Romance: Catching Helena Handbasket (4 page)

     “I just came out of a relationship with a WOMAN,” Trey corrected her with a snide smile.  “A fashion model who has appeared on some of our book covers.  She sure looked stunning on those covers—the only time, incidentally, that I’ve seen her with her mouth shut.  This woman, Helena, spent all of her time talking about herself and her newest book and magazine covers. I don’t rightly believe, by the way, that she actually read her own or any other book, unless one counts that epic literary title It’s All in the Curl: The Magic of Mascara, Volume I.”

     Helena nodded.

     “I saw It’s All in the Curl: The Magic of Mascara Volumes II and III on the classics shelf at Barnes and Noble recently,” she revealed, tone stark and dead pan.  “I was going to pick them up, but I was afraid that—by skipping the first volume—I wouldn’t be able to grasp the true message and intellectual depth of the trilogy as a whole.  Kind of like The Lord of the Toe Rings series.”

     Trey guffawed outright.

     “Julianne never made me laugh like this, at least not intentionally,” he rolled his eyes heavenward.  “I did have to chuckle, though, when she insisted that she was the most beautiful model in Manhattan—and that Gisele and Kate Upton might just as well hang up their stilettos.”

    “Oh, I’ve thought the same thing about myself, so many times,” Helena interrupted, tossing the strands of her unruly blonde hair with an exaggerated flip.  “That’s exactly why I never dared to venture into the modelling field.  As a feminist I don’t believe in depriving other women of work.”

     Trey chuckled.

     “Don’t sell yourself short, Kid.  You, my lady, are downright adorable,” he assured her, reaching forth a tender hand to stroke the same hair she’d ventured to toss.  “The hair I’m touching is kissed by the sun—and I love those big blue eyes I see sparkling behind those glasses. I’ll tell you something else—after months of trying to make love to a stick figure mannequin, I’m more than ready for a voluptuous woman.”

     Helena rolled her eyes.

     “Voluptuous,” she repeated on a snort.  “Yep yep.  When people hear the word voluptuous, they automatically think of Pam Anderson, Jane Russell and Helena Vance—every time just never fails.  I’m not voluptuous, Trey.  I’m chubby.  And since I define chocolate as both the fifth major food group and the primary reason for Helena Vance’s existence, I’m likely to remain chubby for the duration of my existence.  And you know what?  I’m perfectly and totally happy that way.”

     Trey nodded.

     “And don’t you see, Helena?  That’s why we need women like you writing romance.  Ladies these days need real, amazing role models like you.”  He paused here, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he added, “As a matter of fact, I do believe that we need to put your picture on the cover of your debut novel.”

     Helena froze, eyes wide.

     “Me, a cover model?” she asked, adding as she pursed her lips, “Yes, me—a cover model.  I like it.”

     She froze again as Trey surged across the table to sear her lips with another hot kiss.

     “I like you,” he whispered against her lips.  “Helena, would you like to come out with me Friday night?  I’d like to show you the Manhattan night life—maybe take you to my favorite night club for a bit of dancing.”

     Helena thought a moment as she ate another snail, then nodded.

     “Sure, I’d be pleased to go,” she assented finally, adding with an arched eyebrow, “But although Helena Vance is good and ready for Manhattan, is Manhattan really ready for Helena Vance?”

Chapter Six

     Helena still asked herself this question Friday evening, as she stood before yet another restrictive cubbyhole; this one the closet that formed a (very small) corner of her bedroom in her newly minted Manhattan loft.

     Doused in a design scheme that many top decorators would probably best describe as ‘white’, this owing to Helena’s chronic inability to coordinate the colors and styles of her clothing and furnishings (“And,” she often reasoned, “Nothing clashes with white”), her new loft came complete with her classic college futon—one that had just barely managed to survive two cats and a particularly hairy sophomore boyfriend—a basic camp bed with cotton sheets, a pair of sharp card table chairs that flanked a basic wooden table, and a bureau that contained her full assortment of bras and self-proclaimed granny panties.

     Her built in closet, by contrast, held a sensible wardrobe of shirts, slacks and pant suits ideal for the corporate environment; along with a small selection of casual T-shirts and worn blue jeans perfect for evenings, weekends and casual outings.

     And then there was The Dress.

     The Dress, a birthday gift from her youngest sister Hilda—the one that all too often inspired their mother to cross herself and say a litany of “Hail Marys,” when the family wasn’t even Catholic—was a flirty, flaring and decidedly silky number that dipped low at the neck and lifted at the hemline—creating an effect that was feminine, flirty, and, well….

     “Slutty,” she cringed at this adjective, adding as she pulled the dress from its place far, far, far back in her closet—or at least as far back as one could get in such a bloody tiny cubbyhole, “Then again, in comparison to my usual wardrobe, an oversized polo shirt and tacky khakis would be considered slutty.  And, well, the dress is white.  A decided and definite point in its favor.”

     She smiled nevertheless as she slipped in to the soft, figure-flattering dress; one that accentuated her womanly curves to lovely effect.

     Brushing out the length of her shoulder length blonde hair, Helena next applied a touch of blush and a coat of rarely worn red lipstick.

