Pathways - Jeri Taylor [116]
Never had the room seemed so inviting, never had pool been so effortless. And never had the extraordinary Sandrine been more desirable. Not that he intended to act on anything, but the delectable dance they were creating between them was too seductive to end just now.
“Thomas,” she cooed, taking the pool cue from him, “help me with my technique. I think I’m not getting the stability I need for a strong shot.” She bent over the table, positioning the cue, forming the fingers of her left hand into a “bridge” upon which the cue rested. She was stretched over the table like a supple lioness, blond hair sprawling, lithe body straining against her tightly fitting bodysuit. Tom wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead.
He bent himself over her, stretching his arms to encompass hers, taking her fingers in his to reposition them. “Zut alors,” said Balzac, and wandered off to a less exclusive situation. Sandrine turned her head to look at him, her mouth only inches from his. “Do what you must, cheri, I am a very good student.”
They were just like that, Sandrine stretched over the pool table, Tom virtually on top of her, faces only inches apart, when Odile walked in.
Balzac tried a discreet cough as a warning, but it was too little too late. Odile sized up the situation in an instant and strode to the pool table, directly across from Tom and Sandrine, and began speaking in rapid-fire French that Tom, though fluent, couldn’t begin to follow. He leapt up, too late realizing how compromising the pose looked, and tried to babble some lame excuse. He knew, whatever he was saying, it didn’t quite make sense, and he realized how the wine had garbled his thoughts. Odile paid him no attention and continued her diatribe toward Sandrine.
Whatever she said, it produced an instant, electric response from the older woman, who rose in response to the challenge, circled the table toward Odile, and began her own ardent harangue.
Tom had the sense that things were roiling out of his control, but he gave his best effort to contain the damage. “Odile,” he said heartily, “I’m glad you’re here. I was just giving Sandrine some tips about her bridge.” It sounded inane, even to him, and he saw Balzac in his peripheral vision passing his hands over his eyes in mock despair, but the two women paid him no attention whatsoever, and continued their vicious tirades, which were growing in intensity and volume.
Tom found them both frightening. Odile’s green eyes had changed from emerald to a deep, sea green that looked decidedly menacing, and her hair seemed to have lost its blondness and was the red of fire, almost giving off sparks.
He had never seen her like this, but he was equally unprepared for Sandrine’s transformation, from sleek and voluptuous feline to a forceful predator. It had to be his imagination, but her fingernails seemed to have grown long and razor-sharp in the last minute. Maybe that’s because she held them, curled as though for attack, just in front of Odile’s face.
That’s when Tom became really frightened, not for Odile, but for Sandrine. Odile was a fourth-degree black belt, and if she went for Sandrine, no sharp fingernails would stop her from inflicting real damage. Of course, one of the most formidable principles of martial arts was to avoid physical combat if at all possible, but the way Odile was behaving, he wasn’t sure if pacifistic teachings would endure.
“Ladies, please, there’s no need for this,” he tried again, just as ineffectually. “Let’s all cool down and talk this over like civilized—”
It was all he got out before Odile turned to him, and he suddenly realized her venom was about to be directed toward him, a prospect that struck dread in his heart. Far better that she and her countrywoman continue whatever ancient ritual they were observing. They seemed to know the rules, but he didn’t even know the game.
He stood, stock-still, as Odile hurled Gaelic invective at him, trying to follow