“And you were worried about her …” Callie said, with a grin.

She stood with Shane outside the door to Tara’s private room. It was as close as they could get to Tara, surrounded by various residents, interns, nurses, and orderlies as she answered questions about the accident. It had all the flavor of a celebrity press conference. Shane listened for a moment, then stepped back, pulling Callie with him by the arm.

“I don’t need to hear this again,” he said under his breath. “Can’t you buzz them back to the Nurses’ station or something?”

Callie looked at him earnestly, “you mean like call a Fire drill?” Callie cupped her hands to her mouth, trying hard not to laugh, “attention shoppers, let’s back away from the merchandise, okay? We have Mrs.C in Room 12B pulling out her IV and Mr.P in 12D says he’s having a baby - while over in 12H Mr.G and is tying his sheets together for a break-out when no one is looookiiiing…”

Shane’s glance narrowed, “right now, I’m looookiiiing at a pain in my ass.” He stepped past her into the hallway and added, “just break up their little party or I will.”

From the doorway Tracey, one of the LPN’s, made shushing motions with her hand, “hey, no one can hear with you all goin’ on and on. You don’t want to hear then just go, scoot!”

Callie quickly blocked Shane’s indignant move towards Tracie, “I know, I know,” she repeated, restraining him, “just give me a second, okay? Jeez, you of all people should understand why this is happening.” It wasn’t every day that they had an exotic patient like Tara and even the very garbled retelling of her moped’s crash into the fruit stand in Rio was more excitement than the night shift could expect or hope for.

Shane relented; he walked down the hall as Callie returned to the semi-circle of the nursing station. He noted on the patient board all the initials of attending personnel by Tara’s name and heard Callie announce, “will Mr.Brad Pitt please come to the Nurses’ Station on12; Mr.Pitt, to Level 12 please.”

Within a minute the little crowd turned out of Tara’s room, thoroughly confused. One of the interns, on her way out, asked Shane, “she knows Brad Pitt, too?” The intern didn’t wait for an answer, probably not entirely sure who the scowling man outside Tara’s door really was, which was fine by Shane.

He shut the door behind the intern then turned to deal with Tara, at the ready with his usual pointed lecture about “keeping our private lives private” when he saw her in the bed. The words got caught in his throat as he stood there, hands on hips, mouth open. All the anger and annoyance melted. She had her new casts. Two gorgeous, new casts; they made her seem so dainty, so vulnerable, so immobile. The hospital gown was standard issue, thin cotton with the print long faded. That only added to her lost, overwhelmed look.

Lips trembling she said, “Shane,” the sound of tears not far away. He walked over to her opening arms, which was all she could do, and embraced her hard enough to lift her butt from the bed. He felt the most spectacular surge of emotion, just seeing her again.

After a moment, he asked her, “do you want to go home tonight?” even though he knew the difficulties he would have getting her discharged. She was sobbing as much from relief and emotional exhaustion as she was from pain. He made her lay back against her pillows while he covered over her legs with another of the lightweight cotton blankets. He buzzed the nurse’s station and spoke with Callie, making all the arrangements through her; in the meantime, he waited with Tara, sitting at her side, holding her hand.

The room was still dark, only the suite’s private bathroom light was on. Elsewhere, he could hear the muffled sounds of televisions routinely left on all night; she’d never get any sleep here, and neither would he. Shane moved to the bed, straightening the drooping neckline Tara’s blue hospital gown then felt her pulse, it was as faint as her shallow breathing. He wondered what they had given her for the pain.

As his eyes got used to the dark Shane noticed a dark clump on the other side of Tara’s bed, wrapped in something shiny enough to catch the light along its edges. Intrigued, he walked round the bed and discovered it was the large bouquet of cottage pink roses, her favorite color and flower, which he had one of the volunteers pick up for him from the gift shop.

He had completely forgotten about the flowers and looked for his card but it wasn’t inside the plastic wrapping; stepping back he found it laying face down on the floor. He turned it over, reading what he had written just hours before, “loving one who loves you,” a line from her favorite song, Gershwin’s “Nice Work if You can Get It.” After years of piano lessons at her father’s side it was the only thing she could still play by heart. Shane returned the card to the envelope inside the plastic. It wasn’t his kind of music but the words had grown on him, “fall in love you won’t regret it, that’s best the work if you can get it…holding hands at midnight ‘neath a starry sky, nice work if you can get it and you can get it if you try... “

It wasn’t like Tara not to complain, entirely out of character for her to be reasonable. He adjusted her pillows in their queen sized bed, worrying over details that didn’t seem to even catch her notice. She didn’t tear up or whine, not once, from the time they left the hospital through the arduous trip back to the dark apartment. What troubled him the most was that she didn’t even start a fight as she watched him throw his luggage together for his upcoming trip.

“If you don’t like the nurse,” he said, packing more socks than he would need for three days, “let me know; no, better to call the Agency, get someone new. Don’t just take it like you usually do. The number is right there, next to the cell phone; and don’t forget to eat.”

He rummaged around in the bathroom, half of his supplies were still in the bag that he had yet to unpack from Rio; he didn’t seem to know if he was coming or going. “And, call me? When I get there, call me.” Tara sank lower under the bed covers, listening, pulling leaves from her flowers; they were going fast without water.

Shane didn’t recognize himself in the mirror, his carefully trimmed beard which ran along just the edges of his mouth and jaw had become unkempt. He began shaving, peeved, and took too much off his left cheek near his ear. “Damn,” he said in anger, “fucking damn.”

