This is a work of fiction, loosely based on the actor Russell Crowe.
I do not own the copyright on that character, but only
on the premise of this story.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2001 by WILDBEARIES

ROSE - Chapter Two

As kisses go, that first one was a stunner. I've had way more passionate kisses than that, usually accompanied by a lot of fumbling, groping and heavy breathing, but this wasn't at all like those. Instead, he held my face in his hands, thumbs lightly rubbing my cheekbones, while he gave me a long, gentle, thorough kiss. Just before I would have been forced to take a breath, he pulled back a little, smiled at me, and kissed me again - this time with more heat. His hands dropped onto my shoulders, his right hand went to my waist, pulling me closer, but gently - I didn't feel forced, which was good. When he touched my mouth with the tip of his tongue, I let him in.

I should say that by that stage of the kiss, my hands were at his waist, holding him just as close as he was holding me. He stroked the inside of my mouth with his tongue, then pressed little light kisses all around my throat, the whole time making this soft, humming sound that reminded me of the purr of a very contented cat. When he put his mouth on mine again the kiss was much deeper, and he pressed his lower body against mine so I could feel how hard he was. The only reason I didn't shove him away and just retreat in panic was because, even feeling his arousal, he wasn't insisting on anything, and he was so gentle about it that I wasn't afraid of him. When he broke off the kiss with a soft laugh, we just stood there, staring at one another, both of us flushed and breathless. "I hope that was okay with you," he joked.

He was still pressed tight against me and I hadn't let go of him. I nodded, "Yes," I managed. "You didn't scare me."

He quirked an eyebrow, "Scare you? Am I missing something, luv?"

I saw only concern in his eyes so I felt safe answering him truthfully. "Well - I haven't had the best of luck with men, to be honest. So, I tend to avoid, er, getting personal with them." I could tell I was blushing deep red - a curse I've had my whole life. It comes with being as fair-skinned as I was.

He touched my hair and stepped back with a rueful smile, "And here I go, shoving you up against the door like a ham-fisted amateur. I'm sorry."

"Oh - that's okay." I was shocked at his reaction. A lot of guys would have taken what I said as an invitation to just charge in, snorting and pawing, determined to overcome whatever my problem was with truck loads of testosterone.

"You sure?" He was brushing dust off his jeans, looking up at me with his longish hair falling into his eyes.

I nodded, "Positive. I'm not scared of you." I felt like a five year old, boldly announcing my lack of fear to any boogeymen who happened to be listening.

Russell straightened, looked at his watch and, with a regretful expression said, "Damn, I've got to go. Could I talk you into dinner tonight? You can tell me more about your bad luck with men and I'll tell you about my bad luck with women." He saw my hesitation and added, "I promise - no fondling unless you ask me for it."

I had to laugh - he was too charming. "Okay, since you put it that way. What time?"

"I'm meeting a real estate bloke in half an hour, probably take most of the afternoon, then back to the hotel to wash the dust off and change - say seven thirty?"

"Fine, I'll be ready - oh! Where are you taking me? I need to know how to dress."

"Have you ever been to Lillith's?"

"Yes, I love that place! I'll be ready." Lillith's was a restaurant in a restored Victorian mansion. It was all stained glass, antique furniture, ceiling fans and vintage art - with small, private dining rooms scattered over all three floors. It was also a very dress-up place, so going there wasn't something I did very often, given that I mainly lived in riding clothes or the casual sportswear I wore in the record store.

"Super, I'm looking forward to it." He was gone after giving me another of his dimpled smiles that made my toes curl. As he drove out the front gate, I remembered that I still didn't know anything much about him. I cursed my reclusive lifestyle and went into the small tack room office to call a couple of my friends. Maybe one of them - being much more into things other than horses - would know who this man was.

I talked to Sharon first. Sharon Davison, daughter of the former mayor of the town, had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth, and she went to New York twice a year to shop, visit the fashion shows, and generally do the socialite thing with her friends from Smith and Vassar. "Darlin'," she breathed in her warmly accented voice, "you've got to be kidding. You hadn't heard?"

