Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (25 page)

“The red dress?”

“Of course.” She walked to the window, pulled a curtain aside, and stepped up to undress the mannequin.

Gabe leaned nonchalantly against the counter, taking in the boutique décor, all pink velvet and satin. “It’s like being inside a lolly.”

“Gabe? Where am I supposed to wear such a dress?” I asked him, worried about how sexy the thing was.

“At dinner tonight, luv.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Here she comes.”

“It’s the only one left,” she said, taking a good look at me, “but it’s perfect for you.” She led me to the dressing room and asked me what size shoes I wore. While I changed, she went off looking for heels more appropriate than the ones I was wearing.

I shut the dressing room door, awestruck at my own daring behavior. To even consider trying on such . . . sin . . . I mean—Venere would have traded her shell for something like this.
Oh!
There I was once again, on the threshold of becoming a liquid woman.

A light tap on the door announced the blonde’s return. I cracked the door open and thanked her. I smiled at the sight of black patent leather sandals with heels so high there should have been a warning against vertigo on the side of the box. I set them aside and took the dress in my hands. The pure silk felt smooth and light against my fingers. A seamless thong was the only thing that would go under such sheer luxury. I wasn’t wearing one.

Excited, I untied the straps of my sundress and slipped my bra and sandals off. I gingerly held the dress against my body, tilted my head to one side, and finally slid it on. I didn’t want to look in the mirror until I had the black sandals on, so I turned away to face the wall, noticing that besides the sandals there was a tiny black G-string in the shoebox.
Clever girl,
I thought, slipping off my average cotton panties. I sat down in a mauve velvet chair to tie the sandals’ thin straps around my ankles. Finally, I stood. Slowly. I found my balance on the high heels and turned.

I gasped at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Cinderella ready for the ball! And it wasn’t even my favorite tale.

I looked stunning!

Well, besides the yellow hair band I had forgotten. I quickly removed it and passed a hand through my hair. I turned to look at the back of the dress. It fit me like a glove; it clung to my curves, slid smoothly off my hips, and hugged where it was supposed to hug. The back yoke plunged down to a slit climbing up the back of my knees. The open back showed off a couple of dimples I have at the small of my back.

I grinned. I felt beautiful. I felt seductive. I felt sophisticated.

“Gabe . . .” Softly, I cracked the door open. My index finger curled, beckoning him.

“Well?” he asked, approaching the dressing room.

I put on a sad face, blinking the mischief from my eyes. “It’s too small. It doesn’t fit.”

“No way.” He raised an eyebrow. “Let me see.”

“I can’t even zip it up.”

“There
was
no bloody zipper, Porzia. Let me see.”

I let the door fall open and stepped languidly in front of him. I raised an arm against the doorframe and leaned my head in the curve of my elbow. My hair fell across my face.

“
Buona sera,
Mr. Miller
.
Se non ha altri impegni si potrebbe cenare insieme—,
” I purred in my lowest Italian accent, turning a simple dinner invitation into a hell-bent adventure.

“Bloody hell, Porzia—,” he whispered, closing in on me with supernatural speed. His hands slowly stroked down my nude back, striking a match the length of my spine’s nerve endings. The tips of my breasts responded instantaneously, pressing against the silk of the bodice. Gabe’s eyes widened and he stared without blinking, his lips parted slightly.

A tiny cough rising from behind Gabe’s imposing frame broke the spell. “I believe we have a nice fit?” the blonde asked neutrally. She acted like having Aussie hunks drooling over her clothing selection was an everyday occurrence.

“Yeah! We’ll take the dress, the shoes, and whatever else she’s
not
wearing as well,” Gabe answered her without even turning, his breath warm on my exposed neck.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I didn’t even look at the price tag,” I worried all of a sudden. I mean—it was one thing to play with him in the boutique dressing room, but to buy the dress . . .

Oh, why not?
What was I afraid of? To live up to my full, magical potential? The look on Gabe’s face when I stepped out of the dressing room would be something I would never forget. I’ve never had a man look at me with such intense desire.

What the hell,
I told myself,
you only live once.

“I’ll be right out,” I whispered to him. I kissed my index finger and touched it to his lips. I shut the door and quickly stepped out of the dress, the thong, and the strappy sandals. Back in my own dress, hair band, and wedges, I sighed.
From goddess back to mortal.

I stepped from the dressing room to hand the collection to the blonde. Quickly, she packaged all three items in a pink-handled bag and gave it to me. I reached for my wallet.