He came out of the bathroom with his razor and a pair of small scissors, handing them to Tara, “fix this for me, I’m fucking thumbs tonight.” He sat on the bed, agitated, thrusting his jaw out for her, expectant and annoyed with himself.

Tara, wordlessly, tilted his head to the side, gently trimming the beard closer, evening out the chunk he had carved out. She tapped him under the chin, he obediently lifted his chin so she could freshen the beard down his throat and neck.

“You’re not saying much,” he told her, looking at the ceiling while the razor scraped his skin. “I can’t leave for that trip if you’re going to do this to me.”

Tara cleaned the razor with the wet towel, “But I’m not doing anything.” She turned his face away from her and began shaping the beard along the other side of his jaw.

“Exactly.”

She smiled, looking down, more quiet than before. In her hand the razor twirled, she watched its gleaming edge. “I’m not being bad, Shane. I’m trying to be good.”

He took the razor from her and went back to the bathroom. “Exactly,” he repeated testily. From the walk-in closet he emerged with several suits, holding them up for her to assess. She pointed to the dark grey wool jacket then directed him to a matching tie. “If you’re going to do this to me I won’t be able to leave. Start crying, or bitching, throw shit around for the sake of my sanity.”

“No.” She laid back into her pillows, rocking her feet back and forth under the covers. In their casts her legs created two long mountains, the shadow that gulleyed between them reminded her of a bowling lane, she took a leaf and rolled it tight into a ball, idly tossing it into the alley between her legs. “You told me to behave.” She liked the way her big toe made points under the covers and kept playing with the covers, sending ripples down the blanket.

“Bitch. Who thought you’d listen to me? You never listen to me, you always do what you want,” he protested, angry with himself for losing his temper. He went to the bed and caught her big toe inside his hand; “and for God’s sake don’t do that Saba; try to be understanding will you?”

She looked at him from under her lashes, and tried to resume the toe wiggling, fighting his hand as it tightened around the top of her foot. Doing her best to seem demure, she explained, “but I am being ‘understanding,’ dear.”

“No,” he said as calmly as possible, “you’re trying to punish me for leaving you for a couple of days.”

She feigned surprise, “what am I doing that’s so awful? I think I’m being a perfect angel.” To emphasize the point she rocked her legs along with her feet; the soft waves they made under the covers had a rhythmic flow, compelling, or taunting him to do something about it.

“Right,” he growled, moving closer, exaggerating the roll of the “r.” He took her chin in his hand, tipping her face. “When I said ‘behave’ I meant just this, don’t drive me crazy with your casts, not when I’m one foot out the door.”

She shrugged casually, clasping her hands in her lap, still rocking her legs, “this is behaving. I could be a whole lot worse, you know. Really torture you…”

“Don’t,” he said, quiet and reflective. “Just wait for me like a good girl. It’s only three lousy days. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Tara crossed her arms, her face clouding over. He knew it was coming now, sensed the dam was about to burst. Thank God. Once she had her say they could fight, and then make up. Instead, Tara said nothing, pursing her lips together as she frowned at him.

Shane straightened up, hands on his hips, struck with an idea. He made the motion to “just wait” with his forefinger then disappeared into his office. Tara strained to see what he was doing, where he had gone. When he returned to the bedroom he was carrying a large leather bound photo album, the black one. Her eyes widened, her mouth opening but unable to say a thing.

He put it in her lap, carefully, as if it were solid gold and stood back, quite affected himself. Awkwardly he gestured to the album, “here, keep that with you while I’m gone. It will keep you company, um, not to mention busy…”

Tara ran her hands over the black album, not really believing what he had done. He did trust her, he must love her. He did care about her. When she looked up at him again they both knew there would be no fight, indeed, it would be a very good night, an unusually good night.

It had just begun to flurry as Shane’s taxi pulled up to the curb outside Laure’s brownstone townhouse. His heavyset driver told him the amount, regarding him suspiciously in his rear view mirror, it was the first words they had spoken since Shane had gotten in at the train station. He paid the fare and stepped out into the cold night air, looking upward into the steady cascade of tiny snowflakes, all the lights were on inside Laure’s home but no one was there to meet him at the door. He went up the wide marble stairs, set with enormous planters on either side of the curving steps, standing at the door, and hesitated before hitting the brass buzzer.

He couldn’t remember ever leaving for an assignment with less enthusiasm than he had with this one, which truly puzzled him. Laure was not just an early booster for his work, she had been his most trusted Reader, an influential networker and tireless promoter; he took on freelancing more to satisfy her expectations than his own. A distant memory of Laure, delicate, petite, with shoulder length chestnut-brown hair, filled his imagination as he pressed down on the building’s buzzer. He expected to see this same face at the door, albeit a few years older, and married. Well, married and already divorced.

He checked the building’s number again just as the massive wooden door opened to heavy yellow lighting and the large figure of Maggie, an older half-sister of Laure’s who had her own reasons for suffocating him in a big hug. He didn’t so much step inside the front parlour as felt himself sucked into her expansive presence.

“My God!” she boomed in his ear, hugging him again, “my dear God but you look absolutely fabulous!” She stood back to get a better look and nodded her head, disbelieving. All teeth and piles of streaky blondish hair swept up and held by combs, Maggie was one of the few women he had known who was tall enough to look him straight in the eye. “You have NOT changed one bit, Shane Orsini, not one BIT!”