My stomach clenched. I just had to get out more, or pay attention to local events more. "Heard what? I have a feeling I'm going to feel really stupid in a minute."

She laughed, "Rosie, if you had come to the Horsemen's Association meeting you would know. Russell Crowe, who only won an Academy Award, for crissake, is buying property out near where John Travolta and the other Hollywood types put in that wonderful private airstrip."

"He won an Oscar? How did I miss that?" I used to follow all the movies, I knew who the stars were, kept up with things - since my divorce, though, I'd kept myself purposely buried either at the farm or in the record store.

"You saw "Gladiator", I know you did, you went with me. Wake up, Rosie!" She was giggling. I could picture her, sitting sprawled on one of her chintz covered sofas, no doubt wearing riding pants and a shirt that were the height of fashion. Despite all her money, though, Sharon was very down to earth, and enjoyed the trappings her family money brought without being a snob about it.

I gulped, suddenly remembering the movie. It had blown me away, but the ending was so sad that I'd deliberately locked the whole experience out of my mind. I hated movies where the good guys died at the end - that wasn't supposed to happen. A full color, wide screen image of my prospective horse buyer popped into my mind, only not dressed in casual modern clothes, not wearing a two day growth of soft, blondish-brown beard, and not wearing his wavy hair down over his collar. This image was as he was in the film - hair darkened, beard trimmed into a precise line on the strong jaw - but the eyes and the voice were definitely the same, if you discounted the lack of Aussie accent.

"Oh, shit," I said to Sharon, who was highly amused by the whole thing. I told her he was looking for horses and had been by to see Brat, and she told me he had made appointments with her to see a colt she had, and with another friend of ours the next day to see several of her horses. I sighed inwardly, thinking maybe Brat wasn't going to Australia after all. Which might be for the best - I'd miss him terribly after practically hand raising him. I gossiped with Sharon for a bit, finding out a few tidbits about my date for the evening, but I didn't tell her I was going out with him or that he'd given me a ride on his motorcycle the evening before. I hung up after a while and just sat on the corner of my desk, looking out the window at the trees blowing in the wind.

Damn it, no wonder he found my ignorance so amusing. No wonder the waitress had dropped her book, and we had been the subject of so many surreptitious stares and even outright ogling. I dropped my face into my hands and laughed at myself. "Rube!" I said out loud, and went inside to see what I had to wear that wasn't horsey. I'll be damned, I thought, if I'm going to go to dinner at Lillith's with a movie star (that still boggled my mind - he seemed so normal!), and not look as good as I possibly could.

I stood in my bedroom half an hour later, the contents of my closet that wasn't jeans, riding clothes or horrendously outdated strewn on my bed and on several chairs. It was hopeless. I sighed, combed the snarls out of my hair, put on clean jeans and top and went shopping. I collected Sharon along the way because I knew she'd know what was fashionable whereas I would probably opt for something way too plain or frumpy.

Sharon bypassed the big department stores and the mall and took me straight to a small shop just down the street from the record store. I'd looked in the windows, but assumed that it was a place totally out of my style range, not to mention price range, although I was not broke by any means, I just spent my money on my horses and things related to them. I was about to get a lesson in current fashion, but since it was taught by my best friend, it wasn't at all unpleasant. Well, not too unpleasant, anyway.

I would have gone straight for the rack of plain, dark colored separates, but Sharon grabbed my arm and dragged me over to the racks of dresses. "I'm not a dress person!" I wailed.

She shot me a quelling look. "Don't whine, it's not becoming," she ordered firmly. "Here," she started searching the racks, handing me dresses one by one until I had an armload to try on. "This will take hours!" She fixed me with another look and I meekly went into the dressing room where the saleslady stood smilingly holding the flowered curtain aside for me. "Torturer," I muttered, and heard them both laugh.

I have to hand it to Sharon - she can be overbearing at times, but she had an excellent eye for what would look good on me. Every dress I tried on fit me. I didn't like all of them, but there were three that I really fell in love with, so it was hard making the decision about which one to choose. "I like the vintage print Laura Ashley, but I think maybe I'd look like I shot a couch if I wear that."

