hand. I knew from experience. And it hadn't been a pleasant experience.
Raoul Raymond had looked good from a distance when he'd demonstrated the tango with Ramona. He was tall, lean, and lithe. A man who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, with wild curly black hair, an extravagant mustache, and large rolling eyes that reminded me more than anything of hard-boiled eggs with brown irises painted on.
But close up, his combination of lechery and lunacy was not as appealing. And his eyes kept changing color. Today the painted-on irises were green. Colored contact lenses? And I was beginning to doubt that he was even Latin-American. His accent changed as often as his eye color.
"Since when is mon amour Spanish?" I demanded when I'd stepped out of grabbing range. "I thought it was French."
"Ah," he replied, shrugging his shoulders in a fluid movement that might have been Continental or Latin-American, or Yonkers for all I knew. "I am a man of the world."
As Ingrid might have said, "Yuck."
But Ingrid wasn't saying "yuck" or anything else. She was staring at Raoul with the frank interest of a dog watching a package of hamburger go by. Could Raoul Raymond be super rich? He drove a new red Porsche, it was true. But could tango-teaching pay that well?
"I have waited so long to see you again," he declared, both hands crossed over his heart, eyes raised to heaven. All he needed was a lily and he would have been elegant in a silk-lined coffin. "I asked myself if my memory could even hold your image. Your spark, your verve, your—"
I squinted at him. His eyes were no longer rolled heavenward. What had stopped his recitation of my charms? Ingrid, of course. My houseguest had walked around from behind Raoul to stand at my side. I didn't think she was interested in protecting me, however.
"And who is your most dee-lightful friend, Ms. Jasper?" Raoul inquired politely after a moment of intense contemplation, an accent back in place. What accent, I couldn't have said.
"Ingrid Regnary," Wayne answered from behind me.
My jump was not nearly as graceful as Raoul's, but it wasn't nearly as high either. His eyes had been so fixed on Ingrid that he hadn't seen Wayne coming any more than I had.
"Think it's time for you to leave," Wayne added as my heart rate braked back to normal.
"Right," agreed Raoul, turning smoothly toward the doorway, his hands in the air.
"I'll walk you down," Ingrid offered sweetly.
• • •
"'I'll walk you down'?" I repeated incredulously to Wayne half an hour later as I steered my Toyota toward Ivan's. We had waited to make sure Raoul was truly and safely off the premises before taking off for Fictional Pleasures. "Do you believe it? As if Ingrid's not in enough trouble with Bob Xavier, she wants to get involved with Raoul Raymond?"
"He's a male, drives a Porsche—" Wayne pointed out.
"But what about his wife, Ramona?" I demanded.
"Are you sure Ramona is Raoul's wife?" Wayne asked.
"Well, isn't her last name Raymond too?"
"But are either of them necessarily using their real names?"
That stopped me. Raoul's eyes weren't real. His accent was phony. Why should his name be real? Or Ramona's? And, actually, they hadn't acted much like husband and wife, sensual tangoing aside.
"But still," I insisted. "One minute, he's telling me he loves me and the next minute he's practically kissing Ingrid's hand. He was just flirting!"
"Are you jealous?" Wayne inquired mildly.
"Jealous!" I protested, but, but... I would have been happy to never see Raoul Raymond again as long as I lived, even in future reincarnations, but still, his all so obvious and nimble transfer of affections had sparked something in me that, well, maybe bore a faint resemblance to jealousy.
I laughed aloud. Jealousy. I was jealous.
"You know, he might just take Ingrid off our hands," Wayne added, his voice hard with a ruthlessness I hadn't imagined he could muster. But then, I wouldn't have imagined I'd have been jealous of
Raoul Raymond had looked good from a distance when he'd demonstrated the tango with Ramona. He was tall, lean, and lithe. A man who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, with wild curly black hair, an extravagant mustache, and large rolling eyes that reminded me more than anything of hard-boiled eggs with brown irises painted on.
But close up, his combination of lechery and lunacy was not as appealing. And his eyes kept changing color. Today the painted-on irises were green. Colored contact lenses? And I was beginning to doubt that he was even Latin-American. His accent changed as often as his eye color.
"Since when is mon amour Spanish?" I demanded when I'd stepped out of grabbing range. "I thought it was French."
"Ah," he replied, shrugging his shoulders in a fluid movement that might have been Continental or Latin-American, or Yonkers for all I knew. "I am a man of the world."
As Ingrid might have said, "Yuck."
But Ingrid wasn't saying "yuck" or anything else. She was staring at Raoul with the frank interest of a dog watching a package of hamburger go by. Could Raoul Raymond be super rich? He drove a new red Porsche, it was true. But could tango-teaching pay that well?
"I have waited so long to see you again," he declared, both hands crossed over his heart, eyes raised to heaven. All he needed was a lily and he would have been elegant in a silk-lined coffin. "I asked myself if my memory could even hold your image. Your spark, your verve, your—"
I squinted at him. His eyes were no longer rolled heavenward. What had stopped his recitation of my charms? Ingrid, of course. My houseguest had walked around from behind Raoul to stand at my side. I didn't think she was interested in protecting me, however.
"And who is your most dee-lightful friend, Ms. Jasper?" Raoul inquired politely after a moment of intense contemplation, an accent back in place. What accent, I couldn't have said.
"Ingrid Regnary," Wayne answered from behind me.
My jump was not nearly as graceful as Raoul's, but it wasn't nearly as high either. His eyes had been so fixed on Ingrid that he hadn't seen Wayne coming any more than I had.
"Think it's time for you to leave," Wayne added as my heart rate braked back to normal.
"Right," agreed Raoul, turning smoothly toward the doorway, his hands in the air.
"I'll walk you down," Ingrid offered sweetly.
• • •
"'I'll walk you down'?" I repeated incredulously to Wayne half an hour later as I steered my Toyota toward Ivan's. We had waited to make sure Raoul was truly and safely off the premises before taking off for Fictional Pleasures. "Do you believe it? As if Ingrid's not in enough trouble with Bob Xavier, she wants to get involved with Raoul Raymond?"
"He's a male, drives a Porsche—" Wayne pointed out.
"But what about his wife, Ramona?" I demanded.
"Are you sure Ramona is Raoul's wife?" Wayne asked.
"Well, isn't her last name Raymond too?"
"But are either of them necessarily using their real names?"
That stopped me. Raoul's eyes weren't real. His accent was phony. Why should his name be real? Or Ramona's? And, actually, they hadn't acted much like husband and wife, sensual tangoing aside.
"But still," I insisted. "One minute, he's telling me he loves me and the next minute he's practically kissing Ingrid's hand. He was just flirting!"
"Are you jealous?" Wayne inquired mildly.
"Jealous!" I protested, but, but... I would have been happy to never see Raoul Raymond again as long as I lived, even in future reincarnations, but still, his all so obvious and nimble transfer of affections had sparked something in me that, well, maybe bore a faint resemblance to jealousy.
I laughed aloud. Jealousy. I was jealous.
"You know, he might just take Ingrid off our hands," Wayne added, his voice hard with a ruthlessness I hadn't imagined he could muster. But then, I wouldn't have imagined I'd have been jealous of
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