Barbie & The Beast (5 page)

Darin found himself feeling unusually fleet of foot. Better get Barbie back to her pal, after all. No telling what might happen
otherwise. “Civilized. Shit.”

He led her at a jog, with a tight hold on her hand. Barbie kept up, though he could hear her breathing behind him. He wondered
if she could feel the excitement in the air, if she could sense the energy rising up through him. Did she know how much he
wanted to howl, how much his beast wanted into the action?

“Big step,” he said to her, the connection between them searing his flesh. His skin vibrated. Wolfy undulated beneath his
bones, moon or no moon. The change would be possible, Darin knew now, if he wanted it. No doubt it was the excitement, the
attraction, causing the riot under his skin.

“Almost there,” he told Barbie.

“Okay,” she said. Was there disappointment in her tone?

“I’m afraid your friend doesn’t sound very happy,” he announced, adopting a faster pace, knowing he must let her go soon or
lose himself.

“Is Angie okay? Was she carted around, too?” she asked, sounding breathless.

“No way to know for sure. Sorry.”

When Barbie shuddered, the effect rippled up his arm. She really cared about her friend, he noted, and for that he was envious.
Who, other than his tightly knit family, would ever want, or dare, to care for him that much? What woman would tolerate a
beast in her bed? All that extra hair on the sheets!

His chest tightened, as did his hold on Barbie. Hell, if he could only explain a few things to her right now, up front and
in the dark, so that he wouldn’t have to look too hard at her expression when she heard. He might tell her that his ability
to see in the dark was real and enabled him to view things no human being could view. He might tell her that her jacket and
skirt were of a dark reddish hue that suited her perfectly, and that their details were clear down to the little satin-covered
buttons. Buttons that a beast’s clumsy, clawed hands could not cope with, but ones his own fingers at the moment could manage
very well, thank you very much, given the opportunity.

He might tell her that little edging of white lace showing above the rounded neckline of her jacket was driving him mad. Could
there be anything more feminine than a scrap of white lace?

Control slipped further. The tightness in his chest moved to his shoulders.

Must. Run. Faster. Must get Barbie back to her friend.

The objective now was to outdistance erupting emotions, to get a grip on the fact that the softness of Barbie’s white lace
would most likely never touch his skin and that she would probably turn out to be like all the rest of the women he’d briefly
dated: self-centered, careless, in search of the perfect man. Yet, if outdistancing those thoughts was of utmost importance,
he ruminated, why then had thoughts of Barbie’s little bit of white lace taken over his mind?

“Grrrr.” Horrified at the sound escaping his throat, Darin coughed to keep it from Barbie. A sliding movement went through
his stomach. The beast!

No! Keep back, I say! Think of something else, Russell. Keep the insanity at bay.
Christ, there were hours left until the real change, and he was already acting like a monster. He was thinking monstrous
thoughts.

But pheromones were rising on the air like dandelion fuzz; he couldn’t avoid them. Both man and wolf had to breathe, and their
combined sense of smell was nothing short of miraculous. Pheromones meant excitement. Barbie was excited. He was excited.
Their essences were mingling.

His heart thundered. His insides writhed. Not safe, he told himself. One minute more to reach Barbie’s friend. They had to
make it.

Heck, though, it was too bad the extraordinary nocturnal vision accompanying his condition couldn’t penetrate the human skull
so that he could see what Barbie was thinking. Not even the beast could help him there. A woman’s mind was a foreign and complex
thing. Barbie hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t run, hadn’t tugged really hard. Nevertheless, she had refused his offer of getting
together again. Why would she refuse? Shouldn’t someone with his supernatural abilities be able to figure this out?

Oh no!
One of his fingernails began to burn: a claw again wanting to pop. He willed it to chill. Touching Barbie was causing this,
he suddenly knew. She was bringing out these feelings. Barbie was liquid moonlight in female form. The smoothness of her fingers,
the strawberry fragrance that clung to her skin, but didn’t overwhelm—all those things taken together were irresistible.

He glanced back. Barbie’s hair was shiny, silky, and slightly curled upward at the ends, where it lay across her shoulders.
She had an adorable fringe of bangs across her forehead.
Little wisps of curl at her temple. How good it would feel to lean in and kiss her.