"Not really," Sharon said, "it's adorable on you, but I think you need more sophisticated than girlish for this mysterious date you're having." I hadn't told her who it was with, just that I was going to Lillith's for dinner with someone and needed to look really nice. I know she was just bursting with curiosity, and didn't think it would take much for her to put together my earlier call inquiring about the mysterious Mr. Crowe and my sudden need for a nice outfit, but I was hoping it would take her long enough that I would be safely away that evening before it hit her. She pointed to a similar dress - midcalf length, princess styled, flowing skirt and long sleeves with a rounded, semi-low neckline. "I like that one, the dusty rose suits your skin tones." It was silk velveteen trimmed with blonde lace and vintage buttons in cream mother of pearl. I wasn't sure about it, though.

"What about the darker one?" It was almost the same dress, only in deep rose with matching lace, one of my favorite colors. It went better with my skin tones, I thought.

"Either one," she said, already looking at matching undies. "Look at this silk teddie!" She held up a luscious undergarment in almost the same shade of rose. It was beautiful. I looked at it and decided instantly. "That one, and that teddie," I said, taking a wild plunge. I looked at the sales clerk. "Shoes, I need shoes!"

They had shoes. I tried on about six different pairs, all of them too high-heeled for someone used to wearing ropers or flats all the time, then I found a perfect pair of relatively low heeled shoes in dark burgundy calf with antiqued buckles decorating the toes. "These," I said firmly, and went to select pantyhose to match. Sharon talked me out of them in favor of lace-topped stockings that didn't need a garter belt and were, she said, much sexier. "I'm not trying to seduce the man," I complained.

"The hell you aren't," she shot back, not taking any nonsense from me. "I've been wanting to fix you up with someone for ages, and now you've gotten a date all on your own, you're going to go loaded for bear." She handed me the half slip that matched the teddy, "Here, so the dress hangs right. Oh, and here's the bag to go with your shoes. Have we forgotten anything?"

The salesclerk, not one to pass up an opportunity, suggested jewelry. "We have this beautiful line of Victorian reproduction jewelry," she said, and took two trays of delicate lavalieres and earrings out of the display case. She was right, it was beautiful, and wonder of wonders, it was inexpensive. I opted for just the earrings, since I had an antique pendant that was almost like the ones she had for sale. "Add this all up before I chicken out," I said, covering my eyes as I handed her my American Express card.

The antique brass cash register jingled merrily, while I refused to look, then I signed the charge slip - again not looking, and we left the shop loaded down with their floral patterned shopping bags. I should have been exhausted from the whole experience, but instead I was excited about the evening ahead, and seeing how everything looked on together. We drove back down Shady Road to Candler Hills, Sharon's farm. I let her off at her front door because I had a relatively short time to get ready, and I still had horses to tend first. I waved and drove off, glad she hadn't thought yet to ask me who I was going out with. A lucky break.

I drove the mile to my own gate, lost in thought of all I had to do before I could bathe and get ready to go. Dad was waiting for me, sitting in a folding chair outside the stables. My heart sank. He had a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, and a belligerent look on his face. I parked, turned off the engine and got out.

"Hi, Dad," was all I got out before he stood up and started yelling. I stopped and just listened with half an ear, having heard the same drunken invective from him a million times. The only words that really sank in were "whore", "out fucking some low life", "forbid" and "stay home". I sighed. When he finally wound down, I said quietly, "Dad, I'm going to go get Roberto now, and I want you to go with him and do as he says."

He swayed back and forth, glaring at me defiantly, but when I shortly returned with the wiry Brazilian man who had worked for us for years, he went with him to his house, meek as a lamb. I stood gazing after them - the much taller figure of my father being guided by the diminutive former jockey, and wondered what my dad could have achieved if he hadn't fallen in love with the bottle at such an early age. I sighed again, and went to feed the horses.