Shane kissed her on the cheek, near the ear, and murmured, “neither have you, Margaret.” He meant it too, although it seemed unkind. She helped him off with his black woolen overcoat, absently draping it on the elaborate antique coat stand, knowing her husband, or the maid, would be along to take care of it. She hugged him again, marveling at the sprinkling of snowflakes still clinging to his hair, then hustled him like an errant child or muddy retriever, “come along, you; come along, we are SO excited! Wait till Lala sees you!”

Shane winced, he had forgotten about Maggie’s penchant for nicknames, a throw back to her Mainline hostess days of an earlier marriage. He dimly recalled that all her yappy show dogs had names like “Theseus” and “Agamemnon” while her first husband, a very capable stockbroker she called “Dodo.”

They reached the first landing, and then continued up the next set of stairs; Shane wondered where Laure was hiding. “Gustavo can carry your luggage, you know Gustavo don’t you? my husband? I met him in the Azores; now, where is he?” She looked about, squeezing harder on Shane’s arm as they took the wide stairs together. He felt lightheaded with her perfume, something from Elizabeth Taylor, which entirely suited her personality.

They came to the second landing and stopped. “You know I’ve never missed a thing you’re written,” she confided seriously, her face near his, “you know that don’t you? I’ve read everything, Lala and I, we both do, I don’t think we’ve missed an article yet; oh this is SO exciting!”

Shane looked down the broad hallway, typical of these old brownstones, with soaring twelve-foot ceilings and foot thick plaster walls. “Margaret?” he interrupted gently, “is Laure home? I thought she arranged to meet me at the Station.”

Maggie bit down on her lower lip, clenching her large hands. “Oh my, my, well, let’s see, yes, she is home, of course she’s home. You know how things get jumbled up because of children, well, you would if you ever have them. Now, where’s Gustavo? He’s the one we need to find. Here, I’ll take one of those bags; goodness! What DO you have in here?”

Shane carefully retrieved the black leather and canvas case that she had impetuously appropriated, “my laptop. The whips and chains are in this one,” he added as he lifted his long garment bag over his shoulder. Maggie’s horsey laugh could be heard all the way down the hall, finally alerting a sour faced man from one of the rooms.

“There you are! MY God, take his bags, please. Shane, darling, this is my husband, Gustavo Talfeira,” she said, gesturing to the man, as stout as his wife was tall. Gustavo grunted some form of greeting without making the slightest effort to take Shane’s bags. He did, however, step out of the way of his wife; Maggie strode through the doorway, calling out to Laure, “look who I have Lala, looooook who’s here!”

Shane followed, with Gustavo scowling at him from under his heavy brows, and sensed the same suspicion, the same hostility that he had engendered from the cab driver. It was an attitude he was used to, especially from men who were shorter or balding or fat; like Gustavo. Shane surveyed the blue and white toile dressing room that they walked through, an intricate pattern that literally covered every surface, even the lampshades and ceilings. It was the equivalent to being tucked into a little girl’s jewelry box for the night and he suddenly feared that this might be his suite of rooms.

Laure met them in the curtained archway between the rooms. She wore a tent-like white silk caftan, her long soft brown hair still parted in the middle, falling to either side of her pretty face. She smiled shyly, extending her right hand towards Shane, as if he were a new customer.

While Maggie fussed over one of the dogs sleeping at the foot of the bed Gustavo circled around Shane, who had pulled Laure into a light embrace. He stepped back, as if scrutinizing her, her hand tight in his, exchanging squeezes. She inquired about his trip; he asked about her health; they saved further conversation, the things they really wanted to say to each other, for later, when they would be alone.

“Gus,” Laure said, a bit too brightly, “would you bring Mr.Orsini’s luggage to his room, please? And Maggie, I’ll go over the boring business details so you both can finish your dinners.”

Maggie carried the dog under her arm, smirking as she passed by, “oh yes, dinner. How could I have forgotten about dinner? Want me to send anything upstairs, dear?”

“Not for me,” Shane said, watching Laure’s head shake a silent “no.” She looked embarrassed and shy, which he found fetching. They waited for the couple to leave, the dog suddenly yapping in Maggie’s arms, Gustavo reluctantly carrying Shane’s bags to some other room. Apparently this was Laure’s suite, quite a change from her minimalist look when they had been an item.

As Maggie left she turned around and arched her eyebrows, wagging a motherly finger “later, dears. Don’t stay up too late, Sophie needs her sleep and it’s big day tomorrow, right?” She didn’t wait for the answer.

Shane and Laure exchanged a look of mutual relief and went into each other’s arms for a proper embrace. He couldn’t help kissing her, they had never broken up, just drifted apart, the result of such different careers. He moved away, loosening his tie, checking out the room, “Sophie’s here? I thought she’d be away at school, what’s up?”

Laure followed behind him, fondly taking each article of clothing that he handed her and laying it over her arm with a smile; Shane was a man who wore a layered look, it saved time packing for a trip. “She wanted to be at the opening, however…”

He turned, waiting for her to finish. She was busy folding down the lapel of a vest he had worn under his dinner jacket, which he had worn under his great coat. Shane tipped her chin up, and kissed her again, “everything okay?” He couldn’t quite remember how old Sophie was, he figured she had to be at least in high school, probably sent home pregnant or on her way to some drug rehab facility. What little Shane knew about children was what he had read in Time or Newsweek.