Damn beast! Was it instigating these thoughts? Keep back— I mean it! he inwardly shouted. But the idea of stroking Barbie’s
hair now haunted him. He wanted it to spill over his neck, tickle his shoulder as they embraced. He wanted to run his hands
through it, watch the silken strands slide through his fingers. How long had he waited for someone he could share his plight
with? It felt like forever.

At last they passed the fountain. He heard its splash. Seconds more, he told himself. Mere seconds, and Barbie would be safe.
Think of the water. No, not Barbie in the water. Not Barbie in a bathtub filled with bubbles. Anything but bubbles.

Too late. There she was, in his imagination, naked, in a bathtub, her dark hair floating on the surface of the water, the
contours of her body covered by translucent, bubble gum– scented bubbles. Two firm and flawless breasts rose from the H
₂
O like perfect little islands. Pink nipples crowned those breasts, the color of the palest rose species and tight with arousal,
the paleness a delicious contrast to her tan, caramel-colored skin.

Choking off a cry, nearly forgetting his pledge to behave, Darin found his heart fluttering to an unusual stillness as he
raced around the fountain, unable to escape the image. Tub. Barbie. His hand would move slowly over the water, sending tiny,
fragile, blush-tinted bubbles spiraling upward to ride the crest of his exhaled breath. Drawn to Barbie’s breasts, he’d take
one of them in his hand, gently rub his thumb over the peak. Barbie would moan with delight—a throaty response that would
make more things than the wolf spring to life.

Holy Mother of God.

With a big gulp of warm night air, Darin hesitated on the cemetery path, staring glassy-eyed at the image his mind
had invented. Pure imagination. Not reality. This was only a dream, a longing.
Get it straight!

Yes, but couldn’t it also be a premonition? A door into the future?
His
future? His and Barbie’s?

Nope. A little perspective was needed here. This had been a chance meeting in a cemetery, that’s all. Nothing more. He should
have been laughing at the absurdity of it all, the incongruity. Barbie and the Beast. Little Barbie and the Big Bad Wolf.

He glanced back, swept Barbie around a tall old tree, then came up short—and fully erect. Cusswords rolled over his tongue
in a whisper. “Damn. Hell. Shit.”

He twirled Barbie around to face him, making sure she remained on her feet and that his hands stayed appropriately placed.
“Look at me,” he directed, yanking her closer, knowing she couldn’t see him no matter how hard she tried; Barbie remained
sightless, both in reality and in her ability to perceive the beast lurking within him. “How dare you place yourself in this
kind of danger?” he asked. “How dare you take this place so lightly?”

Nearly overpowered by the urge to throw her down on the path, tear off her clothes, kiss her long and hard on that little
red mouth and then stroke her everywhere, he sighed audibly. He could not, in fact, touch her that way. Not when a really
strong attraction to a woman, the right woman, seemed to produce effects similar to the moon’s mojo.

She, Barbie, was looking up at him with large green eyes and an expression that nearly turned him inside out. In fairness
to her. . .he’d have to let her go. He couldn’t pop out claws and hold her at the same time, and he couldn’t tell her the
truth. He didn’t dare. What person confessed their flaws before getting a foot in the door? Some secrets were meant to be
kept.

Swiping at the perspiration gathered on his brow, Darin turned, started away, stopped. Barbie ran right into him.

“Sorry,” she said, reaching for her shoe. “If you really work here, you might want to put in a word about lights. Thousand-watt
bulbs would be nice. On tall poles.”

Darin grinned, shrugged shoulders that refused to relax. Barbie was a nice girl. In truth, it wasn’t time for the beast or
beastly behavior—not that he could blame this one on Wolfy entirely. To night, Darin Russell was mostly a man. Yet to night,
Darin Russell, the man, felt more like a beast than he ever had.

Barbie heard a sigh and the word
civilized
. Then she was pushed through more bushes and was off on her own.

The heel of her one good shoe sank down into moist earth. She floundered, righted herself, and remembered to walk on her toes.
Forward, she ordered. Not back to the guy. Definitely not back to the guy. And damn if her internal, man-sensing antennae
weren’t now lying flat on her head instead of waving madly to indicate the presence of her mystery man. He had given up. Given
in. Sent her away. In a very unstalkerlike, unpervertlike manner. The mysterious stranger, potential and all, had gone. No
expletive she could have invented would have captured the moment, though she tried out a few just the same.