By the time it was dark, around 6 pm, I was done feeding and watering, had done a fast stall cleaning, and locked all the horses in the stable for the night. I sprinted up to the house, grabbing my packages out of the back seat of my king cab pick up truck, and ran into the bathroom to start the tub filling. I checked for messages - there was one, from Russell, saying he was done early and would be on time - then quickly went into the bathroom to perform a ritual I hadn't done in a long time - the pre-date ritual. I laughed at myself when my hand shook as I was about to shave my legs. "Jeeze, girl, get hold of yourself before you slice an artery!" It worked. I was quickly depilated, had rinsed off the little remnants of shaving cream, and sank into the bath with a sigh of bliss. Oh yeah, nothing like a hot bath scented with something pleasant to relax you after a busy day.

I couldn't believe it. I was going to dinner with a bona fide movie star. I wasn't sure if I was disappointed he was famous or not. I guess I felt flattered that he would deign to go out with someone as ordinary as me. "You're not ordinary!" I said aloud, repeating something Sharon had told me often enough when she was trying to cajole me into being more social and not being so shy about putting myself forward more. Did I feel more confident? No, but I told myself I would try. I finished my bath, dried off, and sat on the closed lid of the commode to slather on body lotion. It was scented with the only perfume I ever wore, a nice floral blend of jasmine and white roses, and it made my skin feel very soft and sleek. I used it all over, feeling very pampered. I dressed in the beautiful silk undies, admiring myself in the mirror, although I blushed when I noticed how sheer the teddy was even though it was a dark rose pink. I went braless since I wasn't that large up top anyway and a bra under the teddy looked somehow too much like body armor. When I added the stockings and the half slip, which was long, but slit from hem almost to the top of my thigh, I still looked sexy. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

It was almost seven fifteen when I emerged from my bedroom and checked myself in the full length mirror. Was that me? That woman looked way too sophisticated to be plain, ordinary Rose Jennings. I had tamed my normally flyaway hair and wore it pulled back with little antique combs on the sides, the rest hanging loose, slightly wavy, just below my shoulders in the back. I decided I liked how it looked and that I should comb it more often and not just either stuff it in my riding helmet or under a ballcap. "Face it, Rosie, you're still a girl."

I heard a car engine and realized with a twinge that it was probably my date. "Oh, God save me," I prayed out loud. I willed my stomach to stop jumping around and, when the doorbell sounded, I walked boldly over to the door and opened it.

The first thing I saw was a large bouquet of mixed pink and deep red roses tied with satin ribbon, then I noticed the large, long-fingered hand which was attached to the strong wrist of a gorgeous man who peeked around the door sill with a smile that was almost shy. "Miss Rose, I presume?" he asked, taking me in from head to toe. "Crikey!" he added, "You look incredible!"

I gaped at him. He was in black leather pants, a deep dusty blue silk shirt - western cut - and the matching leather jacket, also western cut. I hadn't ever seen leather clothes cut or fit like his and I imagined he had had them specially made. I noticed that the shirt had little horses carved into the pearl snap closures. I also noticed that he smelled incredible - and it was something I recognized - sandalwood. "You look incredible too," I answered, hoping I didn't sound too much like a teeny bopper with a crush.

He handed me the flowers and came in when I stood back and invited him. "Oh, this is really nice!" he said, immediately walked over to look at the pictures of my horses on the wall of the foyer. "Are all these horses you bred?"

"Most of them," I said, "some of them were my mother's." I pointed to the oldest pictures. "That little tow-headed gawk in that one is me, aged about seven."

He laughed, "What a cutie!" When he had finished admiring the horses, he turned and gave me another of his killer smiles. "Are you all ready or do you have primping to do yet?"

"I'm ready," I answered firmly. I knew if we waited any longer, I'd just quiver myself into a puddle on the floor.

"Great," he enthused, then he held my wrap - a cashmere shawl that thankfully almost matched my dress - and solicitously made sure I had the ends under control. "It's gotten real chilly out," he explained, handing me my bag from the entry hall table. "You really do look wonderful, Rose."

I blushed as dark as my dress, causing him to grin and shake his head, and then we were out the door and into his Lexus SUV. It was all leather and burled walnut and glass, absolutely gorgeous. I felt like a princess. Russell walked around, climbed in on the driver's side and turned the key in the ignition. "I'm still getting used to left hand drive, feels really odd."

"Oh," I said, somewhat surprised, "I hadn't thought about that. Do you want me to drive?"