“She’ll be alright, I’m sure. But it’s a distraction; sorry we missed you at the station. We’ve only been home a short time ourselves, you’ll see,” she added, drawing him by the arm to the double French doors, knocking once as they entered. “Sophie, I’m back dear, we’ll have our dinner now that Shane’s here,” she said quietly, ushering him into the darkened room, lit by candles on the fireplace mantle and Chinese lanterns. Heavy curtains partitioned off alcoves, enormous windows were festooned with them, table-filling floral arrangements covered every surface.

Sophie, on a chaise, struggled to sit upright, her right arm bent slightly at the elbow, her long fingers playing with the tassles of her pashmina shawl; they extended from a dark red cast almost the same color as her shawl. Laure helped Sophie get up from the chaise and smoothed her daughter’s hair back from her face. The two women were almost the same height, Sophie now just a couple inches taller than her mother; they smiled at Shane in exactly the same way.

When did this happen, he asked himself, gingerly planting a hello-kiss on Sophie’s pale cheek. The last time he saw her she had messy hair and raced around on rollerblades. She seemed guarded and reserved, more like her father than he remembered. Sociability was on her mother’s side of the family.

“I know,” Laure said, reading his expression, “but it’s been four years.” Sophie had the same large brown eyes, heavily lashed, and little visible make-up, like her mother. They moved over to the round dining table in the center of the room, by the fireplace, and Laure sat to one side of her daughter, who favored the broken arm.

Shane sat on the other side of Sophie, at an angle. Laure poured wine for all three of them as his gaze shifted from mother to daughter, back and forth, amazed that although they sounded and looked so much alike their temperaments couldn’t have been more different. He didn’t really know Jack, Laure’s first husband, he was already out of the picture by the time Shane had moved in with Laure.

Sophie covered her glass of wine with her good hand, “not too much. Can I go with Marcus and Ben? You know they’ll take care of me. I want to do something fun before I have to go back to school.”

Shane finished his wine, ignoring the salad as it was filled with all the culinary tidbits Laure was famous for. He listened to mother and daughter haggle about the dance clubs that her cousins, Maggie’s sons by husband number two, promised to take her to during the weekend of the big opening. Shane remembered both of them quite well. Although they were only a year or two younger than himself he would never have characterized either of them as “young.” What conversations he could recall centered on golf swings and stock holdings; they were the size of linebackers. Shane couldn’t think of two better bodyguards for Sophie. They may have flirted and teased their aunt Laure, only ten years their senior, around the “baby,” Sophie, they were more like two pit bulls.

Laure brought over a porcelain tureen, then ladled out portions of her thick Tuscan potato and sausage soup. Conversation returned to the dance clubs and he wisely stayed out of the debate whether or not Sophie was in any “condition” to go dancing with a casted arm. Laure explained that her daughter had fallen from the ladder that very morning as they were making last minute changes to the lighting and decorations at the restaurant.

He glanced at Sophie, who didn’t seem to eat a thing, while Laure bit her lower lip trying to uncork a new bottle. In the background another song from the Police, “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic,” thumped rhythmically. Shane had been the lone exception to Laure’s long string of Sting-type boyfriends, evidenced most notably by Sophie’s own father.

“Well, Mom?” Sophie asked, head down, capturing pieces of potato with her soup spoon, “I’ll stay at the bar, I swear; I’ll just watch everyone else. If anyone even thinks to hit on me geez Ben will kick the crap out of him. Please?”

Shane took the bottle from Laure, who had handed it to him to open as a matter of course as she regarded her daughter with a look of impatience; “Sophie, wouldn’t you rather stay here, I mean, how often do you get the chance to talk to Shane? Especially since you are a journalist major.”

Sophie used her fork to play with the bite-size chunks of barbecued lamb and roasted vegetables that she had just been served from one of the covered silver platters. Laure didn’t believe in separate “courses” for her meals. Everything was served at once, picnic style.

In the uneasy silence Shane popped the cork from the bottle and said, calmly, “Laure, let her go, I’m here for the next three days, she’s got plenty of time to pester me with questions.” He eased the cork from the bottle and got up to pour the wine. Standing behind Laure he caught Sophie’s quick look of excitement, of hope. He smiled back conspiratorially, “besides that Laure, just how often do we get a chance to talk, hmm?” As he handed the wine glass to Laure, his dark eyes came alive in the candlelight and made his winged brows pop up and down Groucho-style. He did it again, finally making Laure loosen up and laugh. Sophie regarded him with amazement.

He returned to his chair, found his linen napkin and placed it over his right leg under the table. Almost immediately he felt something on his foot. Something playing with the side zipper of his boot. He said nothing, other than to compliment his hostess on the dinner.

Laure took the comment as her due and sighed theatrically, “oh fine then.” Both Sophie and Shane looked at her, uncertain; “you win,” she said as if overwhelmed. “You both win. But if I find her moaning about that arm tomorrow you’re going to have to take care of her and you, young lady, you’ll be grounded for the rest of spring break.”

Shane’s brows knitted in confusion. The way the foot was rubbing his ankle was not accidental. In fact, it was perfect. Laure gestured with her fork, as if in response, “Sophie’s off this week from college.”

