âCome in,' Tenille called, relief flooding through her. She went to open the door as Mrs. Sandrelli stepped in.
âI wondered if you would like to join us upstairs, Tenille. It can be lonely, your first day,' she enquired solicitously.
Furio came up to her, too close again, but all he said was: âYes, we're going to watch the game.'
âNo ⦠no ⦠thanks,' she stammered, taking a step back: âI'm visiting a friend. I have to get ready.'
âVery well, Cara. We leave you, but you know any time you want company, you just come on up.' She smiled as she left.
Furio put the bottle back on the counter and followed his mother. At the door he turned, a wolfish grin on his face. âAlso, any time you need a hand, I'm your man. Thanks for the drink.'
At last he was gone and she could be at ease. Why did there always have to be something to spoil things? Presumably he worked and evenings he'd be out with friends. Their paths shouldn't cross.
Time to get ready. She stood and looked at her closet, like always, and waited for inspiration. Deciding what to wear was a chore. She wanted to look good for Devon, but she was such a sophisticated woman, she couldn't hope to meet her standard. Mm..m. Casual with quality. Finally she selected black stirrup pants and a long sleeved, jeans shirt. For over top a black crocheted wool shell, short waisted, no sleeves. She laid them out on the bed then took a quick shower. When she put it all together she was satisfied. Black lace-ups with push-downs on the bottom.
The face. Discreet eye makeup, no lip gloss and no jewelry. The hair. She gathered up her silky curls and tied them back in a long-toothed, double comb, off the face, falling down like a mane. She liked the look; groomed, but not pampered.
At last, ready to call Devon, unaccountably her heart was racing as she punched in the numbers. Devon's utterance was a bright: âHello,' but Tenille's throat was so constricted, she had to repeat her greeting before she could find her voice, coming out almost a croak. âHi, it's me.'
âHello me. Want I come pick you up?'
âPlease. It's #226, McPherson.'
âI'll find it. See you.'
The line went dead and her heart beat returned to normal. “Crazy dork,” she rebuked herself.
“How can you act â Miss Cool' if you get all flustered over just a simple hello?”
Not long and there were the chimes. She rushed out, just as Mrs. Sandrelli was opening her door.
âIt's okay, it's for me,' she called out hastily. The door closed and she ran forward, all at once feeling so alive.
Devon was driving a mid-seventies Mercedes convertible; racing green, in good condition.
“Must have her own mechanic to keep this serviced,”
Tenille thought, impressed. Sitting beside her, low slung to the ground, she could imagine how good it would feel, out on the open road, top down. For now, she had the heater going full blast; it was toasty.
âI have to have the heater on,' she explained: âThe old crate's got so many draughts. You warm enough?'
âOh yes. Fine. This is wonderful,' she enthused with innocent pleasure.
Devon lived at Yonge and St. Clair in an apartment building adjacent to the Granite Club, with underground parking. They took the elevator to the sixth floor. The high rise was only eight stories, total.
âMake yourself at home.' She threw her keys onto a delicately inlaid Sheridan console. Luxurious opulence surrounded them, tasteful antiques, soft furnishing in pastel shaded linens and velvets. She appeared from the kitchen, two glasses held by the stem and a bottle of Valpolicella. Tenille was impressed again as she sank down into the big, soft cushions of the chesterfield. She should have pictured her in a setting like this. Devon's glamor filled her eyes. She was wearing matching track pants and sweater; a stylish twosome in khaki, with narrow black stripes down the outside of the legs and at the neck and cuffs. The color brought out reddy-gold highlights in her hair and made her skin look even more translucent and perfect. The vivid red lips were still intrusive, but they were such a part of her, Devon would feel naked without them. She settled herself back amongst the cushions, one leg tucked up, the other dangling. Sipping her wine she asked about the move. Tenille gradually began to relax under the wine's salutary effect. She asked a few questions of her own, trying to keep her voice neutral. âThis cabaret you're getting into, how all did that start?'