"No, no, I've got the hang of it. I don't want to scare you, I won't put us into a ditch or anything." He drove down the driveway, out the wrought iron gates, each of which had a rose inside a circle, and I was on my way to my date with a movie star. I silently prayed that I wouldn't spill anything, say anything too stupid, or be too gushy.

"Oh," I commented at that point, "I know your secret now."

He put on a face of mock despair, "No! Anything but that." He drove another quarter mile before inquiring, "Which secret would that be, luv?"

I laughed, "Who you are."

"Oh, hell," he looked a little disappointed. "Oh well, I guess if you still came out with me, you're not too scared of me."

"Scared? No, not that - not exactly," I admitted. "I just hope I don't stick a sleeve in the salad dressing or spill my drink or say something really provincial and boring."

"Me too," he answered, "and if you do any of those thing, luv?"

"Yes?"

"I promise not to notice as long as you do the same for me, okay?"

How could I not agree? He was being so nice. "Okay," I said, and we both relaxed a lot more after that.

I wondered who I was going to see at Lillith's that I knew. I hoped nobody, but you know how that usually goes - just when you least want to see friends, that's when they all make appearances.

The parking lot at Lillith’s was crowded, so I knew there would probably be a group waiting just inside the door in the parlor area. I was right. Every settee, chair and chaise was occupied. Furthermore, I knew half of those occupants. My mouth didn’t literally drop open when I saw Sharon and her husband grinning at me, but almost. Of course, when she saw who my date was, her jaw dropped. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever managed to shock her, and we’ve known each other all our lives. Russell was one step behind me entering the parlor, and I do believe I heard a collective gasp from every woman in the room once they got a look at him in the light from the antique lamps.

He touched the small of my back lightly and I glanced around, seeing amusement in the aqua eyes. “People you know?” he murmured.

I nodded, “I’m afraid we’re going to attract a lot of attention.”

He shrugged. “No worries, luv. Nothing I’m not used to.”

The hostess, eyes the size of saucers, led us into the opposite parlor to wait a couple of minutes, then a waitress garbed in Victorian finery from head to toe came to whisk us upstairs in the brass trimmed elevator. She was discretion personified, but I did notice her eyeing Russell covertly a couple of times, then, when he wasn’t looking, she glanced at me, rolled her eyes appreciatively, and we exchanged grins. He was well worth looking at. He caught the tail end of my grin, raised an inquiring brow, then seemed to realize what had happened, and chuckled softly. By then, the waitress had gone to get us water, so she missed the laugh. Good thing, she’d probably have dumped the glasses - it was a pretty incredible laugh.

“Women,” Russell commented, opening the elaborate menu with its hand-lettered bill of fare. “Oh,” he said appreciatively, “Portobello mushrooms.”

I smiled, looking up from my own menu, “I take it those are a favorite?”

“You take it correctly,” he answered, continuing to read down the list. It was interesting to watch him, his face was so expressive. He must have felt my eyes on him, because he glanced up, murmured, “Read, luv,” and looked back down.

I stifled laughter. He must be very used to women gazing at him like he was the Holy Grail of Manhood. “I already know what I want,” I answered, “I don’t need to read.”

“Oh, well in that case,” he reached across and took hold of my right hand, brushing my knuckles lightly with the tip of his thumb while he finished reading. He looked up, noticed me staring at where he was touching me. “I can stop,” he offered.

I gathered my wits, “Oh, no, don’t do that!” I exclaimed, just as the waitress came back to take our orders.

He winked and asked me what I wanted, and then ordered for both of us. Nobody had ever done that for me before - it felt very special. When the waitress swept off with a swish of her lovely skirts, he leaned back in his chair and glanced around at the small alcove we were seated in. “This is beautiful,” he commented, “someone spent a lot of time getting all these details right.”

I realized he was a man interested in details - the details of everything, not just his surroundings, but people as well. But that was my first insight into his complex personality, and I suppose it was that very fascination with minutiae of all kinds that enabled him to make his film characters so interesting. Once I had spoken to Sharon about him, I realized that I had also seen him in “The Insider”, although reconciling that character with the Roman general was a mind-stretcher.