That wasn’t the answer he wanted. Her foot under the table had moved from his zipper to the top of the boot, to where his skin was exposed over the sock. Someone, Laure, was using her nails to scrape the skin there, playfully, meaningfully. He looked down at his plate, as if regarding what was left of his lamb but really to push aside the white tablecloth enough to expose the pale foot as it rubbed the side of his calf, up to the knee. He caught a glint of dark red nails.

“Mother,” Sophie said coyly, “I don’t think Mr.Orsini knows how old I am. He doesn’t really remember me.”

“Of course I do,” he retorted, more confused than ever. Laure protested along with him but Sophie giggled, insisting he didn’t even know she was in college. Shane closed his hand over the cold foot that had burrowed into his crotch, the toes wiggling just under his tightening balls and growing erection. “Actually, Sophie, I never think about a woman’s age; it’s irrelevant,” he said with animation unrelated to the conversation.

“You still think of me as a kid,” she complained, her head to one side, the sweep of hair falling into her eyes. It was quite effective.

Shane pushed his plate to one side, unable to concentrate on the food; “only if you act like one.” He didn’t mean to be brusque, it just made Sophie pout, which was even more attractive. She so reminded him of her mother. He couldn’t help himself and his hand began to caress the soft foot in his lap, enjoying the cat and mouse play with her toes. He’d give Laure a lecture about this later on, about riling him up this way. “I do remember, however, a certain young lady,” he said, teasingly, “who used to wake me up in the morning, demanding that I read her the comics before school while she ate those disgusting peanut butter crackers with her chocolate ice cream. Crumbs everywhere.”

Laure’s late hours at the restaurant made it impossible for her to have anything more than a dim memory of what they were now laughing over. Sophie had taken to doing things her own way in the morning, deaf to the housekeeper’s pleading and her mother’s notes, until Shane came into the picture. If he insisted she eat breakfast, she did, although he hadn’t a clue what little girls were supposed to eat. He inspected her school uniform, checked for her homework in her book-bag, made sure she had lunch money, fretted over the impossible knots in her long hair, and walked her to the bus before going back upstairs to Laure, to a very different kind of wake-up routine.

He laughed at the expression on Laure’s face, “yes, that’s where the crumbs came from.” Then with an accusing look toward Sophie, he explained, “she gave me hell for eating in bed while she was at work.” Sophie smirked, playfully twisting a long strand of her hair between her fingers. The cast went nearly that far up her hand; it was all he could do not to stare. No signatures yet, it was in pristine condition, the stockinette as white as snow.

“Well, I figured you were snacking while watching Letterman, something like that.” Laure still seemed in a fog, uneasy at the memory of an old resentment. in the beginning of their relationship he used to hang out at the restaurant all night, waiting for her but it wasn’t until he had moved in with her that she came to realize just how much time was spent on the phone making contacts, appointments, doing checking his research, or in front of his computer, typing, rewriting, and editing his regular column.

The only thing I ate in bed was you, Shane thought, watching Laure assemble the silverware and plates, negotiating with Sophie what she should wear to the clubs. He continued to caress her foot, which had become quite docile, content to lay along his erection, nestled between it and his thigh; but it was making him impatient for Sophie’s cousins to arrive even though that meant another round of greetings and meaningless chatter.

“Gus said he’ll sit with me, at the bar,” Sophie said, chewing on the strand of hair.

Laure made a face, “oh that will be fun. Doesn’t trust Ben, I suspect.” No one trusted Ben, who treated Sophie as a helpless little sister. Gustavo was there to protect Ben from his own protective excesses. “So,” Laure exclaimed, “wait until desserts’ over, at least?”

Shane drained his wine glass, brushing its wet rim across his lips, lost in thought, the more he fondled her foot the more he remembered and the more he wanted to get her back into bed. “It’s already after ten, Laure, and she looks fine; she can wear that anywhere.” He felt her foot suddenly slip from his lap. It only made the aching of his erection worse. When the heel had been pressed into the fabric of his pants, against the head of his penis he was aroused but able to wait. Now, he was just agitated with pent-up desire.

Fortunately, Sophie jumped at the opening that he gave her and she pushed away from the table just as Laure stood up with a tray of dishes. While she fussed with Sophie about wearing the shawl, something to cover her almost bare shoulders, Shane slid down into the over large wrap-around chairs, hoping Gus would drive her to the club. That would save him a visit from the cousins.

He was in luck, Laure rang downstairs to firm up her instructions to Gustavo. The tone of her voice changed and he realized she was now talking to someone else, probably Ben, from the sound of her threats about behavior and not staying out too late. That was enough to make Shane laugh, “late” to Laure wasn’t until some indeterminate hour on the following afternoon. Sophie was fairly dancing and in the three inch heels she seemed to loom over her mother; she kept her casted arm across her waist as her other arm made swishing arcs with the exotic shawl. He had some idea which club they would be going to, what kind of techno she was into. Laure may not have kept up with music but in his travels, and among the wide range of young women he came across, he knew the differences between Trance, Drum & Bass, or House. Sophie came over to him, her mother in tow, and leaned down to kiss him goodnight. He felt her fingertips from her casted arm lightly rest on his forearm as she whispered, “thanks,” and then floated out of the room.

Shane closed his eyes, enjoying the sounds of all the people he didn’t want to see at that moment as they departed for the evening. It had been something of a surprise, Laure’s overtures, since he hadn’t anticipated it on his way down. After all, they had seen each other only a handful of times in the last four years; he then smiled to himself, remembering. It wasn’t really such a surprise, when he thought about it.

