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The irritable mood that had come through the door with Eve didn’t have a chance. It exploded in the sheer volume and exuberance of Mavis Freestone’s unique musical style. Eve found herself grinning as she stepped up to the doorway of what Roarke referred to as the parlor.
There in all the splendor, the elegance, the antiquity, Mavis danced—Eve supposed that was the closest word for it—bouncing and jiggling atop graduated stacked heels that lifted her tiny frame a full six inches from the floor. Their swirling pink and green pattern matched the hair that flew in yard-long braids around her flushed, delighted face and fairy body.
Her slim legs were green, with little pink butterflies fluttering up in a spiral pattern, then disappearing under the tiny, flippy skirt of fuschia that barely covered her crotch. Her torso was decorated in a crisscross of the two colors with one pretty breast in pink, another in green.
Eve could only be relieved that Mavis had chosen to go with the green for both eyes. You just never knew.
Roarke sat in one of his lovely antique chairs, a glass of straw-colored wine in one hand. He was either relaxing into the show, Eve thought, or he’d lapsed into a protective coma.
The music, such as it was, crescendoed, led by a long, plaintive wail from the singer. Blessed silence fell like a cargo ship of bricks.
“What do you think?” Mavis tossed back the mop of bicolored braids. “It’s a good follow-up number for the new video. Not too tame, is it?”
“Ah.” Roarke took a moment to sip his wine. There’d been a moment when he’d been mildly concerned that the decibel level would shatter the crystal. “No. No indeed. Tame isn’t the word that comes to mind.”
“Mag!” She bounced over, and her little butt wriggled with energy as she bent down to kiss him. “I wanted you to see it first since you’re, like, the money man.”
“Money always bows to talent.”
If Eve hadn’t already loved him, she’d have fallen face first then and there, seeing the absolute joy his words put in Mavis’s eyes.
“It’s so much fun! The recordings, the concerts, the way iced costumes Leonardo gets to design for me. It’s hardly even like work. If it weren’t for you and Dallas, I’d still be scraping gigs at joints like the Blue Squirrel.”
She did a quick spin as she spoke, spotted Eve, and beamed like sunshine. “Hey! I’ve got a new number.”
“I heard. Totally mag.”
“Roarke said you’d be late, and you—Oh wow, is that blood?”
“What? Where?” Because her mind had switched channels, Eve whipped her gaze around the room before Mavis leaped toward her.
“It’s all over you.” Mavis’s panicked hands patted Eve’s breasts, shoulders. “We should call a doctor, a medi-unit. Roarke, make her lie down.”
“And there is my constant goal in life.”
“Har har. It’s not my blood, Mavis.”
“Oh.” Instantly, Mavis’s hands jumped back. “Ick.”
“Don’t worry, it’s dry. I was going to shower and change at Central, but I weighed the potential of a piss stream of chilly water against a flood of hot and came home instead. Got another of those around?” she asked Roarke with a nod toward his wine.
“Absolutely. Turn your head.”
She made a sound of annoyance, but tilted her head to show the treated scratches already healing.
“Man-o,” Mavis said with admiration in her voice. “Somebody swiped you good. Musta had mag nails.”
“But bad aim. She missed the eyes.” She took the wine Roarke brought her. “Thanks for the tip before,” she told him. “It panned out.”
“Happy to oblige. Tilt your head up.”
“Why? I showed you the nail rakes.”
“Up,” he repeated, nudging it back himself with the tip of his finger, then closing his mouth warm and firmly over hers. “As you can see, I have excellent aim.”
“Awwww. You guys are so cute.” With her hands folded at breast level, Mavis beamed at them.
