Casey gave a delicate cough, and Rip grinned, saying, "Casey says I clean up well."
Leona returned the smile with a calculating glance and took Rip's arm. The lights suddenly grew dimmer. "Oh, dear. They're about to start. We'll get acquainted at intermission."
Rip heard Casey's dismayed groan and smiled. He let her take the seat next to Leona, which placed him on the outside of their group. That suited him just fine. The music from the orchestra grew to a crescendo, and the curtains parted to reveal the stage. Rip watched Casey revealed in the dim light, while her attention was on the singers.
Remembering how she'd looked when he'd found her in the foyer, his heart thudded. His gaze had burned a path from the top of her sun-bright hair to the tips of her pink toenails peeking out of rhinestone-studded stilettos, then returned to the creamy expanse of her shoulders and back which played peek-a-boo with a lacy bit of drapery. As he'd stared, he saw her skin pinken. Fascinated, he'd followed the progress of the blush from the tops of her breasts to her cheeks.
Casey cleared her throat, bringing Rip to the present. She gave him a slanted glance. He met her gaze for a moment then turned to watch the stage. Settling more comfortably into his seat, Rip let his shoulder touch hers, and relaxed when she didn't move away. He felt a little foolish, like a boy on his first date at the movies, slowly making his moves to see how far the girl would let him go. For now, shoulder-touching was good enough.
With a quick glance at Casey to make sure her attention was on the stage, Rip reached into a pocket for a little earphone, and as casually as he could, snuck it up the side opposite Casey to slip it snugly into his ear. Then he reached back into the pocket to turn the radio on, adjusting the volume upwards until he could just hear the announcer's voice above the caterwauling on the stage.
The fat woman began to sing at the same time the game started. The Utah Jazz were playing the San Antonio Spurs in the NBA playoffs. It was a game he'd like to have seen in person, but Rip had given his tickets away on air when Casey had coerced him into attending the opera. Talk about ultimate sacrifices. A night at the playoffs versus a night at the opera...what a guy wouldn't do for the woman he lo-
Rip sat up straight. Whoa, wait a minute. Let's not get ahead of yourself, Rip old buddy. It's just a date to prove a point. Yeah, she seemed like the right woman for him, but labeling it with the "L" word might be taking it a step further than he was ready for.
Stomach in turmoil, Rip felt a light touch on his shoulder. Careful to keep the right side of his face away from Casey to hide the earphone, he leaned toward her and returned his attention to the action on the stage.
Casey shifted closer toward him in her seat and a tantalizing waft of perfume drifted past his nose-like flowers, but kind of spicy, too. Rip forgot about the game for a moment and paid closer attention to the woman beside him.
"Do you understand German?" she whispered.
"German?" he asked stupidly then remembered the opera was in German. He glanced at the stage as a maid crossed it with a note she gave to another woman dressed in the clothing of a lady of the late eighteen hundreds. "I can order beer."
"The maid is telling the lady of a masked ball that will be held that evening."
The beep of the buzzer signaling the start of the game rang loudly in his ear. He darted a look at Casey's face to see whether she had heard it, too.
"Alfred is singing in the background of his love for Rosalinde, but she's married to Gabriel von Eisenstein," Casey narrated.
Rosalinde is married to Eisenstein, but Alfred loves her. Rip repeated Casey's words in his head to commit them to memory in case she asked what he thought later.
"The Utah Jazz score the first two points of the game," shouted the announcer into the earpiece. Rip refrained from cursing, reassuring himself a lot of time remained in the game. The Utah Jazz were one of the Spurs' toughest opponents, and they needed to stockpile some points to ensure a win.
"Eisenstein just lost his case in court and has been sentenced to time in jail," Casey was saying. "But he plans to attend a masquerade ball prior to reporting to prison the next morning."
"He's not going with Rosalinde?" Rip asked, absently, closing his eyes and sneaking a sniff of Casey's hair.
"No. She didn't know he was going until he showed up dressed for it."
Eisenstein left the stage and another man drifted on.
"Who's that?" Rip asked.
"That's Alfred," Casey said, looking over at Rip.
