Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (23 page)

Miranda snatched the tapestry and stumbled to a stand. “Dammit Kiki, you almost trampled on my prop and me. What’s wrong with you?”

"Ian Cherlein is due anytime,” Kiki panted.

“So.”

“Aren’t you excited?”

“Not especially. He’s just another guest.”

“Not true and you know it. You’re being arbitrary for the sake of being arbitrary.”

Ian entered the studio through a rear door and signed in with the security officer. The uniformed guard directed him to Hugh Glencoe’s office. As a polite gesture, Ian wanted to stop in before the interview to say hello.

Ian thanked the guard and headed towards Glencoe’s office. The corridor was lined with cubby-hole workrooms. He paid no attention to the occupants. They were mostly behind the scenes staff he rarely had occasion to meet. Ahead, a buxom attractive blonde skittered into a room, her short curls bouncing. She looked a promising option for late dinner and drinks at the flat.

Ian lingered in the doorway, as the blonde mentioned him by name to a long-legged redhead whose back was to him. Tall, she wore high heels which made her nearly 5’10. He liked it when tall women were confident enough to flaunt their height and not try to hide it behind flat shoes. The redhead swayed invitingly to a U2 song playing in the background. Her black leather skirt pulled taut then relaxed with the side to side shift of her hips. An erotic vision of her naked, her hair loose and blowing, riding a chestnut Thoroughbred rose in his mind. He wished she’d turn around. If she didn’t have a face like a horse, she might work out better than the blonde.

The women continued talking. He waited for a break in their conversation rather than interrupt them. Curious, he leaned against the doorframe, listening unnoticed by either lady.

The redhead fussed with the tapestries and tried to stifle a sneeze as the dust floated around her.

"I'm fully aware he’s a special guest-” She pinched her nose and turned her head to the side. Her head bobbed once with the loud chirp of a half-formed sneeze. “I’m doing these tapestries because of him. Hugh wants the set to have an old world feel for Cherlein’s appearance. So why are you so excited about him?"

"I talked with Zandra. She says Hugh, a station rep., and Cherlein met a couple of weeks ago. Apparently, the Americans want him to host a weekly program on medieval life...and they're going to do the shoot over here."

"Makes sense. As I understand my history the Americans didn't have much of a medieval life."

The blonde lowered her voice conspiratorially. "That's not all. Zandra said he’s suck the breath out of your lungs handsome.”

“Gaw, talk about hyperbole. His promo picture’s plastered all over the lobby. I grant you, he’s easy on the eyes. If...the photos are accurate and if any icky flaws haven’t been airbrushed away.”

“He doesn’t have any icky flaws.”

“You don’t know that. He might have dangling nose hairs...”

The redhead wiggled her fingers under her nose in an unpleasant charade of said offensive hairs. Ian nearly spoke up, if only to put an end to the silly suggestion.

“Or warts,” she continued. “He might be covered in them for all you know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the blonde argued. “You saw Cherlein on his special from a couple of years ago.”

“I was out of the country when it was broadcast.”

“You don’t get it. Zandra said he’s way better in person. In fact, she's begged Hugh to let her be the production assistant on the show. She hopes to do more than just work with him." The blonde stretched the “just work” part.

"Kiki, I'd take Zandra's description with a grain of salt. I've been to office parties she's attended. She fell in lust with a different man at each one. They ran the gamut from relatively all right, to looking like the dog's breakfast. So, when she says he's woo-woo handsome, it could mean he has two eyes, two lips and a nose, where they should be.

“First of all, he's probably married.” The redhead unfolded another tapestry and laid it out on the floor. “If he isn't married, he's very likely gay. They usually are. I’ve noticed there’s direct correlation between the degree of hunkiness and those possibilities. As one increases so does the other."

Ian refrained from snorting out loud.

"Wrong on both counts. He's not married. Zandra checked. And he’s definitely not gay. My cousin’s friend was production assistant on a movie he worked on in Florida and slept with him."

Ian smiled, remembering the charming Cuban P.A., Ava, who taught him several Spanish swear words.

"How do you know she slept with him?” the redhead asked. “Not that I care a whit about Ian Cherlein's boudoir romps."

"Don’t be stupid. Long weekend, mansion with a private beach, bathing suits optional, they weren’t playing bridge.

"According to my cousin, they spent most of the time in the sun and in bed. When they did venture out it was only to do the most romantic things. One night they went to a Latin nightclub, and they tangoed for hours."

“They did the tango? Really? I thought only middle-aged women vacationing in Rio did that,” the redhead scoffed.

Middle-aged women indeed. I bet I could tango you right out of your panties, young lady.
Now, more than ever, Ian was more determined to see the redhead’s face.

"My cousin's friend said the weekend was brilliant."

"What was brilliant, the tango, the mansion or the man?"

"All of it, but especially the man. It seems his reputation is well deserved. He's...ummm, inventive, shall we say and has great stamina." Kiki twirled in a circle on her toes as if enjoying the event if only vicariously.

Ian ducked out of sight and scarcely avoided being discovered as the blonde spun his way.

