Love at Large Part 2

But I really wanted a second tattoo, and given his performance on the first, I wanted Rip to be the one to ink it. Of course, his personal charms were an added attraction. I'd decided on an anklet, probably on my left leg, and my design wove five narrow strands in Celtic style with two snarling dragonheads on the outside of the ankle as a psuedo-clasp.

Having phoned to check if Rip was working that afternoon and armed with my piece of paper, I strolled once more into the tattoo parlour. I was nervous again, but not about the tattoo this time. Over the past weeks I'd tried to talk myself out of my crush, telling myself Rip had just been friendly, an advantage in his line of work. I'd tried to forget the goose b.u.mps that had marched up my spine when I felt the warmth of his body so close to my own, and told myself it was a reaction to being in pain, merely nerves. I gave my libido a stern talk, lecturing it that our matching interests were just a pleasant coincidence and that I shouldn't try to read any more into it. The attempt had been a miserable failure.

I felt like a schoolgirl of sixteen.

I was determined that none of this would show.

Friendly as ever, Rip ushered me behind the part.i.tion and, accepting my sketch, studied the design.

"Ankle, wrist or upper arm?" he asked.

"Ankle." I'd shaved my legs in preparation. Oh, all right, I'd shaved my legs, pumiced and moisturised my feet, painted my toenails a vivid and fetching scarlet, washed my hair, taken an hour over my makeup to achieve a look that suggested I wasn't wearing any makeup at all, donned my best red silk underwear, worn barely there sandals and tried on seven different outfits before finally leaving the house then going back to change one more time. Not that I was making a big deal out of this visit to the tattoo parlour.

No, not at all.

"It's a detailed design. It'll probably take two, maybe three or four sessions to complete, depending how we go," Rip warned.

"That's okay." Hey, it was more than okay. Any excuse to keep coming back, talking to him, seeing him, was just fine by me. So much for talking myself out of this! As if it were an afterthought, I went on: "Oh, I brought that Jeff Buckley CD we were talking about last time."

"Cool. I'll put it on."

As the music began, Rip seated himself beside me. I knew what to expect by now, but I was no better equipped to deal with the brush of his knee against mine, or his hand casually curved about my calf as he began work on my ankle. Every chance contact made me shiver. Reclining on the couch with Rip concentrating at my feet at least gave me a better angle and opportunity to observe him and, oh, I still liked what I saw.

This time, he wore a white t-shirt; the sleeves again ripped out, and faded denim jeans that fit like a second skin. Thinking myself un.o.bserved, I used my vantage point to take in the ripple of muscle under the stretched cotton, the curve of a broad back narrowing into the waist of jeans moulded about his rear end in a manner that should have been illegal. His lower lip was caught between his teeth in concentration, and I could barely drag my eyes off it.

Without taking his own eyes from his current task, and so softly I wasn't sure I'd heard him right at first, he said, "Enjoying the scenery?"

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

Oh, no. Caught in the act. I warmed from head to toe, and it was only the firm hand still on my lower leg that prevented me from leaping out of that devil's contraption and running headlong from the parlour, never to return, embarra.s.sed beyond belief.

"S-s--sorry, I didn't mean, er, I, oh, h.e.l.l..." Sputtering I hid my face in my hands.

"It's all right. Why would I be anything but flattered?"

I peeked down at him from between my shielding fingers. "Really? You're not gonna tattoo 'pervert' on my ankle in revenge?"

"You'll have to wait and see." He was laughing at me, gently enjoying my discomfort.

At least he wasn't offended. Perhaps there was hope for me yet.

All too soon, he released my ankle, and I slid off the chair, slinking away under his amused gaze to lick my wounded sensibilities in private.

"See you next time," he called after me, still laughing. Enticing swine!

