Lovers' Dance by K Carr

with a frigid air of hostility.
    “I was not, sir,” George denied. “Although I will admit to being surprised when I first saw her, with her being…” George began to phrase it as delicately as he could, instinctively knowing his employer would take umbrage if he didn’t. “She is unlike any other woman you have brought here, sir.”
    Matt was observing him with those cold, empty eyes. “Yes, she is. Continue.”
    “She wished to leave and I was unable to change her mind, so I called a taxi and she left you a letter.” George’s morning had been turned upside down by this young black woman who seemed to have done something to Matt. He was acting unlike himself and it was worrying. Bradleys did not socialize beneath their social class, and this woman was with no doubt beneath them. George had not once commented on Matt’s womanizing ways. He knew his employer was careful, and the women he had his fun with would never go to the media with tell-all stories. But this one, this Ms DuMont, was different. She was having a strange effect on his unflappable employer, and George didn’t like it.
    “A letter? Where is it?”
    “On the table behind you, sir.”
    Matt turned around and noticed the piece of folded paper with the imprint of a kiss. He snatched it up, then aware of George’s hovering presence, gave him leave. George hesitated and Matt tapped his foot impatiently.
    “What is it, George?”
    “She’s American?”
    “Yes.”
    “She looks very young.”
    “She’s twenty-six, George. A grown woman.”
    “Sir, I don’t know how to say this but…”
    “I know, George, she’s black. Was there something else?”
    “Sir, how long have you known Ms DuMont?”
    “Less than twenty-four hours. Now I’m going to my study. Do not disturb me.” Matt walked off. He was fond of George. Hell, the man had changed his nappies, but his unspoken disapproval was irritating, and Matt’s previous good mood on arriving had disappeared the moment he’d found out she’d left. He slammed the door to the downstairs study and began to read her letter while pacing the room.
    My dearest Knight —he smiled at that, Thanks for rescuing me from those assholes last night. You kicked their asses. I can never repay you for that. I want to apologize for my unbecoming behaviour last night. I was not myself and I put you in a rather uncomfortable position —Matt had been uncomfortable, a certain part of his anatomy had been very uncomfortable and still was— and I’m eternally grateful you didn’t take advantage of the situation ( I’m not writing it down in case you try to sue me for harassment )—she had drawn a smiley face there. You took care of me when it was neither your responsibility nor required and that means a lot to me. So I want you to know that although I want to forget the majority of last night ever took place, I will never forget you.
    Thank you, Matt.
    Love your poppet.
    P.S. Why were you calling me that? It’s kind of weird. Did you mean a real puppet? With strings? Or is it some British slang? Thanks for the ‘you know what’ and hope I didn’t freak you out. That’s never happened before. Well, when I do it— she had put two lines through that last sentence, and Matt could about imagine her lovely brown eyes going wide in embarrassment.
    P.P.S. Please don’t think all black women are crazy. We’re not.
    P.P.P.S. Don’t blame George for my leaving. I threatened to call the cops and called him old. Tell him I said sorry and the eggs were the way I liked them.
     
    Then there was a row of xoxoxox’s. And that was it. No telephone number with a request for him to call her. Nothing. Matt grimaced in annoyance at the letter in his hand and folded it. The imprint of her lipstick reminded him of the way her soft, luscious lips had felt under his. His grimace turned into a slow smile. She would be easy enough to find. He had her name and countless resources at his fingertips. He could find her within