“Barbie?” Angie called out, obviously sensing her presence. Barbie’s friend’s voice was frazzled, raw, and coated in fear.

Barbie’s feelings of guilt doubled. What if Angie really hadn’t been carted anywhere by another man? What if Angie had been
here in this spot the entire time, alone, waiting? What if, while Barbie Bradley had been enjoying herself, albeit in a very
strange way, her best friend had been frightened silly?

“Angie. Here I am.”

Angie rushed toward her, missing a collision only because Barbie stuck out her arms. “Jesus, Barbie! Where the hell did you
go? What the frig do you think you’re doing? You trying to give me heart failure?”

For once, Barbie thought before speaking, which seemed a genuine miracle. How could she explain what had just happened, when
she wasn’t exactly sure herself? Outside of the rattle of Angie’s rising anger, she couldn’t hear any twigs breaking or heavy
breathing from the evergreen periphery. It was crystal clear now that no he-man had come to rescue her friend from the allegedly
unfavorable party, so in this case Angie wouldn’t like the truth at all.

Too, how could Barbie, reasonably rational gal that she was, dwell on it? Her own guy had given her a shove. No lengthy good-byes.
No good-byes at all! No bargaining. No begging for lunch or a movie, coffee or tea. No further mention of a kiss. The wuss.
You’d think he might have asked for her phone number—or presented himself, so that she’d have an easier time with explanations.

How was she supposed to take this? How could she assume the guy was a pervert if he’d refused to act like one? He absolutely
had to be a pervert, that’s all there was to it, because if he wasn’t, and she had allowed him to get away. . .The thought
was just too painful to contemplate.

“I’m sorry, Ang. I’m here now.”

“Sorry?” Angie boomed.
“Sorry?”

Okay. Guilt was a terrible thing. As was fibbing. She’d dumped Bill because of his hurtful lies. But this was an emergency.
She only needed one small white fib here as a Band-Aid for friendship. Not for herself, but for Angie. God would understand.
She had to invent something as unmysterious as possible to satisfy her pal. Under no circumstances short of torture could
she mention her nocturnal cartage,
since it appeared that Angie had not budged. Besides, she couldn’t have been gone long, really. She and the stranger had only
trotted in a circle.

“I had to go to the bathroom,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back, because that’s what you’re supposed to do so
that the good powers up in the sky know that you know the difference between a fib and the truth. “Couldn’t wait.”

“You had to go
out here
?” Angie snapped in disbelief.

“You of all people have the least cause to question that,” Barbie pointed out. “I believe you’d have a bathroom installed
in your Fiat, if it were possible.”

Angie’s teeth clamped shut audibly, though she managed a stunted reply. “You might have mentioned this sudden need to go.
I thought something might have happened to you.”

“All that talk about heads. . .”

“Very funny,” Angie chirped. “You left me alone.”

“I’m sorry, Angie. Truly. I didn’t want to yell back about the lack of facilities or what I was doing. Someone might have
heard and come looking.”

“Hmph! Lack of facilities? You got that right. I swear I’m never going to do that client’s hair again. Or maybe I’ll dye it
orange. See how she likes that. Singles party, my ass!”

“Amen,” Barbie replied. This had been a huge mistake. Except for the strange guy. The thought of a good-bye kiss from him
was making her lips tingle.

“Not working with that woman ever again,” Angie ranted. “Men to die for? Give me a break!”

“Amen,” Barbie repeated, wishing she could cross her arms high enough to cover her chest, where puckered nipples were causing
another round of chills. Pesky nipples had a way of bringing attention elsewhere, much farther south on the female anatomy.
She didn’t want to think about elsewhere. There would be no elsewhere.

“No more singles parties!” Angie all but shouted. Barbie nodded. “Although we haven’t been to one yet, I’m right there with
you.”

“Graveyards.
Pfft
.” Angie was on a roll, and seemed to have bought the excuse Barbie had given. She hadn’t even asked if it was number one
or number two.

“Graveyards might even be worse than singles bars,” Angie went on.

“Oreos are waiting,” Barbie said brightly.

“Oreos are our friends,” Angie agreed.