“You done?” the redhead asked as Kiki completed her little dance. "Is he all invention and art, or has nature been kind to him also?"

Kiki demonstrated with her hands.

“Really?”

The redhead sounded impressed...
finally.

Ian was both flattered and embarrassed, and not much embarrassed him. Various ladies had complimented him on how well nature blessed him. The compliment whispered or moaned, usually followed some head-banging, balls-to-the-wall sex, but never before came in the form of mime, at least not to his face. He actually felt the heat of a blush.

The redhead smoothed the tapestries and started to run the bar across the top of the second one. He stepped back for a different perspective as she tilted her head from side to side. She knelt to straighten the material, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Ian stood at a different angle so he could see her face better without being in the women’s line of sight.

She wore only a soft pink gloss on her lips. She had high cheekbones, a straight Patrician nose and large eyes. She didn't wear much makeup judging from the faint shine on her cheeks and nose. He liked that.

The natural quality attracted him after living in Los Angeles for the past few months. He looked forward to dating women with soft breasts that moved in the same direction as the rest of their body.

The redhead placed a library ladder against the wall. She tried to set the bar the tapestry hung from onto two large wall hooks. But the pole teetered as the hanging slid to one end. She straightened both and instead of resting the bar in the hooks, she held the prop up to the wall, arms raised.

Ian watched her skirt come up, offering him a lovely view of thigh high stockings. What man isn't a sucker for silk hose and high heels? The temptation to run his hands up those legs was tough to ignore and was felt all the way to his loins.

The unwieldy and heavy hanging was killing Miranda’s arms as she held it up. Plus, the weight shifted when the material slid to one end of the pole. She balanced herself against the wall but her arms were stretched too far. The awkward position gave her no leverage to either adjust or move down a step on the ladder. She tried, but after several attempts couldn't manage to lift the tapestry off the wall. Fed up, she saw another option and pushed back hard. It was a tactical error. She wavered precariously before a pair of strong hands grasped her waist and helped her to the floor.

Saved, she laid the tapestry across the top of the ladder and turned around to say thanks. She found herself eye level with a man’s jaw.

She glanced up into eyes the color of India ink that sparkled in a most beguiling and puzzlingly familiar way. On closer look they weren’t black but deep brown. The Romanesque nose, although prominent, lent an appealing masculine quality. It softened his angular cheekbones. Miranda recognized him instantly.

Ian Cherlein wasn’t the Adonis Zandra made him out to be, but he was better looking in person than in pictures. His dark hair was longer than in his promo photos and hung to his shoulders. He reminded her of...of...she struggled, trying to come up with the best comparison. King Arthur.

A powerful vision of him wearing a sword and high black boots flashed in her mind. A tidal wave of intimacy hit her fast and she choked on a gulp of air. Then it vanished.

She wasn’t an intuitive person by nature. The common concept of
gut instinct
was alien to her. In fact, she found the notion foolish. She quickly corrected friends who attributed a good choice to gut instinct by explaining the fallacy in their logic. “The law of probability states a right choice is bound to be made on occasion. ‘Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in awhile,’ as the saying goes.”

Although, she’d at times experienced the impression of déjà vu, the encounters left her feeling unsettled. Ian Cherlein was a stranger to her. This inexplicable powerful sensation of familiarity for him bothered her more than other déjà vu situations.

Shaken by the extraordinary reaction, Miranda locked eyes with him. Ian winked and broke into a broad, sexy smile. In addition to her brief loss of sanity envisioning him as King Arthur, she was mortified for gaping at him.

Miranda composed herself and tried to move away. He embraced her, pulling her close instead. Then, his expression changed. He cupped her chin in one hand and slowly turned her face to the left and then right. His eyes searched hers. It was intense and a bit unnerving. What was he looking for? Cherlein touched a finger to the beauty mark by her upper lip. He stopped and remained perfectly still as though under a spell. He bent and sniffed her cheek near her ear. It wasn't bad. Rather sensual, actually. However, it was far too bold.

“Elinor?”

He’d spoken so soft, she wasn’t certain if he called her by someone else’s name. "Pardon?"

"Hmmm?" Cherlein murmured as his scrutiny of her continued.

Miranda couldn’t guess what had him so fixated. "You said something, I'm afraid I didn't hear it."

"It wasn't important. Your perfume, it’s L’interdit, right?"

She nodded. “I’m surprised you know the scent. It’s not a trendy perfume.”

“It’s my favorite.”

“That’s nice. You should let go now.” Miranda pressed her palms to his chest. Ian didn’t seem inclined to release his hold. Although, being his prisoner was far from unpleasant, if Hugh came by, he’d wonder what the devil was going on. “This is quite inappropriate.” She pushed harder against his chest. “For a minute you appeared to recognize me," she said, making idle conversation while continuing her effort to free herself.

“You remind me of someone I knew long ago,” he said and released her. “I thought I might’ve looked familiar to you also." The smile returned, a little tighter. “Do I?”

"No, I'd have remembered if we had met." Miranda thought it best not to mention her strange moment of recognition.