     Lipstick she just managed to smear half way across her face as a loud knock resounded from her front door.  Swearing softly, she fixed this mistake as she scurried barefoot across her carpeted floor to answer the summons.

     She opened the door to a vision that stopped just short of stealing her breath.

     Dressed this evening in a sharp ivory suit that accentuated the cast of his ebony hair and the sharp hue of his gem blue eyes, not to mention—she couldn’t help but notice—every muscle on his ever lovin’, oh so fit physique, Trey also came bearing a scented, dew glistened bouquet of gorgeous ruby red roses.

     “Wow,” Helena breathed, inordinately pleased with herself on her high level of impulsive articulance.

     “Right back at ya,” Trey breathed in return, his wide-eyed gaze taking a long walk down Helena’s voluptuous form.  “You’re beautiful Helena.”

     Feeling her cheeks flush at this rare compliment, his date accepted his flowers with a gracious smile and walked them in to a nearby kitchen; where she grabbed a water pitcher from her refrigerator and tossed the flowers inside.

     “The pure jade vase, my personal favorite of my extensive collection, is on loan to the Louvre,” she said over her shoulder to an amused Trey.  “Sometimes, my dear, we must make do.”

     Setting her fresh new floral arrangement at the center of her table, Helena grabbed her ivory clamshell purse from its place on the same table and headed toward the door.

     “So let’s make like defective fireworks and blow this Popsicle stand,” she offered her arm to Trey.  “Or, you know, some other misbegotten, tired cliché that I as a book editor should never, ever employ.”

     Trey chuckled.

     “Brilliant,” he kissed her cheek, adding with a shrug, “As lovely as you look tonight, Helena, I do have one minor suggestion to make in regards to your wardrobe.”

     Her smile dissolving, Helena fixed her fists on her hips and narrowed her eyes in his direction.

     “Oh do you now?” she snapped.  “And just who are you as a man to dictate your date’s wardrobe?  I must say that is an extremely sexist statement, one I’d never expect to hear coming from you…”

     “So sorry, so sorry,” Trey apologized, hands held up before him as he suddenly seemed in fear of his very life.  “It’s just that-well—the club I’m taking to you is very high class and exclusive, and they require that all of their patrons wear a specific article of clothing before being admitted into its rather posh, upscale confines.”

     “Oh, does it now?”  Helena snapped, hoisting her chin upward.  “So just what am I lacking here?  What must have item of clothing do I need to fit in with your hoity toity friends at this super exclusive job?”

     Trey grinned.

     “Shoes, Helena,” he told her, motioning toward her bare feet.  “They are an exclusive, hoity toity apparel item, to be sure—but I’m sure you have a pair, somewhere in your wardrobe.”

     Following the direction of his gesture, Helena felt her cheeks flush as she regarded her patently bare feet.

     “Oh, right,” she muttered, turning for her bedroom.  “I should have some of those around here.  Somewhere.”

     Moments later, or at least after Helena had found herself some fitting footwear, she found herself in the passenger seat of a sleek ebony Jaguar; racing across a velvet ebony nightscape to the downtown area.

     “Nice wheels,” she praised, pressing her nose against the passenger seat window as she admired the shimmering blanket of stars that ruled the night sky.  “Nice town.”

     “Thanks and thanks,” Trey nodded.  “It’s always nice to see Manhattan—and my car, for that matter—through a fresh, very lovely pair of eyes.  So tell me, Helena—how do you like your new apartment?”

     Helena shrugged.

     “It’s beautiful,” she allowed.  “And for once I’m not fighting to the death for bathroom space with six other females and a particularly feminine pet poodle.  Major bonus!  Although, judging from the acrid scents emanating from the apartment next door, I’d guess my new neighbor is either a serial killer or they enjoy preparing a particular exotic breed of fish every single night for dinner.”

     Trey guffawed outright.

     “Well that’s the breaks I guess,” he allowed, pinning her with a sympathetic gaze.  “I’ve never been a big fan of overly close neighbors—that’s why I love my penthouse.  It’s very quiet and private and offers a great view of the city.  Perhaps I could give you a private tour sometime.”  He said these last words on a smooth purr that sent chills down Helena’s spine.

     “I’d like that,” she managed on a yelp, adding quickly as she cleared her throat, “I have to say I actually enjoyed a couple of the short story submissions I edited today—the writing styles were strong, and you got the idea that the heroines of the pieces actually might say boo to a goose and have an IQ that exceeds their bra size—and that their heroes might even be down for the concepts of equal work for equal pay and consensual sex.”

     Trey smiled.

     “I thought you’d like them,” he affirmed with a nod, adding in a thoughtful tone, “I must admit, Helena, that since you’ve arrived here I’ve been approaching our submissions pile with a more thoughtful, more critical eye.  I’ve taken into serious consideration some of the things that you’ve said; as a matter of fact, I sometimes hear your voice in my head as I consider new books—and if I happen to spot any amount of sexist or offensive content, I can hear very clearly your—um—critical comments.”  He paused here, adding with a cringe, “Your inner voice can get pretty loud, Helena—not to mention quite colorful in your descriptive words.”