“Can’t keep our friends waiting.” Barbie tucked her arm inside of Angie’s, deciding she had made the best choice after all
by returning to her friend. What man actually knew the significance of a moment like this? What man knew the importance of
chocolate to the female psyche, or could compete with it? Probably none.

As she and her friend retraced their steps toward where Barbie hoped the car was parked, it seemed that her eyes were adjusting
to the dark somewhat. Finally. This was a good thing, and better late than never. Others folks might be lurking in all those
bushes, other possible perverts with husky voices, slightly cynical temperaments, and marvelous pecs. Other men who weren’t
afraid to assert themselves with women in order to gain an introduction.

Ya think?

No! No thinking!
It wasn’t her fault she’d been the tiniest bit attracted to her temporary abductor, was it? How many men had she actually
found in the entirety of her dating career with as much potential? Zero, that’s how many. Zippo. Still, her mind warned, since
when had kidnapping, even on a temporary basis, been considered endearing? Never. Since when had kidnapping equated to being
swept off your feet? Since when had your garden-variety pervert begun to even remotely be considered eligible? Not ever. That
was a fact.
She let out a great big sigh and faced those facts. Her wits had made a comeback—better late than never. This encounter had
not been racy, sexy, or viable.

“Barb?” Angie called as they hustled along the grassy path.

“Yeah?”

“You did take care where you. . .?”

Normally Barbie wouldn’t have let that question go by without a tart reply. This time she did. She remained acutely aware
of the silence of the graveyard. She was aware of the wind in the bushes, and on that same wind, the lingering scent of spice.

Eau de mystère.

“You had some Kleenex with you?” Angie continued.

Barbie sniffed the air. Due to the continued wobble of her knees, and in part to her broken shoe, she only nearly missed a
spectacular fall. Thing was, her mystery guy hadn’t gone. Not really. She was sure she could smell his scent. She was sure
she could feel him there somewhere.

A warm glow heated her solar plexus. She had a sudden desire to press her legs tightly together and vetoed that, since walking
would have been a complete impossibility.

“No Kleenex,” she told Angie. “Didn’t want to litter.”

Her thoughts were entirely somewhere else. This inner glow and leftover heart thumping were fueled by the vague notion of
the faintest possibility of. . .a possibility. Actual sex, maybe? Finally? Combined, of course (it went without saying),
with male companionship. But definitely in that order, considering the way her body was reacting. The golden glow inside was
beaming out her needs like a beacon.

Of course, if she needed sex so badly, any schmuck might have picked up on and taken advantage of that. Mystery Guy didn’t
have to be anything special.

Not special, huh? she thought. Then why did the mere memory of him still have the power to ignite her insides as
no other man ever had? Some snag in the rationale there. The dark, the wind, and the entire adventure had been, she had to
admit, titillating. Totally. The air still seemed to vibrate with the stranger’s presence.

“Earth to Barb,” Angie said, out of breath but still racing for the Forest Lawn sign.

“Here, girl,” Barbie replied, though she was thinking about being swept off her feet, of spicy scents, of lips whispering
in her hair,
Can I see you again?

“We really do have to hurry,” Angie said. “All that talk of. . .and it’s my turn to have to. . .”

Beneath the solitary streetlight, Angie’s vintage red Fiat came into view, parked where they had left it and still surrounded
by other cars. About twenty in all. Where were all those people? Barbie wondered. Moreover,
who
were they, that Mystery Guy would so clearly want to keep her away?

Angie jumped inside of the car and leaned across the seat to unlock the passenger door. Barbie rested for a minute on the
Fiat’s cool metal frame, head turned to the wind.
He
was out there, beyond the pool of light. He was near.

With mild surprise, she looked down to find her hand rummaging through the contents of her jacket pocket. She came up with
a pen. Reciting the word
stupid
over and over beneath her breath, thinking this hand-with-a-mind-of-its-own thing a demonic possession of sorts, Barbie scribbled
her phone number on a dry-cleaning business card. She swiveled onto the seat of the Fiat and let the card fall to the pavement.

“I hope that wasn’t trash,” Angie said. “There’s a hefty fine for tossing trash out of a car window.”

“That wasn’t trash. Trust me,” Barbie said, adding beneath her breath, “I’m the trash. Trashy Barbie. That’s me.”