bound, and no
doubt incomprehensible, French books. Her brunette hair came down just lower
than her shoulders, thick as a lion's mane. God. It had an enticing wave
and a healthy shine. It was so vibrant… so alive!
Mike
stifled an unexpected impulse to walk over and run his fingers through it.
Her
dress was cream colored, covered by dark and deeply feminine blue lace. It was
short sleeved, and it was pulled close at the waist with a thin red belt.
Mike's
first impression was of wonderful vitality and health. Marcy Paget was curvy, soft
and voluptuous. This fact instantly attracted him. His wife, Barbara, had been
far too thin for the last years of her life. Thin equals sick - that was his
mental association. This woman was not super skinny. Not in the least.
Death
from an incurable illness was not in her near future. This woman ate, was clearly
able to keep her food down, and was therefore physically well.
A
tension in his body that he had been unaware of, suddenly relaxed.
"Marcy
Paget?" he asked.
The
woman turned and stared at him, frozen to absolute stillness for a moment. Her
features were angular, her nose far too long for her face… but her eyes. Mike
took a deep breath as his heart skipped, taking an extra beat. Those eyes. Surrounded by dark lashes, they were striking. Why did that honey-brown color
look so sweet and womanly?
He
blinked with an unexpected internal vision. Those beautiful eyes, dazed with
pleasure, looking up at him. Her body under his, his hands upon her, her soft
lips moaning… begging for more.
What
the hell?
He
cleared his throat and banished the image, returning to the present. "I'm
Mike Thompson," he said in a formal manner. "I work security for Mr.
Chevalier and need to ask you a few questions."
Her
honey eyes took him in, lighting up with astonished good humor. The sudden
enchanting smile that animated her face was unbelievable. Mike felt as if he
had been sucker-punched - or more like stabbed in the chest. Her open smile
pierced his heart so completely.
"Oh.
My. God!" she said, putting a hand to her heart. Then she began to laugh.
It wasn't just any sort of laugh. It was a full throated, "stop tickling
me or I am simply going to die" kind of belly laugh. As she stood there,
holding her stomach, bent almost double, grinning and laughing, Mike began to
laugh, too.
"Jesus,"
she gasped. "Mr. Chevalier warned me that you looked like a movie star. I
had no idea what he was talking about. I just thought he was just giving me a heads
up, letting me know that you were unnaturally handsome. I didn't think that you
would look like a particular movie star!"
The
woman roared hysterically, tears coming into her eyes. "You poor thing! Honestly,
I swear to God you could be twins. How in the world do you go through life
looking exactly like Jason Statham?" She reached into her bag, took out a
tissue and wiped her eyes. "People must ask for your autograph all the
time," she added, having finally caught her breath.
"Actually,
it isn’t too bad," he said. "I did grow the Van Dyke." He
pointed to his facial hair. "You know the moustache and goatee. That
helped. You seemed to see right through it however."
"Is
that what it's called? A Van Dyke?"
"Yeah,"
he trailed a thumb and forefinger over his moustache, and then ran them over
the short trimmed stubble of his goatee. "If they aren't connected then
it's called a Van Dyke." Unusually comfortable in her presence, he modeled
it for her in a silly fashion, turning this way and that. "Do you like
it?"
"It
looks great," she giggled with her hand over her mouth again. "Honestly.
I just have to get over the Jason Statham bit. I mean really. "With
narrowed eyes she studied him intently. "I see you and I can't help… well,
mainly I think of 'The Transporter' movies. With the white shirt, dark slacks
and tie, you're dressed like him, too."
Mike
cleared his throat, making his voice as gravelly as possible. Straight-faced
and deadpan he said with an
doubt incomprehensible, French books. Her brunette hair came down just lower
than her shoulders, thick as a lion's mane. God. It had an enticing wave
and a healthy shine. It was so vibrant… so alive!
Mike
stifled an unexpected impulse to walk over and run his fingers through it.
Her
dress was cream colored, covered by dark and deeply feminine blue lace. It was
short sleeved, and it was pulled close at the waist with a thin red belt.
Mike's
first impression was of wonderful vitality and health. Marcy Paget was curvy, soft
and voluptuous. This fact instantly attracted him. His wife, Barbara, had been
far too thin for the last years of her life. Thin equals sick - that was his
mental association. This woman was not super skinny. Not in the least.
Death
from an incurable illness was not in her near future. This woman ate, was clearly
able to keep her food down, and was therefore physically well.
A
tension in his body that he had been unaware of, suddenly relaxed.
"Marcy
Paget?" he asked.
The
woman turned and stared at him, frozen to absolute stillness for a moment. Her
features were angular, her nose far too long for her face… but her eyes. Mike
took a deep breath as his heart skipped, taking an extra beat. Those eyes. Surrounded by dark lashes, they were striking. Why did that honey-brown color
look so sweet and womanly?
He
blinked with an unexpected internal vision. Those beautiful eyes, dazed with
pleasure, looking up at him. Her body under his, his hands upon her, her soft
lips moaning… begging for more.
What
the hell?
He
cleared his throat and banished the image, returning to the present. "I'm
Mike Thompson," he said in a formal manner. "I work security for Mr.
Chevalier and need to ask you a few questions."
Her
honey eyes took him in, lighting up with astonished good humor. The sudden
enchanting smile that animated her face was unbelievable. Mike felt as if he
had been sucker-punched - or more like stabbed in the chest. Her open smile
pierced his heart so completely.
"Oh.
My. God!" she said, putting a hand to her heart. Then she began to laugh.
It wasn't just any sort of laugh. It was a full throated, "stop tickling
me or I am simply going to die" kind of belly laugh. As she stood there,
holding her stomach, bent almost double, grinning and laughing, Mike began to
laugh, too.
"Jesus,"
she gasped. "Mr. Chevalier warned me that you looked like a movie star. I
had no idea what he was talking about. I just thought he was just giving me a heads
up, letting me know that you were unnaturally handsome. I didn't think that you
would look like a particular movie star!"
The
woman roared hysterically, tears coming into her eyes. "You poor thing! Honestly,
I swear to God you could be twins. How in the world do you go through life
looking exactly like Jason Statham?" She reached into her bag, took out a
tissue and wiped her eyes. "People must ask for your autograph all the
time," she added, having finally caught her breath.
"Actually,
it isn’t too bad," he said. "I did grow the Van Dyke." He
pointed to his facial hair. "You know the moustache and goatee. That
helped. You seemed to see right through it however."
"Is
that what it's called? A Van Dyke?"
"Yeah,"
he trailed a thumb and forefinger over his moustache, and then ran them over
the short trimmed stubble of his goatee. "If they aren't connected then
it's called a Van Dyke." Unusually comfortable in her presence, he modeled
it for her in a silly fashion, turning this way and that. "Do you like
it?"
"It
looks great," she giggled with her hand over her mouth again. "Honestly.
I just have to get over the Jason Statham bit. I mean really. "With
narrowed eyes she studied him intently. "I see you and I can't help… well,
mainly I think of 'The Transporter' movies. With the white shirt, dark slacks
and tie, you're dressed like him, too."
Mike
cleared his throat, making his voice as gravelly as possible. Straight-faced
and deadpan he said with an
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