By the time I returned for the next inking installment on my ankle, I had come to terms with my ign.o.ble departure. I would hold my head high and pretend the whole event had never happened. Hey, if it worked for my cat, why wouldn't it work for me? I ignored the smirk on his face, settling into the now familiar chair with hauteur worthy of royalty. It lasted, oh, fully twenty seconds. The moment he put a steadying hand on my foot I was a goner, all over again. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to admire him as I had the last time, to make casual conversation as he worked.

I was sure he was aware of my distraction, deliberately adding to my internal temperature with casual fingers over my instep, a delicate stroke brushing the curve of my calf, a warm sigh on overheated skin. By the time he finished, I had developed a twitch that would probably send anyone I encountered on the way home screaming for the men in white coats to hurry up with the straitjacket.

I had no recollection whatsoever of what I'd said in the past hour, and I doubted my hands would ever recover their normal function so tightly had I been gripping the arms of the chair.

All I was aware of was how he'd touched me. I felt as if his fingerprints had been seared into my flesh like a brand.

On the third trip, I was determined to fight fire with fire. Two could play that game. With a casual air, I leaned as I seated myself, gratified to see his eyes widen as my not inconsiderable cleavage hove into view and vanished just as quickly as I reclined. My hand brushed "accidentally" against his denim-clad thigh as he arranged his gear. I gave him an innocent smile as he glanced over his shoulder at me, tossing my hair, worn loose, back. The word coquette could have been coined for me.

As he settled at my feet, I ran an appreciative eye over the lovely lines of his body, the long muscled legs, the well-built shoulders, the luxurious lashes, and was tempted to continue on my wicked way, but it was time to settle down. As the saying goes, less is more, and I still didn't want to distract him into an injudicious stroke on my tattoo.

Perhaps I had already made my point, for there was little teasing on his part during the next sixty minutes. We talked of movies and music, food and books, people and current affairs. There was a sharp mind inside his appealing outer package, and I found myself listening with appreciation.

Part of my plan of attack had included inviting Rip to have coffee, but despite my growing enjoyment of his company my resolution failed me. I kept hoping he would ask me, but telepathy was evidently not one of his talents. The hour drew inevitably to a close and my tattoo was nearing completion, though it wouldn't be finished this time. I still hadn't managed to gather my courage and issue my invitation.

With a melting smile at me over the counter, Rip uttered the usual "see you next time" and turned to the next customer, a young woman in a midriff top and tattered jean shorts that left little to the imagination. I scowled at her on my way out.

I found myself on the street, ankle and temper smarting, mentally kicking myself for cowardice. I dawdled down the street, berating myself for every foolishness under the sun. Where was my backbone? Did I want to find out if he was interested or not? What, after all, did I really have to lose? I should just ask and be done with it. If he said no, he said no. No biggie.

Yeah, right. And pigs might sprout feathers and launch themselves on aerial manoeuvres.

I stared into the eyes of my reflection in the window of the hairdressers. Stop being a wimp. Just get back in there and ask. Tell the elephants doing the samba in your stomach to take five, then gather up all your courage, and go ask him. You'll live, whatever his answer.

Steeling every nerve in my body, I marched up the street and into Rip's Parlour.

I hesitated at the counter, took a deep breath, and stepped into the workroom.

A naked female bottom confronted me, its owner's tattered shorts bunched about her upper thighs. Combined with the midriff top a considerable expanse of youthful flesh was exposed, and Rip was bent over it with his nose practically touching her skin.

The outline on her b.u.t.t was drawn to resemble a stamp, such as one would use to mark "Paid in full" on an invoice, but the lettering on hers read: "Made in Russia." I had no idea what that meant.

For the second time in a few minutes, I scowled at the young woman I had pa.s.sed on my way out, the effect of my expression somewhat lost on her as she lay face down on the couch.

It must have been sufficient to curl her hair, though, for Rip's eyes widened as he raised his head and caught sight of me.

He straightened and looked at me with a questioning expression. "Forget something?"

I did my best to ignore the unclad backside looming so large in my view, though to be fair said rear end was actually quite pet.i.te. I just didn't want Rip as close to it as he was, nor did I want to see him so cheerful about its proximity.