"Oh, yeah, I recognize his voice," Rip fibbed.
"Tim Johnson has the ball, working it down the court," the announcer said. "He passes it to Curt Bland, and the Spurs score with a rebound! The Utah Jazz are tied with the San Antonio Spurs, two to two."
Rip relaxed as the evening progressed, enjoying Casey's whispered narration, a quiet feminine hum that warmed his soul, while acknowledging the growing excitement of the game as the two worthy opponents ran head-to-head throughout the evening.
The opera and the game progressed simultaneously, even breaking for intermission and half time at nearly the same time. While standing in the lobby, Leona grilled him graciously, but tenaciously, concerning the particulars of his childhood, education and family. Rip tried to provide vague answers to her interrogation, but the ten minutes she had him to herself while Casey made for the powder room, and her father dutifully waited in line for their drinks, was long enough for Rip to feel like a spineless jellyfish. The woman had technique-like Torquemada in the Spanish Inquisition. She reminded him of his own mother, looking out for her child, hoping to secure a proper marriage for her. Had he stayed in Dallas, his mother would have had him parading in front of every suitable debutante until he'd ground his teeth down to the nub.
Back inside the theater, with the earphone once more in place, Rip's adrenaline built as the action on the stage, matched by Casey's excited explanations, heated up along with the game. He was on the edge of his seat.
Rip shared a smile with Casey and congratulated himself for his skillful use of both sides of his brain. Casey's satisfaction with his appreciation of the musical was evident in her gaze and the hand that rested lightly atop his arm.
"Eisenstein is flirting with Rosalinde. He doesn't know who she is and she's getting evidence of his philandering ways."
The announcer shouted in his ear. "The Utah Jazz score again with a three-point shot from mid court. What a shot! The pressure's on with the Jazz's ninety-one to the Spurs's eight-nine, and only two minutes left in the game."
"Damn!" Rip didn't realize he'd actually blurted the word out loud until a woman seated in front of him swiveled in her chair to glare. "Sorry. Guess I got carried away. He deserves whatever he has coming for messing around on her."
Casey patted his hand and returned her attention to the stage.
Phew! "What's happening now?" he asked.
"Eisenstein is at the jail and has discovered his cell is occupied by Alfred, Rosalinde's lover. Rosalinde has come to get Alfred out."
"The Utah Jazz steal the ball from the Spurs," the announcer said into Rip's ear.
"That can't be good," Rip said.
"No, Rosalinde is talking to her husband, whom she thinks is the lawyer," Casey was saying. "She's telling him all about Alfred, her lover."
"The Spurs block the shot and take it down the court. Two seconds left in the game."
Rip sat forward in his seat, the opera forgotten.
"Bland takes the shot from mid-court."
Rip held his breath.
"And he makes the shot! The Spurs win, ninety-two to ninety-one!"
The music stopped, and the audience stood as one in a rousing standing ovation. Rip clapped the loudest of all then pulled Casey to him in an exuberant hug.
"I never thought you'd take to opera so well," she said breathlessly as he set her back on her feet.
The first curtain call reminded him the lights would turn up in a moment. He slipped the earphone back into his pocket and turned off the radio just as the lights came on. He blinked owlishly for a moment until his eyes adjusted.
"Mr. O'Rourke, would you care to join us for a nightcap?" Casey's mother asked, as Casey bent to retrieve her bag from beneath her seat.
The thought of another round with the formidable Mrs. Cramer had Rip's mind racing for an excuse.
Casey saved him. "Mom, I've got a bit of a headache. I think I'll catch a ride with Rip back to my apartment. You and Dad enjoy yourselves."
Rip noted the speculative gleam in Leona's eyes, but didn't say a word as he followed Casey out into the humid night air. He was in like Flynn.
11
Casey stood with Rip outside the theater after waving goodbye to her parents as they drove away in their Lincoln Town Car. Reflecting on her luck at having made it through the entire evening without mishap, she accepted Rip's hand at her elbow, directing her toward his car in the parking lot.
She smiled tiredly, surprised at how well the evening had gone. Turning to Rip, she said, "It was a good evening, wasn't it?"