Gabe stopped me. “It’s been taken care of, luv.” He thanked the blonde and, with a hand on my lower back, directed me toward the boutique door.

“What do you mean it’s been taken care of?” I asked him, my brain not quite yet registering.

“Consider it your birthday present.”

“My birthday has passed already,” I objected.

“A belated birthday present, then. My apologies for being late.” He smiled and took a more serious tone. “You’re a vision not of this world in that dress, Porzia. Please allow me the pleasure.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I looked at him; in my arms the precious bag almost choked with me. “I’m going to wear it tonight, feeling like the luckiest woman on earth just because I have you in my life,
amore mio
.” On my tiptoes, I kissed him.

B
ack at the hotel, we found the suit Oscar had sent over for Gabe. We showered together and got ready for the evening. I decided to wear my hair up in a French knot with a few loose strands flirting down my shoulders, to enhance the daring lines of the sin I was about to slip into. I wore only eyeliner and mascara on my eyes, leaving my lips bare. A natural blush lingered on my cheeks; it would deepen with the excitement of the evening. I daubed a little amber oil by my earlobes and the pulse point at the base of my neck. I was ready.

Gabe looked stunning in a pair of dark charcoal trousers, a white silk shirt and—surprise, surprise—smart-looking suspenders. Leave it to Oscar to be fashionably daring. His blond, unraveled looks contrasted with such elegance, provoked my senses, and made him irresistible. He caught sight of me and I pirouetted.

“I think we should skip dinner,” I teased.

“And waste a perfect chance to have every man out there wish me dead?” he teased back. “I don’t think so.”

“The restaurant is within walking distance.” I rummaged through my clothes for a fringed black silk shawl I had thrown in my luggage at the last minute. “How about an evening stroll to work up our appetites?”

“Roight.” Gallantly, Gabe offered me his arm, and we left the hotel room. I felt like Cinderella and begged the gods to preserve me from ankle injuries.

The night had wiped away the mugginess of oppressive heat. A cool breeze insinuated itself under my thin shawl to caress my bare back. My heels echoed on the cobblestone sidewalk in an otherwise silent, still milieu until we rounded a corner and smashed against a solid wall of crowd.

The French Quarter is like that at night. Deserted side alleys dump you suddenly upon a main vein, and it’s like lights on a stage being clicked on simultaneously. As if on cue, the play begins.

We inched our way through the thick mob of sweaty tourists, blasting music, pungent smell of spilled beer, and brash invitations from half-naked dancers Gabe silenced in mid-hip sway with his intense glare.

“You can be extremely intimidating,” I observed as he led us away from the crowd.

“I know.” He squeezed my hand as if to apologize. “It doesn’t seem to bother you.”

I thought about it for a second. “No, it doesn’t.” I knew his heart and how it spoke directly to mine. Intimidation wasn’t something we shared.

We crossed the road to the front door of Chez le Chat. There, an incredible creature—a head taller than Gabe—towered among the valets attending to guests’ cars. Wrapped in a fantastic cat costume of black velvet and sequins, she greeted us in a voice a tenor would sell his soul to the devil for. Sparkling in the night with diamond glitter, the tips of sheer wings peeked from behind her massive back. I wondered if Benedetta would dare to touch those wings. I smiled at the thought.

“
Bonsoir et bienvenu Chez le Chat.
” She curtsied, showing a leather ankle boot no smaller than a size ten and a calf that spelled testosterone in upper case.

“Cheers, mate. Gabe Miller and Porzia Amard,” Gabe said, totally unfazed by the bizarre creature towering above him like a bad case of doom.

“Ah!
Oui
, you’re with Oscar of the
Gusto
party.” She warmed up, switching to English, and complimented my dress.

“Thank you,” I answered and did touch her wings.
For Benedetta,
I thought, my fingers sparkling in twinkling glitter.

She re-adjusted her tail and opened the vaulted front door for us. We found ourselves in a spacious parlor lined in heavy oak. A middle-aged couple chatted quietly with a woman I was certain to be the owner of the establishment, Madame Magdalena. Her looks must have been stunning once, not long ago. Her flawless skin still retained that incredible peach smoothness some women are just blessed with. Heavily done in dark emerald shadows and black eyeliner, her eyes shone; jewels in the candlelight. I admired her jade evening gown. Unquestionably
haute couture
; in fact, I was quite sure I recognized a Valentino. It complimented superbly an egg-sized emerald nested happily on her ample bosoms. I thought of pirates and fantasy treasure hunts.

