you cry in between snatches of conversation that were punctuated by hot, wet kisses, George began to explain the advantages of belonging to a gentlemen's club located so near to the Trocadero. Evidently, the stewards were kept busy turning a blind eye quite often as far as members like George were concerned. Silken sheets that made you dream of clouds, double doors reinforced with soundproofing so no sound could disturb one's slumber, or allow potential blackmailers to hear what was going on inside the rooms, more breakfast any decent human being could expect to devour and a strong pot of tea you could sink your teeth into was how George described his overnight stays at the club. He didn't mention previous blind dates, but it was evident that George had taken his "warm-up duties" very seriously with all of them from the way in