Dragging my scattered thoughts back into a somewhat straggly line, I remembered the resolve that had led me to return in such a hurry, and with such unfortunate timing.

"Would you like to go get a coffee, when you're, er, done there?" My voice shook, nerves getting the better of me.

He looked up from his renewed contemplation of the naked female bottom under his hands.

"Sorry, I can't."

"Oh. Okay. Never mind." My bravado fled, and I began to reverse toward the door, anxious to make my exit before I further embarra.s.sed myself.

His voice halted me before I could complete my escape.

"What about tomorrow? That movie we were talking about earlier is still on. We could catch that and then go for coffee."

My heart did a disconcerting dance. He hadn't meant no, never, just no, not today.

"Okay. Sounds good." I managed not to squeak with excitement.

"How about I meet you at the box office? Six-thirty show work for you?"

Six-thirty worked just fine for me.

"See you then." He smiled at me and returned his attention to the rear end he was inking.

"'Bout time!" complained its owner as I left. I blew her a kiss over my shoulder.

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE FOLLOWING DAY I was at the box office early, a jittering ma.s.s of nerves. I had spent several indulgent hours in the bathroom and several more littering the floor of the bedroom with the entire contents of my wardrobe, where I had tried on and discarded all my clothes in turn before deciding I had nothing to wear.

However, since arriving at the cinema stark naked was probably not a wise move, I'd resorted to tried and true favourites. My long swirly skirt in shades of blue and green shot with silver and the slinky black blouse at least had the merits of familiar comfort, and anyway, the decolletage revealed by the neckline of said blouse was, whilst not excessive, inviting.

And I wanted to be inviting. Just not too inviting. Yet.

Anxiety thrummed in my veins while the clock ticked on. At last I spotted Rip making his leisurely way through the small crowd gathered at the ticket windows. My breath caught. He wore the b.u.t.tery leather jeans I had first seen him in and a red short-sleeved shirt that emphasized his biceps. He carried a denim jacket, and his hair shone, caught back in a ponytail.

He looked fabulous.

"Hi. Sorry if I'm a bit late. Had to shoo eager customers out the door or convince them my partner was up to handling their tatts. We'd better go in or we'll miss the start, and I hate missing the beginning."

I nodded, wordless, and nearly jumped out of my skin at the hand he placed under my elbow as we joined the queue. His fingers were warm curled about my arm. Standing next to him, I barely reached his shoulder. It was noisy in the foyer, and we pa.s.sed the usher in silence, taking our seats as the lights went down.

In the dark I was somehow even more aware of the desirable man next to me. His flank rested warm against my thigh and, seated so close, I could catch enticing wafts of aftershave, clean skin, and a scent that was simply his own.

I began to wonder how I was ever going to pay attention to the movie with such distractions beside me. My thoughts went into overdrive when we both leaned on the central armrest together, hands touching by accident. Seeming to sense my agitation, he curled his fingers about mine, and I caught a glimpse of white teeth as he smiled in the darkness, his thumb petting the back of my hand in a soothing rhythm.

Staring toward the screen, by slow increments I lost my hyper-awareness of him and became involved in the unfolding story. When the lights went up, I was surprised to find my hand still nestled in his.

Blinking, we made our way out into the foyer, hands still linked. I felt self-conscious, drawn along in his longer-legged wake, but nothing short of gunpoint would have induced me to let go.

He paused as we emerged into the night. "What did you think of the film?"

"I enjoyed it. The ending was unexpected. And you?" His thumb rubbing little circles on the back of my hand prevented my brain from coming up with anything more profound than that.

"Yeah, it was, a bit--" He hesitated. "Um, how are you getting home?"

"Taxi," I answered, glancing around for the taxi rank.

"I could give you a lift..."

"That would be, er, kind. Thank you." I was overjoyed that the evening was not yet over. Perhaps on the ride home I could persuade my rampaging hormones to kick back a little and manage some conversation on a level above that of mindless gnat. Or persuade him to have the cup of coffee I'd mentioned.