When the older couple in front of us disappeared into the dining room, her attention shifted to us. A spark of recognition ignited in her sultry eyes. Suddenly she smiled, wiping decades off her face.

“You must be Porzia.” Extending both hands to take mine, she kissed the air by my earlobes. “I’m Magdalena, Magda for my friends.” She swept her head in a grand gesture in the general direction of the half-hidden dining room—“Welcome to Chez le Chat. Oscar has already arrived. He told me all about you, and I am to escort you personally to his table.” Still smiling, she eyed Gabe with a hint of curiosity.

“Magdalena, this is Gabe Miller. Thank you for having us tonight.”

She let go of one of my hands and offered it to Gabe to shake, not kiss.

In the opulent dining room crystal chandeliers hung low on chains from the vaulted ceiling. Booths and tables were scattered in a pattern skillfully designed to guarantee undisturbed privacy to the diners. I noticed the heavy wood panels separating the different areas were made from the original headboards of sturdy antique beds. So far, that was the only detail giving away the origins of the building. Everything else just spelled restaurant.

Several pairs of eyes followed our progress across the dining room. I could feel the stares of men appraising me with unquestionable interest, and I knew Gabe was getting his fair share of looks from the women. At the small of my back Gabe’s strong arm reassured me. Magda escorted us to one of the bigger booths where Oscar and a few other people were engaged in lively conversation. Like an evanescent longing, Edith Piaf’s voice coiled its way around the chandeliers, singing throatily of a nostalgic French
époque
.

Oscar greeted us warmly. In his particularly vibrant style, he introduced his friends, making everybody feel instantly at ease. In front of everyone, knowing I would be a good sport about it, he whistled softly and complimented my dress, bowing his head in a perfect
baciamano
, his moustache lightly brushing my knuckles. Still holding my hand, he made me pirouette so he could have the total effect, until I blushed and gratefully took the seat Gabe offered me.

The menu was to be a total aphrodisiac experience, Magda explained: each selection a tantalizing invitation to the next, a choreographed seduction from the spicy appetizer to the passionate dessert and sparkling entremets. She excused herself with the promise to join us for a toast later on and left us in the capable hands of the sommelier. He began to pour what would turn out to be an endless flow of inebriating bubbly.

Muscadet de Sèvre et Maine Sur Lie paired the steamed oysters that arrived as an appetizer along with side servings of Red Savina sauce.

Red Savinas are habaneros’ evil cousins. They’ve made the Guinness Book of World Records they’re so hot. Originally of the Yucatan peninsula, they range from a scale of 350,000 to 500,000-plus Scoville units. The Scoville scale measures hotness of peppers, named for Mr. Wilbur L. Scoville, a pharmacologist who in 1912 set out to measure the heat of various peppers. If you can imagine that a typical jalapeño is about 4,500 Scoville units (that means that it takes 4,500 parts of sugar water to 1 part jalapeño to dilute the heat until you can no longer taste it), imagine how bloody hot a Red Savina is. What power ancient civilizations must have attributed to such heat!

Now, combine it with oysters and the Muscadet’s slight prickle of fizz . . . and that was only the appetizer. Fortunately, everybody at the table was familiar with the little pepper’s exuberance, and we all took care not to exceed our tolerances in smothering the oysters. Sometimes exaggerating is not a good idea.

Saffron
pappardelle
in creamed crab followed, with a Prosecco di
Valdobbiadene
as the surprising sparkling choice; not a champagne, not a spumante, but a
mosso
: a ‘moved’ wine. If you ever have the pleasure of a close encounter with a Prosecco, please, take the time to admire the smooth, wavy dance the released bubbles entertain themselves with as they rise to the top of the flute. It’s as if the bubbles, already inebriated—drunk, dare I say—after having spent such a long time in the bottle, are not in a hurry to get up there. They’re taking their merry time, dancing along the way.

In the tradition of excellent service, the plates were removed by phantoms and more wine poured. I asked Oscar about the history behind the place.

He wiped his moustache and took a sip from his flute. Then, casting a slow look across the booth to ensure everybody’s undivided attention, he told us about how Magdalena’s grandmother’s career as a theater
meneuse de revue
at the turn of the century escalated to mistress of a shipyard mogul who was killed mysteriously during an alligator hunting excursion in a nearby bayou, his body never to be recovered. Miserable days followed, for the legitimate wife of the deceased mogul inherited the wealth, leaving Magdalena’s grandmother exposed, vulnerable, and without protection or resource.

