Caught on Camera

Chapter 8, Scene 2, Part 16

Cutthroat competition to be signed by a good agent turned many ambitious men and women desperate, aggressive, manipulative, even willing to violate their moral codes for a leg up in the industry. Mickey had had more than his share of falsely affectionate women he'd misjudged until the inevitable bleak reality check. In contrast, Candy's unsophisticated cousin trembled at his touch while attempting to keep her distance. A refreshing enigma.

Blurry movement in the deep gloom under the pines beyond the terrace caught his eye. A ghostly wraith drifted between trees beyond the corner of the building. A white ball appeared to roll at lawn level. He inhaled sharply.

Holy Hotel California. Twenty feet from the terrace,  at the limits of the flickering torch light,  the creepy forms halted.

"Mickey," the taller phantom hissed, beckoning with an undulating wave of an unearthly arm. "Over here."

Mickey cautiously stepped off the flagstones onto the grass. "Who are you?"

In a loud whisper laced with urgency, the taller figure entreated, "It's me, Rachel. Hurry up. I don't want anyone to see us."

"Rachel?" He swiftly crossed dew-damp lawn, entered the moonless gloom under the trees where Rachel waited, garbed in white from neck to ankles. With her blond hair, no wonder he'd mistaken her for a ghost from a distance. Mopette sprung upright on her back legs, waved short front paws in the air and yapped in greeting. "She's feisty for this time of night. What the hell are you wearing?"

"Please, Mickey. Keep your voice down. When we get far enough away from the guests, I'll explain." Rachel turned her back on him and unerringly wove between the trees on a heading for the lake, dragging a reluctant Mopette on the leash behind her.

Mickey swatted at the mosquito snacking on his neck. "I asked for this," he complained to no one in particular.

When their feet sank into sand at the water's edge, Rachel stopped. Mopette's ears perked high. Her body shook with excitement. Despite the late hour she seemed to have gained a second wind. Yipping happily, she strained on the end of the leash on point, nose at the water.

"Oh no, you don't. One bath today was enough." Rachel slapped a mosquito burrowing its stinger into one cheek. "The bugs sure are vicious tonight."

"Let's try the dock," Mickey urged with an outstretched hand. "The night breeze off the cooling lake discourages mosquitoes."

Rachel accepted his grasp. They walked hand in hand the length of the long wood plank dock to a wide platform where, during the day, white wooden Muskoka chairs provided lounging guests with an unobstructed view the length of the lake. Soothing sounds of chirping cicada insects, Mopette's snuffles and water lapping at the wooden structure drained the tensions of the day. Overhead millions of pinpricks of light in an inky blanket cocooned them in a private universe.

"I've only seen stars like this in Wisconsin," he said.

"On your fishing trips?"

"That's right. Of course, I was with the guys. Tonight I'm with you."

At his side, her slender fingers entwined in his, Rachel's face reflected starlight. Even enveloped in the preposterous oversized robe, her lean figure radiated unconscious sensuality. It'd been months, maybe a year, since he'd felt so attracted to a woman. Her enticing lips tempted him beyond a man's endurance. He angled his head to press his mouth against hers.

Rachel released his hand, retreated a couple of steps to duck his kiss, pulled Mopette on a short leash with her. "Mickey," she began, then hesitated as Mopette deked around her in an attempt to sniff the water, wrapping the leash around her legs in the process.

Given the signals she'd been sending, Mickey wondered at Rachel's withdrawal. She hadn't brushed away his hand encircling her thigh under the dinner table, had on the contrary seemed to enjoy it. An obvious explanation occurred to him. His gut clenched. He never knowingly poached another man's woman. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No," she admitted. "But I can't get involved with a guest-- I mean to say... a wedding guest. At least not in public."

He dismissed the weak excuse, imagined she'd taste finer than the scotch awaiting the groomsmen in the Muskoka Room. "One kiss under the stars, Rachel. You're attracted to me. I know women."

"It's not that I don't want to kiss you, Mickey, truly, but someone might see us." She glanced nervously in the direction of the third floor Bridal Suite windows, their curtains open, the illuminated interior a searchlight slicing the darkness.

Mickey advanced to close the distance between them. "We're two hundred feet from the hotel. No one will recognize us."

Rachel retreated. "We absolutely cannot fool around out here," she squeaked. "Seriously. Mopette needs to do her business and return to Candy. She'll be waiting." She lifted her face to the starry sky. A whisper of a regretful sigh escaped. "Although it is romantic."

Mickey took that as a yes. He advanced another step. At the same instant Mopette tugged on the leash. Rachel teetered on the edge of the dock, then disappeared into thin air, plummeting backward with a shriek and crash into the water loud enough to wake the dead. Mopette catapulted airborne at the end of the leash, her surprised yelp and splash an echo.

Mickey rushed to the edge of the dock. "Rachel!" Her head broke the surface, wet hair gleaming dully, arms flailing. Mopette paddled at full throttle nearby, too busy to yap.

"Save the dog!" Rachel coughed. Chilling gasps rent the air before the heavy weight of the sodden robe dragged her down into the black depths.

To hell with the dog. Mickey leaped off the dock, landing dress shoe-shod feet first into cool water next to the last spot she'd surfaced. He filled his lungs, dove deep, swung his arms in blind searching arcs. Precious seconds slipped by until frantic fingers penetrated a forest of slimy weeds rising from the bottom of the lake and encountered cotton. He fisted the fabric and, kicking with adrenaline-fueled energy, lunged for the surface.

Rachel's head popped above the surface for the second time. She sputtered, hacked up water, and sucked in air. Relief along with welcome oxygen flooded his aching lungs. He inserted arms under thrashing shoulders and clutched her heaving chest to his, thereby supporting her head and shoulders above water. Heart pounding, his legs scissoring like strokes of an engine, he'd never been so scared in his life.

Then another danger emerged. She weighed a ton. The heavy wet robe threatened to drag them both down into a watery grave like a cement overcoat.

"The robe has to go." He loosened the tie with one hand and managed with difficulty to strip off the deadly soaked fabric. Under it, his hands encountered nothing but wet skin.

She was naked.