Page 12 of Lovers' Dance

“Is she?” Matt asked, curiosity piqued. Madison DuMont was the most intriguing creature he’d ever met, and now she was gone.

“That is what she said. I have no reason to disbelieve her. I think she was under the assumption I was looking down my nose at her.”

“And were you?” Matt asked quietly, arms folded across his chest while he regarded George with a frigid air of hostility.

“I was not, sir,” George denied. “Although I will admit to being surprised when I first saw her, with her being…” George began to phrase it as delicately as he could, instinctively knowing his employer would take umbrage if he didn’t. “She is unlike any other woman you have brought here, sir.”

Matt was observing him with those cold, empty eyes. “Yes, she is. Continue.”

“She wished to leave and I was unable to change her mind, so I called a taxi and she left you a letter.” George’s morning had been turned upside down by this young black woman who seemed to have done something to Matt. He was acting unlike himself and it was worrying. Bradleys did not socialize beneath their social class, and this woman was with no doubt beneath them. George had not once commented on Matt’s womanizing ways. He knew his employer was careful, and the women he had his fun with would never go to the media with tell-all stories. But this one, this Ms DuMont, was different. She was having a strange effect on his unflappable employer, and George didn’t like it.

“A letter? Where is it?”

“On the table behind you, sir.”

Matt turned around and noticed the piece of folded paper with the imprint of a kiss. He snatched it up, then aware of George’s hovering presence, gave him leave. George hesitated and Matt tapped his foot impatiently.

“What is it, George?”

“She’s American?”

“Yes.”

“She looks very young.”

“She’s twenty-six, George. A grown woman.”

“Sir, I don’t know how to say this but…”

“I know, George, she’s black. Was there something else?”

“Sir, how long have you known Ms DuMont?”

“Less than twenty-four hours. Now I’m going to my study. Do not disturb me.” Matt walked off. He was fond of George. Hell, the man had changed his nappies, but his unspoken disapproval was irritating, and Matt’s previous good mood on arriving had disappeared the moment he’d found out she’d left. He slammed the door to the downstairs study and began to read her letter while pacing the room.

My dearest Knight—he smiled at that,Thanks for rescuing me from those assholes last night. You kicked their asses. I can never repay you for that. I want to apologize for my unbecoming behaviour last night. I was not myself and I put you in a rather uncomfortable position—Matt had been uncomfortable, a certain part of his anatomy had been very uncomfortable and still was—and I’m eternally grateful you didn’t take advantage of the situation(I’m not writing it down in case you try to sue me for harassment)—she had drawn a smiley face there.You took care of me when it was neither your responsibility nor required and that means a lot to me. So I want you to know that although I want to forget the majority of last night ever took place, I will never forget you.

Thank you, Matt.

Love your poppet.

P.S. Why were you calling me that? It’s kind of weird. Did you mean a real puppet? With strings? Or is it some British slang? Thanks for the ‘you know what’ and hope I didn’t freak you out. That’s never happened before. Well, when I do it—she had put two lines through that last sentence, and Matt could about imagine her lovely brown eyes going wide in embarrassment.

P.P.S. Please don’t think all black women are crazy. We’re not.

P.P.P.S. Don’t blame George for my leaving. I threatened to call the cops and called him old. Tell him I said sorry and the eggs were the way I liked them.

Then there was a row of xoxoxox’s. And that was it. No telephone number with a request for him to call her. Nothing. Matt grimaced in annoyance at the letter in his hand and folded it. The imprint of her lipstick reminded him of the way her soft, luscious lips had felt under his. His grimace turned into a slow smile. She would be easy enough to find. He had her name and countless resources at his fingertips. He could find her within days, then seduce her back into his bed to finish what they’d started. Matt was used to getting everything he wanted and, right now, he wanted her. He’d never had a woman say “no” to him. His good looks and money made sure of that. Madison DuMont was his next target, she just didn’t know it yet. Matt’s conscience made an untimely appearance in his musings, reminding him of the strange protectiveness he’d felt over her. She was the complete opposite of his usual willing playmates. She was different, she was special.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he muttered, annoyed with himself for having these confusing feelings over a woman he didn’t know. Special? No one was special. In the end, they only wanted two things from him: money and social standing. It had always been that way, and he had no hopes that would change. Matt crumpled the letter in his fist, then walked over to his desk and tossed it in the bin. He’d cancelled an afternoon of important meetings, raced home like an infatuated school boy eager to deflower a black woman ten years his junior. He was out of his mind. Completely. Matt sat behind his desk and turned on his laptop, determined to get work done and forget about a woman he would never see again. After ten minutes of staring at the screen, he bent over and picked the bloody letter out of the bin before tossing it in the drawer, consoling himself that the reason he’d done so was because it was a sweetly written letter.

FOUR

“YOU’RE OUT OF sync, Madi,” Dante yelled from the back of the room. I stuck my tongue out at him in the mirrored wall and he shook a hand at my reflection. Dante was my best friend and co-owner of our small dance company. I’d secretly been harbouring a crush on him since I was ten years old. He was two years older than me and we’d grown up together back home in New York. Two days after my sixth birthday, my parents had been killed in a horrific car crash that I had miraculously survived.

“Focus, Madi. For crying out loud, I swear your technique’s been slipping ever since we moved to England.”

I tried to focus but my mind was elsewhere, and I knew he was bullshitting me. My technique wasn’t slipping. I was distracted. The reason for my distraction had been the long distance call I received from my aunt last night. Auntie Cleo is my dad’s sister. I’d never met her before my parents’ funeral. I still remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. She’d turned up at King’s Cross Hospital where I was being cared for. Speaking with her fast accent, she informed me she was my aunt and I would be living with her from now on. I was scared, unable to process that Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t ever be coming back for me. And she talked different. When she told me we would be leaving England, the place I’d been born, well, tantrum wasn’t the word to describe the fit I had given. Aunt Cleo didn’t mess around. She told me to stop being a baby and ‘act right’. Then the doctors discharged me into her care and we went to the funeral. The next day I was on a plane to New York with this energetic, outrageous woman next to me listing everything she expected from me. I still remember her words.

---