“I understand they spent over a year renovating the place before they opened it,” I said. The waitress came with our salads, then did the peppermill thing, came back with a basket of the flaky rolls that were a feature of the place, and disappeared again. “I wonder how many tables she’s waiting on, she’s not even breathing hard from running back and forth.”

He laughed and put forth the theory that she had a secret elevator that she rode up from the kitchens and back down again.

“She seems to just pop out of the wall right there,” I pointed over by the doorway to the hall.

To my surprise, he got up and went exploring. He looked at the carved wainscoting, tapped it with his finger tips, and came back with a wide grin. “She does - there’s a secret door right there. Must have an elevator there for the servers to use. Pretty ingenious.”

“I can’t believe you actually tapped the wall,” I said, giggling as I ate my salad.

“Well how else are ya gonna find out anything, luv?” He crunched his own greens with gusto. He seemed to do everything that way, with gusto. A sudden mental picture made me blush, which, of course, he noticed. “I saw that.”

“Don’t mind me,” I tried, looking down at my plate and pushing the croutons around. “I don’t get out much.”

“No, but you think a lot,” he teased. He left his tomatoes, but ate everything else. When the waitress came to remove the salad plates, he saw her eyeing the three perfect slices and explained, “I only eat tomatoes in the summer, luv.” Of course, he pronounced it “tomahtoes”, which caused both the waitress and me to blink, but she recovered almost instantly and took the plates away.

“What does summer have to do with it?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“Nothing, I don’t eat them any time, really, except in sauces. Just never liked them raw.”

“You’ve never had a really good ripe Ruskin tomato, sliced thick, lots of coarse sea salt on it, freshly ground pepper - ”

“You make it sound almost edible,” he teased me. “Do you mind if I take off my jacket?”

“Not at all,” which I didn’t, but the sight of him in just that blue shirt tucked into the incredibly cut leather pants was almost more than any red-blooded woman could stand. I gulped and counted to ten mentally before I looked at him again. He was wearing a carved gold Celtic cross on a heavy chain, just visible in the opened neck of his shirt. “That’s an interesting cross,” I commented, figuring he’d wonder why I was staring.

He touched it without looking, “Oh, this one. Yes, it’s one of my favorites.”

“Sounds like you have a collection of them.”

“I do, actually. People give them to me all the time - I get ‘em in the mail, draped over my front gate at home, tossed at me at concerts - I finally started giving most of them away, but I keep the unusual ones.”

I gaped at him. “Why do they do that?”

“Well, it’s nicer than throwing underwear, isn’t it?” He was laughing into his water glass, obviously thinking I didn’t have a clue.

“Sounds like you’ve been on the receiving end of that,” I commented. Then our waitress appeared with our dinner, and we spent the next few minutes cutting meat, tasting everything, and starting to eat.

“This is incredible,” Russell remarked. He had Beef Wellington, the Portobello mushrooms he’d mentioned, tiny green peas and the teensiest little potatoes I’d ever seen, peeled, carved to resemble ivory beads and apparently sautéed in browned butter and herbs. Apparently the man had a healthy appetite and eclectic tastes. No plain burnt steak and French fries for him.

I had filet mignon au poivre, baby Portobello mushrooms in wine sauce, and asparagus hollandaise. Mine, too, was incredible. Of course, I’d never eaten anything at Lillith’s that wasn’t incredible.

“To answer your earlier question,” he said after he’d taken the edge off his hunger with several bites of everything, “yes, I have had underwear thrown at me. Also keys, shoes, rotten fruit - though not too much of that, thank God, and even slips of paper with telephone numbers and filthy suggestions written on them.”

“I’m surprised you don’t collect those,” I teased him.

“What makes you think I don’t?” His eyes laughed at me and I found myself smiling back at him.

“You must have books full of them by now. Shelves in your library.”

“Actually, a shoe box full of the best ones - would you like to see them?”

He said it with a straight face, so I believed him. For about ten seconds. “Sure,” I called his bluff, “you got them with you?”

“No, but I can quote you some of them, if you really want to know.”

“Okay, go ahead,” I dared him.