Oscar interrupted his narration at the arrival of the next course: steaming servings of alligator tail medallions with grilled polenta, thinly sliced and dressed in truffle shavings. A black bean sauce had been drizzled lightly over the polenta as a subliminal reminder that we were still in Cajun country. It’s not easy to pair polenta with champagne, and Oscar wondered out loud about the selection to be served with the amazingly rich dishes steaming in front of each one of us. Leafing through the evening menu for clues, he seemed puzzled. I waited expectantly as well, mentally going through several bottles I would consider or not . . . until the sommelier pleasantly surprised both Oscar and me with a chilled-to-perfection bottle of Taittinger Prestige Rosé NV.

A few precious minutes of silence followed as we all took the time to savor the delicious food, and then Oscar resumed his tale. Enthralled by the scrumptious flavors exploding in my mouth, I struggled to attend to his words:

“Apparently, it didn’t take this resourceful woman long to come up with a plan of revenge. Engaging the services of a
voodouienne
, she threatened the mogul’s widow with nightmares. Menacing images of horribly painful death afflicted the miserable wife until a generous payment for services rendered was finally established. Magdalena’s grandmother used the money to open Chez le Chat, catering to the New Orleans gentlemen-elite until her own death put an end to it. Magdalena turned the establishment into an upscale restaurant, still catering to the bizarre needs of New Orleans’s elite, just—,” he paused dramatically and swept the table with his intense glare, “
via une route différent
.” Oscar concluded his tale by telling us he would leave it to Magda to share with us some juicy details of growing up in such an atmosphere.

The waiters cleared our table and presented dessert: passion fruit and sabayon crème crêpes. A bottle of Pol Roger Rich Demi-Sec NV paired the decadent dessert.

I had been cautious and mostly just tasted each sparkling wine selection, but with dessert I finally surrendered. I would willingly kill for sabayon and judging by its creamy texture when I sank my fork in, this particular one would take care of any eventual feeling of post-murder guilt. Delicious! I sipped the champagne and took another bite.

Magda joined our table, daintily sipping off a flute I suspected to be her choice of nourishment for the evening. Under Oscar’s jovial pressure, in a voice as smooth as the champagne she was drinking, she shared with us the ‘Bell Room’ tale.

“Grandmother decided after the death of her beloved ship mogul to just manage the business and never again take a man to her bed. She held her vow true until a handsome stranger sporting a deadly grin under a well-trimmed moustache walked in one wet winter evening and told her how he couldn’t afford to pay but, if given a chance, he would be worth the risk. Unfortunately, the young fellow had no idea whom he was dealing with. With disdain, my grandmother took one look at the puddle of water from the handsome stranger’s shoes soaking into her beautiful Persian rug and decided to set a trap. She hated presumptuous people. She would teach this one a lesson.

“Merciless, she told him that if he could stir a bell hanging from a headboard in one of the upstairs chambers, he would have not only one night, but as many as he wished. If he couldn’t, then she would take his life.

“He agreed to it on one condition: she would have to be the woman in the bell bed with him. She consented, knowing she had won, for the bell was merely painted on the headboard. Ready to teach the arrogant stranger a lesson and do as she pleased with his life, she ended up accepting an extremely pleasant and fulfilling defeat, married the man, and never regretted giving him his chance.” Magdalena raised her flute to salute the portrait of a distinguished, dark-haired man hanging above the regal fireplace on the dining room’s far wall. “
Mon grand-père.
”

It had indeed been an incredible gourmet soirée. My head felt pleasantly light with bubbles, my palate purred with the delicious flavors of the exquisitely prepared dishes, and my stomach was satiated just short of excess. Gabe’s strong leg pressed firmly against mine, reminding me of his strength, to combine it all into a single, flawless moment.

We spent a while longer savoring the incredible richness of the passion fruit crêpes, chatting about food, wine, and life’s pleasures in general.

We joked about the aphrodisiacal powers of the meal we’d just finished and Oscar asked me if I would be interested in doing a piece on the restaurant. Smiling at the idea of mixing work with pleasure, I looked at Gabe, squeezing his leg with my hand under the table. “As long as you wouldn’t mind reaping the benefits of such labor,” I whispered.

“Not at all, luv,” he said, cracking one of those breathtaking grins of his.

Amid laughter, handshakes, and light air kisses, we untangled ourselves from Oscar and the rest of the party. Graciously, we thanked Magda for her hospitality and finally walked out of Chez le Chat.