âOne time I met this guitarist friend of Belen's. He had in tow a young man, newly arrived from Barcelona. A dancer. A knockout dancer I should add. Anyway, he struck me as someone special. He was dancing with Belen, but he wanted to get out on his own. You know how Belen can be overpowering at times.' Tenille didn't, but she let it pass.
âAnyway, we got together and did the odd benefit in the âburbs. He teamed up with a guitarist whose wife is also a dancer. Then came the realization that we were enough to get a show together. Thus Los Flamencos was born. His name is Raoul Losada and the guitarist is Stavros Armenis. He's Greek actually, but loves all things Spanish and Amaia Garcia is his wife. Raoul is currently looking for a singer, then we'll have all bases covered.'
Devon had been feasting her eyes on Tenille during all this, not one little detail escaping her notice. Not only did she possess the sultry and intense looks she found so enchanting, but she had an intelligent sparkle to her eye, which bespoke an active brain behind those big, dark eyes of hers. How this woman tripped her trigger.
In fact Tenille had only been half listening, more wrapped up in how Devon was speaking, than in the substance, watching her mouth form the words; enthralled by a fantasy of how those red lips would feel on hers. So much for focused attention.
âListen. I'll give us each a refill and we can go check out my closet and find you some dance clothes.' She jumped up and Tenille heard that evocative sound of wine leaving the neck of the bottle. âFollow me.' she commanded.
Moving in Devon's wake into the bedroom, she saw that unlike the other room it was sparsely furnished, basically a bed and a bedside table; the closet a walk-in, with built-in dressing table and mirror at the far end. Her pulse quickened as they moved together and stood, side by side, inspecting the garments on the rack. Devon was right. She had a hell of a lot. Pulling hanger after hanger off the rail, Devon continued until her arms were full, then flung them onto the bed saying: âThere, sort through that lot,' then dumped herself on the floor, glass in hand, content to watch Tenille make her selections.
She held the first skirt up against her and looked in the sliding mirrors of the closet doors.
âThat's no good,' Devon commented. âTry it on properly.'
She didn't want to undress in front of her, feeling too self-conscious; too on show before a stranger's eyes. But there was no way out. She stripped down to her lingerie. Fortunately she'd chosen lacy, black briefs. They looked pretty, but were rather high cut. She hoped they didn't show pubic hair, but she dared not look down to check and call attention to herself.
Devon could feel the insistence of her arousal as Tenille began to peel off the layers and her teeth clenched. The legs were long and tanned; very shapely. Her eyes took in the curve of cheek revealed by the skimpy panties. The bottom was athletically round and full; the stomach firm and flat. She wanted to see more.
âLook, put this top on. You can't get an idea with that shirt. It's totally wrong for flamenco.' She selected a silver lame fabric. It was tight on her, so she knew that on Tenille it wouldn't do much for a cover up. She smiled to herself as she handed it over.
Tenille had to strip down to her bra, so contrived to turn her back to Devon, as she removed the shell and unbuttoned her shirt. Devon perched herself on the bed, next to the clothing; this way she could make her own choice.
Tenille was horrified when she pulled the top over her bosom. It felt like she'd poured herself into a second skin, her breasts spilling over the top and out the sides. Startled, she turned to Devon saying: âI think this is too small for me, do you have something else?' Devon noticed her face was delectably flushed as she made the request.
âSorry 'bout that. The tops are all my size. Not to worry,' she continued casually: âIt's only for the general effect, you don't have to dance as well.' A deep chuckle erupted from her throat and split her mouth into a broad grin. Tenille didn't feel like laughing. She loved being with Devon, but right now felt too uncomfortable. Well, best get it over and done, she was only trying to help her. She picked up the same skirt and dropped it down to the floor to make a delicate entry. If she turned her back then her bottom was facing Devon; if she stayed as she was, toward the bed, her breasts would be on full show. Compromise, side on. She needn't have bothered working out a strategy, Devon made sure she saw everything. The session continued, checking the effect in the mirror, asking Devon for her opinion; Devon keeping her trying on skirt after skirt.