     Letting loose with a mock gasp, Helena grasped Trey’s muscled arm as her eyes flew wide.

     “Oh no,” her voice barely above a whisper.  “You’ve been possessed by the spirit of Helena—or as I like to call her, the demonic and all powerful spirit known as Helena Handbasket.”

     Trey guffawed outright.

     “Indeed I have, and so has my business,” he told her, adding with a saucy wink, “I also have to admit it Helena—I quite like the idea of your having a wild and wicked side.  I hope to be able to make the acquaintance of Helena Handbasket sometime.  Perhaps I could even say or do something to help bring her out of you.”

     These words echoed in Helena’s mind—and, she couldn’t help but notice, several other primary body parts—moments later, when Trey pulled into a circular parking lot that fronted a domed marble walled dance palace called The Last Tango.

     “And if I try the tango—or any other dance, for that matter—it would indeed be the last tango ever performed,” she told Trey, adding with a cringe, “After seeing my sure to be pathetic and downright bizarre rendition of the tango, those that perfect the art form would probably just end the tango tradition right then and there, on the grounds that the dance has been ruined and defiled her beyond the point of redemption.”

     Pulling his car around to the front of the club, Trey put the vehicle in park; all the while pinning his date with an empathetic look.

     “Don’t worry about it, babe,” he reassured her with a smile.  “I just want you to relax and have fun with me tonight.  And that, my dear, is an executive order coming straight from the boss.”

     Helena opened her mouth to respond—only to let loose with a high pitched yelp moments later, as she saw a tall, grey haired man in a dark suit lean forward to lay a firm hand on the driver’s side window.

     “Trey!” she raised her hand to her mouth.  “I think we’re being carjacked—let me find my cell phone, I’ll dial 9-1-1…”

     “Helena,” Trey interrupted her, raising a sly eyebrow in her direction, “The foul, vicious crime to which you bear witness is known as valet parking.  Now wait just a moment while I tip our assailant and get our car squared away.”

     “Oh.”  Helena relaxed in her seat, adding with a shrug, “Well I have heard the term of course—it’s just not something we see a lot of back in Murphy, Indiana.  We also were more apt to do the hoe down throw down at school and community dances, not the tango.”  She paused here, shaking her head.  “Listen, Trey, I’m already starting to feel just a tad out of place here.  And surely you as a man would rather do anything else—say, catch a movie or a ball game—than hit the dance floor.”

     Trey shrugged.

     “Well, I was trained in ballroom dance as a kid—my mom was a huge fan of Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire movies,” he told her.  “In college I danced and sang in quite a few school musicals.”

     Helena had heard enough.

     “OK that does it,” she declared, raising her finger for emphasis.  “There is no way in heck I am going in there with you tonight.  No.  Uh huh.  Absolutely, positively not…”

     Silencing her with a deep, warm kiss, Trey relaxed Helena by rubbing his full, moist lips against hers; teasing her mouth with the tip of his tongue as he leaned into her.

     Breaking the kiss on a tender sigh, Trey pulled away and graced his date with a warm, loving smile.

     “When one thinks about it, Helena,” he began, tone low and provocative, “You and I have been doing the Tango since the moment we met.”

     Helena frowned.

     “We have?” she cocked a curious eyebrow.  “I must have missed the exotic salsa music emanating from the break room and the swirly dresses that hung ready to wear by the water cooler—maybe the maracas player with the big, floppy hat was hiding in the office supply closet…”

     Slipping his sturdy finger over her lips, Tret stared deep into her eyes as he continued, “Don’t you sense our rhythm, Helena?  Don’t you feel it in the way we move close to each other every time we meet, the way we finish each other’s sentences when we speak?  Our interoffice memos read more like love notes.  Don’t you feel the spark—the fire?  Now all we need to do is express that passion on the dance floor.”

     Grinning in spite of herself, Helena bit her lip as a warm, very pleasurable wave of sensation coursed her from head to toe.

     The feeling was brief.

     “I can’t dance!” she insisted, adding with a cringe, “I, too, appeared in one student comedy/musical during my college days.  Oh sure, people howled when I delivered my humorous lines—but they laughed much louder when I attempted any form of a dance move.  All except for the school nurse, of course, who thought I was having a seizure of some sort and started to rush the stage.”

     Turning away from her grinning date with a loud, defined “Harrumph!” Helena folded her arms before her and avoided his probing gaze.

     “I’m saying no to The Last Tango,” she insisted.

     She relaxed moments later, as she felt the presence of a masculine hand rubbing and stroking her sturdy shoulder; and this tender touch was accompanied by a deep, soothing voice that stroked and eased her addled senses.

     “Well speaking of dancing,” Trey whispered, tone soft and seductive, “I do happen to specialize in another type of dance—one in which my partner doesn’t have to do a thing to contribute to the rhythm—except, of course, just relax and enjoy it.”  He paused here, searing her with a narrow eyed gaze that blazed seduction.  “So tell me, Helena—have you ever seen the movie Magic Mike?”