It wasn't until we'd walked through the parking lot and the last s.p.a.ce revealed a gleaming motorcycle that I realised why he had grinned when I accepted his offer. He hadn't specified his mode of transport and, like a fool, I hadn't asked. I should have remembered the bike parked at the tattoo parlour.

I must have blanched, for when he looked down at me, the amus.e.m.e.nt faded from his face and he relented enough to give me an out, if I wanted to take it.

"Sorry, I should have told you about the bike. I do have two helmets, but if you'd rather not ride pillion, I'll walk you back to the taxi stand and not take offence."

Cowardice warred with determination not to admit defeat, but finally I shrugged. To back out now would be to lose face, and I didn't want to look like a wuss in front of him.

"Show me how to put the helmet on. And, er, how to get on this monster in a skirt."

"Well," he was laughing again, "I've never had occasion to saddle up while wearing a skirt, but you pretty much just throw one leg over and prop your feet on the pegs. That's about it."

He handed me the helmet and helped me buckle the strap. Settling on the bike, he held out a helping hand and, as instructed, I threw my leg over the saddle. I gasped as I slipped down the angle of the seat to come to rest in intimate contact with his denim-clad back. My feet fumbled onto the pegs, and I placed hesitant hands on his waist.

I was glad my voice was steady as I gave him directions.

"Ready? You might want to hang on a bit tighter..." The words had barely left his lips when he started up the engine and the machine beneath us throbbed with power. As the motorcycle leapt into motion I was nearly thrown off and, terror-struck, I flung my arms about him in a death grip.

Crushed against his back, my hair whipping across the visor, I clutched him for dear life. I couldn't see much through my flying locks, but the impression of speed and danger was clear, the black road beneath us tearing past, the streetlamps streaks of light. My skirt swirled ever higher about my thighs in the wind, but I didn't dare spare a hand to satisfy the demands of modesty.

I could feel my heart thudding against my rib cage as if attempting to reach escape velocity and launch itself into outer s.p.a.ce. The denim of his jacket was cool against my cheek. I could feel the muscles beneath his skin, still smell the spicy aroma of him. His hips brushed against the insides of my legs, and I censored that thought as I felt a blush threatening at the direction my fancies were taking.

He slowed to take a corner and pulled up outside my house. I unclenched my hands from about his torso with difficulty, and he slid from the bike, holding out a hand to help me dismount. My knees were trembling, my heart still beating like a tom-tom. I handed him my helmet and attempted in vain to restore order to my hair.

Turning me about so he could see my face in the streetlight, he peered into my eyes.

"Are you all right? For a moment I thought you were going to squeeze the last bit of oxygen out of my lungs! I didn't mean to scare you."

"Scare me? That was the single most frightening, alarming, terrifying ride of my life. It was...fun! Can we do it again?" I wasn't afraid anymore; I was exhilarated! All that speed and power was exciting.

"Seriously? Sure, but maybe not tonight." He chuckled, relieved.

"Okay, I'll hold you to that." I was a tad disappointed not to be taking another turn about the highway. "Would you like to come in for coffee?" I hoped he would realize that "coffee" was not a euphemism.

"Sure."

We sat on the couch, mugs in hand, discussing the movie. I was enjoying his company but hard as I tried to fend it off, tried banishing yesterday's image of the bare-bottomed girl under his hands to the back of my mind, the vision kept haunting me. Finally my curiosity and, yes, ugly jealousy got the better of me.

"Remember the girl having the 'Made in Russia' tattoo on her b.u.t.t? You seemed so, um, intent on her..."

"I remember her. Yes." I could tell he wasn't going to give me any help because of the single raised eyebrow that indicated he found this turn in the conversation highly amusing.

"Oh, look, I'm just going to ask." Having made this brave utterance I found that my voice had dried up, so I took an intemperate gulp of coffee, provoking a savage bout of choking and spluttering.

He pounded me on the back until my coughing fit subsided.