He blinked and I knew I’d surprised him. “Umm,” he ruminated, sipping his water, “okay - here’s one.” And he proceeded to quote me an obscene note he’d gotten at a party in New York. “Since the note was so, um, graphic, I decided to find out which lady had passed it to me, since she’d sneaked it into my hand in a crowd before I had a chance to turn around and see who was giving it to me.”

“And, did you?”

“Well, yes, I did. Turned out it was the host’s mum - this lady about sixty or so, but very attractive. She wanted to spend the night with me.”

I stared at him, wondering if he had obliged the woman. “What did you do?” I asked, although I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the answer or not.

“I took her to bed. Well - she took me to bed. It was pretty intense and the next day she thanked me and went on her way. I haven’t seen her since.” He blotted his mouth with his napkin and smiled at me.

I couldn’t help but picture him with a much older, though attractive woman. “How, um, interesting. Does that kind of thing happen to you often?”

“Sure,” he said with a grin, “and sometimes it’s myself passing the note, y’know, if I see a sheila I fancy and she’s shy about coming over to me. Fans, y’know, there’s a whole cross section of types. One type is what I call ‘star fuckers’, they just want to add a notch to their bedpost or whatever, by shagging whichever actor or singer or whatever happens to be in town.”

“Have you actually been with that kind?”

“Sometimes, yes, if the vibes were right, or I was drunk enough. Not often, though. Most of them are pretty skanky.” It was rather sordid, and my face must’ve registered what I was thinking because he quickly reached across the table and put his hand over mine, “Luv, you did ask me, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you can go to bed with whomever you want,” I said, wondering why it bothered me in the first place. After all, he was an adult, he was the subject of millions of women’s sexual fantasies, he’d have had to be made of stone to resist all the invitations that had no doubt come his way.

“Well, yes, I can - but I’d need to be ten blokes to take care of all the sheilas I’m supposed to have had my way with in the past five years, and I’d probably have a dozen kids running around as well.”

“So, you’re saying you aren’t the Romeo the press makes you out to be?” I had the passing thought that this was an odd conversation to be having while having an intimate dinner with a handsome man. On the other hand, he had started it and he didn’t seem uncomfortable with it, so why should I be?

“Christ, no,” he claimed, “but I’m sure you could find someone to write me a testimonial if you checked around.”

I giggled. “Notarized?”

“Oh, probably. Shall I give you a list of references?” He pretended to reach for his jacket to get out a black book.

I shook my head, “No, that’s okay, I’ll take your word for it.”

We were both finished eating, and when our waitress popped out of the wall, Russell asked for the bill, which she produced from a hidden pocket. He and she did some fumbling with his credit card, the pen, the bill, and the copies of the credit card form, then he got to his feet, pulled the chair out for me, tucked my shawl around me, and put on his jacket. With a gracious nod to the waitress, he waited for me to precede him down the hall to the elevator. Our waitress operated it for us, I guess opting to use it instead of the sneaky hidden one she used to bring food, and we were shortly alighting in the entrance foyer, which was stuffed full with people.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the experience of hearing at least a hundred women (and a few men) gasp in relative unison. I heard Russell’s quick intake of breath, but when I glanced back at him with what I’m sure were wide eyes, he uttered an amused snort and took my arm, propelling us through the people quickly yet politely. I was proud of the locals that nobody did anything silly, and we were out the front door in relative short order. “Yikes,” I said when we emerged into the chilly night, “do you ever get used to that?”

“Not completely, no, but I just remember how I’d feel if I were standin’ there and someone cool - say, Gary Cooper or somebody like that - came walking out of an elevator. I’d probably gasp too.”

He opened the car door and helped me inside, then sprinted around to the driver’s side and got in. “Phew, is that rain or just heavy dew?”

“It’s rain, it’s just falling real slow,” I explained, “anywhere but Florida it would be snow.”

“Oh,” he peered out through the windshield through the big drops, turned the wipers on and asked me where I’d like to go. “Home, for a drive, maybe to a movie, or what, luv?”

“Is everyone ‘luv’?” I couldn’t resist asking. I thought it was charming.