“You look tired,” Laure said, returning to the room. She crossed her arms, bunching up her flowing white caftan at her waist, and waited for him to say something.

Shane pushed his chair back from the table and clasped his hands behind his head, “not at all.” The low sides to his chair with its overall cup-shape cushioned the long curve of his spine as he lounged. They stared at each other for a moment, his body seemed tense to her and his hooded eyes reminded her of the scrutiny one gets from a cobra, lured upright from its woven basket, eerily suspended just before it attacks.

“I see,” she said, betraying a nervous grin. “Well, Mr. Orsini, what do you want to tackle first, the “unique challenge” of the menu or “who’s who” on the guest list, or the …” Laure’s voice trailed off. Although he hadn’t moved a muscle something had happened. His shirt, which had been open at the throat during dinner, she now noticed was unbuttoned down his abdomen. His pulse was rapid, throbbing at his neck, and the warm sheen of his skin glowed; he watched her, clearly enjoying her appraisal. He slid further down in the chair, until his hands cradled his head against the back of the chair. His eyes seemed almost closed, his whole body quiet but taut.

“Shane?” she said, her suspicions aroused, “we’re not going to get any of this done tonight, are we?” Laure fanned herself with the promotional notes for her restaurant’s opening. She leaned her right hip against the table’s edge, her little foot tapping nervously on the threadbare oriental carpet.

His gaze wandered to her foot, in its colorful, embroidered slipper. He could almost see a sliver of pale skin at her ankle as the hem of the caftan rose and fell with her tapping foot. Shane stretched, head back, and looked up at the ceiling. “Entirely up to you,” he said guardedly. He was uncomfortable in the little chair; there was no way he could entertain an idea of her flinging off that tent-like caftan and straddling his now apparent erection, hump-like and straining under the zipper of his black Armani pants. As he continued to stretch his legs spread wider at the knees and made his hips raise up, invitingly. The hard columns of his thighs only further emphasized the fact to Laure that she had given him a considerable erection.

She noticed. Slowly, trying to mirror his seductive formula, coolness laced with tension, she shoved her notes into one of the caftan’s voluminous pockets. “I suppose we can discuss all this business later. Get reacquainted first…”

At this he had expected her to disrobe and he shifted hopefully in the chair, thinking she would start things off by going down on him. “… I suppose,” he replied. His whole body felt heavy with anticipation.

Laure lowered her eyes, as if embarrassed, or shy. “It has been awhile,” she said quietly, “hasn’t it?” She stared at his long body as she playfully shed the white caftan; it fell in a stiff pile around her legs, exposing the white thigh high stockings and corset-like lace bodice she wore underneath. Shane nearly erupted on the spot, he had a thing for stockings of any kind. His eyes traveled the length of her legs, from the caftan puddled around her ankles to the tight band of stocking only inches from her dark triangle of pubic hair, bare and inviting. He undid his own zipper, impatient with her teasing.

Laure pulled off her earrings, little crystal pendants with a clip, and put them on the dining table, then removed her fine gold necklace and all her rings. Each calculated delay only intensified the tension between them. When he tried to stand up so she could undress him, Laure surprised him by laughing and pushing him back down into the armchair, “not yet, tiger, I need a little more foreplay first.”

To Shane this was almost akin to abuse; what did she think the foot caressing and nudging had been all through dinner? He tried to pull her down with him, onto his lap, eagerly remembering the way her little foot had insistently nuzzled up to his balls, rubbing over the pants, trying to stir up the erection. “This is all the foreplay you need, missie,” he said, bringing her hand down to his swollen penis. She relented for a moment, allowing him to release it from the flap of his boxers and into her warm hand, which she dutifully stroked and fondled until she saw the muscles in his jaw and neck stand out.

Laure then she backed away, coy, head tilting to one side, her smile half-hidden by the hair. “Oh, I don’t think so;” she said in a purr, slowly falling to her knees. “there’s something else that you used to just beg me for, remember, hmmm?” She undid the small metal hooks to her lacy corset, letting the impressive breasts spill out, nipples hardened. “Something that will make you quiver…” Laure’s voice had deepened, aroused as much by her own hands lifting and squeezing her own breasts as the sight of his agony.

All the way down to her knees she sank, kneading her breasts as he watched. He gripped the armchair as her pale hands, completely bare, fluttered over his legs and massaged his taut calves through the pants, stroking him at the ankles then running her lively fingers underneath the hem, to his skin. Shane gave over to the feeling, to the rush of excitement; he was fairly sure he knew what she was going to do.

His last glimpse of her, before he put his head back against the armchair, was the sight of Laure on her knees, straddling his leg as she slowly slipped off his shoes. He closed his eyes in ecstasy. She rolled the dark, silky sock down to his ankle, scratching at the soft hair above his ankle, tugging at the sock to ease over his heel and off his foot. He felt the shock of cool air on his skin, the thousand zinging points of contact between her fingertips and his foot as she caressed it, lightly scraping her nails over the smooth and somewhat dry skin. Her fingers knowingly traced all the edges, the contours of his foot, of each toe, dawdling over one, teasing another.

“I think a little moisturizing is in order here,” she said, dreamily. Or so it seemed to him, in his heightened state. He wondered what she would use, if she would ruin the moment by rushing off for some lotion. Shane opened his eyes, in an effort to prevent her from leaving when he saw her expression, licking her fingers.