âCome here, you've got the band twisted.' She approached the bed. With Devon seated and she standing in front of her, Devon's mouth was right at the level of her breasts. She could feel her nipples harden at the thought of Devon licking them. Devon saw the tender brown buds become erect through the thin covering and felt her own respond. She put her hands on Tenille's waist and felt her body stiffen at her touch.
âGoodness, you are jumpy,' she observed, wickedly. She knew what she was doing to this woman and loved it. This was what she got off on. With each strip tease she could feel her wetness building. God, how she wanted this delicious creature, but knew the time was not yet. She would move in later, after sufficient softening.
At last she let her off the hook.
âOkay, that's it. I'm starving. I'll go order us Chinese while you dress. Anything you don't like?'
âNo. Whatever you choose is fine with me.'
Relieved to be finally finished with all this, Tenille gladly peeled off the top and skirt, leaving her in bra and panties, looking for her clothes which appeared to have been buried under everything.
âLost something?'
She jumped and looked up to see Devon standing in the doorway. Her immediate reaction was to cover her nakedness, but she held onto her cool and said only: âCan't find my shirt.'
Devon approached and stood practically against Tenille, brushing her arm as she leaned forward to move some clothes out of the way. Shock rippled through her. A jolt to her whole body. She had to sink down to the bed, her knees so weak and watch Devon search for the rest of her things. How was she going to keep from throwing herself at this woman?
As Devon handed her her clothes, all she said was a whispered: âThank you,' in a flat tone, devoid of emotion, keeping her eyes averted and all her tumultuous feelings tightly bottled.
âYou're welcome,' the other sang out brightly, on top of the world.
Returning to the living room, she saw Devon had lit a cigarette and popped a beer. âWant one?' holding up the can.
âCould I have coffee, please?'
âSure thing.' Devon set down her drink and before getting up clasped her hands and raised her arms above her head in a sensual stretch, showing off her supple body. It was for Tenille's eyes. âOur food will be here in fifteen. I've got this fantastic new recording of Paco Pena. He's playing with Eduardo Falu. It's called ENCUENTRO. Would you like to hear it?'
She plugged in the coffeemaker then turned on the CD player. Her stereo equipment was housed in a handsome, converted Victorian chiffonier. Tenille couldn't see the speakers, but the sound was rich. She handed over the cover as flamboyant music surrounded them; a sensual experience for the ears. Tenille selected the next disc featuring Dieguito, a young Flamenco singer who had hit the scene and was already an acclaimed artist; still only in his twenties. His strong voice, full of feeling, flowed into the room. He had begun singing in the
tablaos
of Madrid the liner notes explained, like bistros only dedicated to flamenco music. She felt he wasn't just singing a story; his words searched for his innermost sensitivity and the music poured out his soul to the listening air. She read on: Cante Hondo ⦠the style of his singing, is the purest expression of the Andalusian art; all fire and temperament. It spoke to Tenille, filling her with passionate longing. Although she didn't understand the words, there was no need; the voice, the music, said it all.
Soon after eating Devon took her home.
âThank you for making my first day in the city such a pleasant experience. I really enjoyed myself. Thanks too, for the skirts. I feel very well set up. Only I do wish you would let me pay. They were parked at Tenille's front walkway.
âYou're very welcome. I enjoyed myself too and of course you won't pay me. What nonsense.' She put her hand over Tenille's where it rested in her lap. âWe'll have to do it again some time.'
Such thrilling words, but Tenille said nothing, letting herself out.
âSee you Thursday.'
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The next week passed in a whirl. It was so easy travelling to work. There was the luxury of a lie-in, not having to get up at six and everyone was happy she'd settled in so comfortably. At noon there was time to go to Bloor and Yonge to open a bank account. She chose Victoria and Grey Trust. They had been her bank in Lindsay and she liked the idea of remaining with them. Some people claimed V & G stood for
Vicious and Greedy
, but they'd always come through for her.
That evening Marissa phoned. She wanted to fill her in on the details for practise tomorrow. It was customary for the others to go straight after work. Their booking was from six to seven o'clock.