“Yeah, unless I can’t bloody stand ‘em, then they’re anything but ‘luv’, luv.” He giggled at his alliteration. He had a very youthful, happy laugh, hard to resist joining in, so I didn’t.

“Works for me,” I finally said. “Let’s drive for a bit, I know it's only November, but there are bound to be some Christmas lights up already, they’re so pretty when they shine through the rain drops.”

“Ah, the woman is a romantic,” he commented, and set off, following my directions, for the historic district. Sure enough, the bed and breakfast mansions and a lot of the ones that were antique boutiques were all festooned with lights of all descriptions, plus twig reindeer, big animated candles, wreaths with twinkling lights - it was all so beautiful.

“God, I love Christmas,” I murmured, looking at a particularly beautiful arrangement of thousands of tiny white lights spilling over the bushes all around a big old mansion. “Look, they’ve got one of those old fashioned Nativity scenes too - isn’t that pretty.”

“You’re a worse romantic sap than I am, luv,” my driver teased me. “How much farther do you wanna go, my feet are starting to get cold.”

“It’s not that cold out,” I said, then realized he was kidding. “I’m sorry, you’re probably bored. What would you like to do?”

“If I told you, you would run screaming down the street away from me,” he answered, glancing at me, lips curved in a smile. “How about you come back to my place for a drink and we watch a movie or something?”

His place. By which I assumed he meant his hotel room. A drink and a movie and, no doubt, bed with him. I contemplated that, thinking it was something that could be nice, or as sordid as what I’d thought about him with the star fuckers earlier.

“She’s thinking about it, I can hear the gears grinding,” he commented, almost to himself. We were stopped for a traffic light, then it turned green and he accelerated smoothly. “No pressure, Rose, I just thought it would be nice. I won’t lay a finger on you unless you want me to.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’ll come with me, or yes you want me to?” He asked, teasingly.

“Yes, I’ll come to your place with you. Where are you staying, anyway, the Hilton?”

“Hell no, I’m renting a place - thinking of buying it, actually, truth be told. Maybe you’d help me make a decision, you know, look at it with a woman’s eye and tell me what you think about it?”

“You’re really buying a place here? In the middle of the back of beyond Central Florida?” I couldn’t imagine it.

He nodded, “I really am. I work so much away from home - from Australia - I need another place, a second home, if you will, someplace halfway between Oz and wherever. And I was told this is a nice area - the people are friendly but leave you alone, and the land is pretty nice - if you don’t mind the heat and humidity - and John built that great airport, my plane can land me just a few minutes from this place - if I buy it, that is.”

“John? John Travolta?” I knew he had bought a huge farm the year before and developed what had been a small, private airstrip into a ritzy, much larger private airport for the rich and famous. Several other Hollywood types, sports figures, rich-rich people, had also bought farms and estates nearby, all apparently looking for a degree of privacy they couldn’t find in one of the bigger metropolitan areas.

“Yeah, nice guy - flies an incredible private jet, have you seen it?”

“No, I don’t think so, but I don’t get out that much - I’m pretty busy with the horses and the record store. Do you fly your own plane?” I couldn’t help but think of how dangerous that was.

“Nah, I’m not that foolhardy - I have a professional pilot, an expert, I trust that stuff to him.”

I thought that was a very good idea. “Good, I’d worry.”

He flashed me a grin, “Would ya? That’s sweet, luvie.” He drove onto the Interstate and we sped north a couple of exits, then off onto one of the state roads that led out among the ultra-luxurious horse farms and estates in the rolling hills north and west of Ocala. He seemed to know the road really well, even in the dark and rain he made the turn off onto the tree-lined road with nary a second guess. “Almost there,” he commented, then we were there and he drove up in front of the lighted porch of what looked like a large log house. The lights were big brass lanterns, and there were evergreens on both sides of the short walk way that led to steps up onto a nice big porch. The front door was half leaded glass and half polished oak, and a big twig wreath hung right in the center of the glass part, a huge green velvet bow hanging from it.

I got out of the car and we ran through the rain drops up onto the porch. “This is really nice!” I shook my head, scattering rain drops, as did he, then he unlocked the door and we went inside.