“Oh God,” he groaned, helpless. But he didn’t try and stop her either. It was indescribable pleasure, the way she teased his toes, licking her fingers anew and then massaging between them, wetting the sides of his big toe with her tongue, flicking the tip of her pink tongue under the soft pads of fat as his toes curled over her tongue. He didn’t even know what he was saying any longer; probably, he was begging for the rest of it.

Unnerving as it was, having his feet toyed with, and teased and caressed, rather than being the one who did the honors, Shane was already too gone to take over. If she was going to do it, then, he thought, willing her into it, she had better be as good as he remembered.

She was. Laure sucked at the smaller toes quickly and expertly, driving him into a frenzy of moans as she licked around and through his toes, palming the foot within her hands, nibbling at the tips of his toes, wanting him hot and crazed. His hands gripped the thick pads of the armchair, telling her, demanding her, begging her, to “do it, do it.” Laure smiled, then slowly lowered her warm, wet lips over his big toe, sucking on it as she would have gone down on his dick.

He had long toes, and straight, it was surprisingly easy, sucking his toe the way she would give head, using the same kind of swirling pressure on his ‘shaft.’ Shane shuddered with effect, his hand fisting over the fullness of his penis, calling to her. He wanted her to see it, hoping to attract her away from his foot to the head of his dick instead. He stroked it for her, invitingly, cupping his own aching balls. Laure paused to watch him stroke himself, something so intriguing to a woman, seeing how a man likes to masturbate, the rhythm and speed and roughness they prefer.

Shane stared at her body, at her skin glowing with some kind of shimmering lotion, as if it had gold powder in it. It made him a rush, wanting to touch her breasts and belly, wanting to be inside of her, right now.

Laure sensed it as well and moved closer, finally standing over him. He took her by the hips and made her straddle over his legs, close enough so he could playfully munch her pubic hair, licking her clit. An instantaneous shock curled deep and tight in her belly, a wave, not unlike orgasm; she nearly buckled at the knees. Shane seized the moment and lifted her into his arms, they kissed hungrily before he threw her over his shoulder and proceeded into the bedroom.

He woke some hours later and spent a barely lucid moment trying to remember where he was. Laure was lying on her stomach, twisted in the white sheets. He got up, surprisingly woozy; they had finished another bottle of wine after the sex as they caught up on each other’s news. Shane came back from the dainty bathroom attached to her dressing room and went around to his side of the bed.

His head had cleared, it was almost light enough to see her fully, not just lit by candles. She always did have a nice butt, maybe too large for her short stature and otherwise delicate features, but it was shapely and perfectly firm. The kind you could massage and play with for hours. He climbed back into bed and tried to loosen her from the sheets without awakening her just yet. Laure loved to be awakened with sex, he just needed a couple of minutes to work himself up to obliging her.

He exposed the back of her thighs to her knees, carefully moving her legs as he pulled the sheets from underneath her body. The thigh-high white stockings gleamed in the very early light, their lacy mesh pattern felt rough and inviting under his hands. He liked rubbing his open palms over her stockings until they sparked too much friction, to cool them he slid his palms over the bare skin of her butt. He could see just a hint of her pubic hair from underneath and the instantaneous charge of excitement cut through him from his gut to the head of his stiffening dick.

He parted the twin halves of her butt with each hand, squeezing the softness and felt the rush of heat he always got from a particularly hungry erection. He decided he would roll her stockings off this time and enter her while she slept on her tummy. Lock her hands in each of his, nuzzle her neck, bite her earlobes and rubbing his stubbly jaw on her smooth shoulder as he tried to penetrate any hole that would let him in. She’d try to kick him off of her, but that was half the fun.

Shane began to unroll her stocking down towards his knees as he straddled her legs; her skin had that sheen he loved. In moments he had the stocking to her ankles and realized she had never taken her little slippers off. He smiled, they were the size of a child’s foot. He creased the soft velvet of her slipper and peeled it off the back of her foot, exposing her bare heel and instep. So pale yet so luminous her skin had a creamy tenderness he found irresistible. He just brushed his lips over her heel and up the back to the ankle; working his way around to the bone. He loved the thin-ness of the skin over the anklebone, it slid and rolled under the pressure of his lips as he kissed and sucked. She murmured in her sleep as Shane held her foot, his long fingers massaging all the fine bones, the rounded swells and little pillowy pads behind her toes.

He sucked them with the greatest care, an image coming back from when he had first met her. Laure had been just one of many assistants to the chef in her first real position the night he came to review the restaurant. While Shane’s companions from the newspaper gushed over the food and the décor, the table settings and the wine, he couldn’t think of anything but the petite assistant in her starched white uniform, sporting a black half cast on her left leg. It seemed so incongruous, so ridiculous, yet there she was, rolling the dessert cart between tables, triumphantly piled with the extravagant pastries she had made. They emptied nearly everything from her cart, at Shane’s insistence for “thoroughness;” and while they gorged he became very quiet, his lips pressed against his clasped hands, elbows on the table. He watched her slow, somewhat hobbled progress from table to table, her pastries getting almost as much notice as her casted leg from the other diners. He was just as drawn to the roundness of her swaying butt and each time she looked over her shoulder she found him still staring at her from under his hooded eyes; it made her blush. It nearly made her roll her cart into a couple as they were leaving the dining room. Nick, who covered Sports, also noticed Shane’s interest in the demeure assistant and joked to their group that she was “too old” for him. Shane, signing off on the tab, stood up, pocketed his pen and said evenly, “we’ll see.” Three hours later he came back to pick her up from work and drove her to his apartment, her leg in its black cast resting on the seat between them.

