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She nodded enthusiastically. “He would love that.”
They kept going. “There, they have the best French cuisine.” He pinched his finger and thumb together in an emphatic gesture of perfection. “We’ll visit. We will eat.”
She slid her eyes sideways at him. “Frogs’ legs? I’ll pass.”
His laugh was a deep, amused boom. “I promise there is more to French food than that. And I have had frogs’ legs, but I don’t like them. So I will pass as well.”
When they pulled into the place Queenie had directed them to, they were both still laughing. Melanie noticed that it was an art gallery and antique store, and immediately she was curious. A short, round-bellied, balding man bustled out. “La princesse?” he asked, peering at Melanie before nodding, satisfied.
Melanie, who had suffered the embarrassment of being recognized in town at least five times, smiled bravely and nodded in affirmation. She wondered if she would ever get over her face and life being plastered all over social media. Almost unconsciously, she fingered the tiny body cam pinned to her top. She had been surprised to see that Corbin was also wearing one, which meant that she was not only transmitting footage of what she was seeing, but he was also constantly uploading video of her.
They followed the man into the shop, with Melanie’s head swiveling from side to side as they went, trying to take in all the creations around her. She wondered briefly why Queenie—or her client—was so keen on getting their hands on artwork, purely an embellishment at this stage in the game, when so much of the groundwork still had to be laid.
Oh well, Melanie figured, rich people.
Employees and shoppers alike milled about, and more than once she felt eyes upon her as recognition penetrated their consciousness.
“Voilà,”announced the man proudly, and whipped a cotton sheet off the statue he had brought them to. She looked it over—and then her eyes were riveted. It was an alabaster satyr, his skin pale, his features well defined. He was grinning like an imp, the mischief inherent to his nature quite apparent. Maybe four and a half feet tall but appearing taller thanks to the goat’s horns that curved backwards gently over the mop of curly hair.
He sported a meticulously trimmed goatee, and his grin revealed over-large but perfect teeth. His chest was hairy, but the artist was so skilled that each whorl of hair seemed lifelike. Melanie could almost imagine the static electricity as it would crinkle under her fingers.
Then she wondered if Corbin’s crisp, slightly unruly hair crinkled too.
Long, strong, goat-like legs were spread slightly apart, as if he was poised to sprint… but it was what lay between them that made her breath catch.
Like all satyrs of legend, this creature was the embodiment of sexual desire, of wanton lust. They were mythical beings who indulged in all earthly pleasures, from good food to fine wine, from music to lewd dancing. But what they were most known for was their sexual prowess, their insatiable cravings for the pleasures of the flesh. Their irrepressible appetite for carousing and womanizing.
And this particular satyr was, shall we say, not only generously blessed by his god, but was in an unabashed state of excitement. His proportions were wildly exaggerated, and his arousal so evident that Melanie heard herself gasp. “Oh, my God!”
Then she clapped her hand over her mouth and looked away, feeling her face growing red in the presence of these two men. She hoped they did not misinterpret her outburst as anything other than stunned surprise.
The antiques dealer looked mighty pleased by her reaction. He winked broadly. “Ah, oui. The satyrs, this is what they are known for, yes?” He gestured towards the little beastie’s far-from-little beastie and grinned. “You like?”
Did she like? If this satyr was flesh and blood, any sane woman would have run screaming. Melanie didn’t think it was possible to turn any redder, and next to her, Corbin was grinning like a damn fool.
“He looks… very happy,” Corbin commented.
The antiques dealer gave Corbin a ‘we’re all dudes together here’ grin and added, “Who wouldn’t be, mon ami, if Zeus himself had seen fit to bless you thusly, non?”
To Melanie’s chagrin, both men laughed heartily. Annoyed, she decided it was time to take charge. “Thank you, sir. I think we should be leaving. Are there any formalities we need to observe? Payment? Delivery receipts to sign?”
Regaining control of his mirth, the man responded. “Non, non, it has all been taken care of.” He gestured to a passing assistant, and since the satyr was already standing on a dolly cart, it was a small matter of rolling him out to the truck. The offending appendage stuck so far away from his body that Melanie was worried that if they bumped into anything on the way it might snap off.
Again, Corbin did that mind-reading Jedi thing. “Don’t worry. Alabaster; it is very strong. Mr. Happy will be fine.”
Melanie realized that the name ‘Mr. Happy’ would forever be ingrained in her brain. Because if sexual desire was synonymous with happiness, this little man was ecstatic.
Corbin insisted that the porter hand over the dolly so that he could push it the rest of the way, and as they went, their cargo won them curious stares and giggles. Because who wouldn’t stop and stare at anything that mind-boggling?
Kill me now,Melanie thought.
Then there was the small matter of lifting it into the back of the truck. “One minute,” Corbin said, before reaching into the tray of his truck for a tarp. He began wrapping the statue.
Melanie knew he was trying to protect it, but she was also relieved that the satyr’s modesty would now be assured. The last thing she needed as she helped load him into the back would have been a face-to-face encounter with his junk.
Such as it was.
“Now, we hold him in our arms, as gentle as a baby,” Corbin murmured. “We lift on three, and then gently… gently, we place him down.”
She did as she was told, her arms intertwined with Corbin’s, the statue clasped to both their chests, and on three they lifted, and cradled him softly into the truck, like Mommy and Daddy putting a sleepy child to bed.
But once their arms were empty, they didn’t pull away—at least, not immediately. Instead, they stood transfixed, faces close together, chests inches apart, as if they, too, had been turned into alabaster.
A trick of the gods, she wondered. Punishment for interfering with one of their own?
He was so close she could feel him, smell him, and discovered she wanted to taste him. What was this? Magic? Did the statue carry some powerful curse, that transferred its erotic energy to anyone who touched it?
Because Melanie wanted one thing now, and one thing only: for Corbin to close that three-inch gap between them and kiss her.
She heard a click, a soft one, and sensed movement out of her eye. She turned, the spell broken. Had someone just taken their photo?