That first night he had done much what he did now, luxuriating in the feel of her extraordinarily soft skin, which he couldn’t stop kissing and exploring with his lips, comparing one foot to the other within its shapely cast. The toes seemed so much smaller, and vulnerable, they curled and spread open again with a kind of madness; she purposefully wiggled them when he tried to polish the nails. Laure may have thought it funny, and may have been titillated by his obsession with her feet but in time she learned to not just love the attention but crave it. She changed nail color daily, lavished endless bottles of lotion on her skin, enjoyed every aspect of his pedicures. Even a sizzling hot bath became a long session in bed as he sucked on her toes, all of them, still warm from the bath.

The casted leg he would enclose inside a clear plastic bag but he didn’t forget this foot either and the tactile zest she felt as he massaged her toes through the plastic was almost indescribable. And, he would bring her hands down to he calf, to rub the cast open-palms, over the fine texture, slick with plastic. She swore she could feel a tingle right through the cast to her skin underneath. A kind of hot itchiness, an unbearable desire to have him tear it from her leg, with his teeth, just to get to her leg, her foot.

“Hey,” she said, looking at him playing with her foot, “what time is it?”

He came back to the present and grinned then tickled the soft underside of her foot until she couldn’t bear it any longer and threw a pillow at his head. They tousled for several minutes, each trying to get the other one pinned underneath. He caught her hands and held them down, biting and kissing; he felt her legs go round his waist and his erection leap with contact as her hand guided him back inside of her. She was still too sore for him to come this way again so after a few heavy deep strokes he pulled out and let her choose the position. Laure brought her knees up to her chest, exposing the back of her thighs and her butt while her arms kept her legs closed tight.

He wasn’t expecting this and hesitated, listening to her giggle, her feet crossed at the ankles, toes wiggling. He pulled the stockings off entirely and ran his hands over the top of her pale feet, closing the toes inside his hands. The nail polish was black in the morning light; he could have sworn it was a dark red the night before. As he contemplated why black nails would have looked dark red under white stockings he lost his grip on her feet; they waved under his nose as she demanded some “action.”

Biting his lower lip, as he avoided her crazy attempt to tickle his mustache with her toes, he retorted in amusement, “so, you think you can go again huh? Think I can squeeze in here do you?” His finger prodded the tenderness of her pussy to the tight, soft hole of her butt; it slid in with familiarity. Laure groaned and laid back down on the bed, pulling her knees even tighter against her chest. He took that for her “yes.”

Shane pulled her by the butt closer to where he was kneeling on the bed, shoving the pillow she had thrown at him under her hips; she braced for entry. His hands ran over her calves, rounding over her knees, then ran his nails back down to her feet, kissing the toes, sucking on the black nails one more time, his dick now fully swollen and hurting for release. Her breathing deepened, waiting. Shane carefully toyed with her buttcheeks, thumbing the hole till it relaxed for him, then wedged the head of his dick against the puckery spot, and shoved himself into her. She took the first assault with her legs against her chest, taking it as hard as possible, fighting the pressure and size of his dick as it pushed and stayed inside of her. Slowly she loosened up, he went in another inch, then another, then sank in to the hilt, till his balls mashed against the skin of her butt.

Laure erupted with pleasure and he felt her legs open up and loll on each of his shoulders; he fucked her smoothly, testing the give and take of her butt muscle. They rocked gently, until he lost his edge, becoming tense and unable to hold back any longer. He let her rest her feet against his chest as he rocked at the hips, stroking her rapidly, with increasing heat and depth. One of her feet strayed by his neck and he kissed the inside of her ankle, sucking on the soft skin. She was rolling in her own orgasm, fingering herself, he felt the load of cum rise up; any second, any second he’d lose it. Her big toe played with his ear, he turned his head to suck on it, feeling a sudden rush, it was what he had wanted to do all evening, from the moment she had first pushed against his crotch with her bare foot at dinner.

Shane snapped, as if hit in the face with a breaking wave. The foot that had toyed and prodded and teased his growing erection did not have stockings, it was a bare foot, with dark red nails. It hadn’t been Laure’s foot that was in his lap at dinner. Shane felt himself falling, or feel as if he was falling and unravelling in a burst of helpless energy, his cum throttling in spurts deep into Laure’s tiny pale butt. But it hadn’t been her foot, it hadn’t been Laure.

They laid together afterwards, Shane as quiet as usual, Laure keyed up with the need to chatter. Like all women after orgasm. He let her coddle and pet him affectionately, returned her kisses, still in shock, still drained, his mind fighting off what he couldn’t stop thinking. If it hadn’t been Laure that left just one person yet his mind couldn’t grip the fact, couldn’t make sense of it. Sophie? It had been Sophie’s foot.

A new wave of emotion washed over him, deafening his confusion with her name, wiping him out with this singular new desire to have Sophie in bed, suck on her toes as she so definitely had wanted. For the first time in years Shane didn’t actually know what to do with that kind of desire. Trumped by an eighteen year old flirt, one who knew him too well apparently, someone who was more than a little adept at seduction. Sophie? Little Sophie? When the hell did this happen?