Scenario

"I've been here a while, looking at cards..."

"And I magically arranged to be just in front of you at the checkout line. Quite a trick, that."

"You could have waited, seen me drive here, then sneaked in, watched me, then slipped into line."

"Heavens! I give up. I'm busted. 'The vulpine villain stealthily stalks his voluptuous victim...'" Emil bursts out laughing, evilly, pure Snidely Whiplash. "Now you can also charge me with excessive alliteration."

Deb cannot help but chuckle, again struck that he is strikingly handsome, very clever, and evidently into her. All good things. She feels warmth spreading from her belly out. It's hot in the drugstore, suddenly. "All right, it does sound silly when you put it that way. But how can you be here? You keep showing up wherever I go. It doesn't make sense."

"Deborah, the question is 'How can YOU be here?' It must be fate. The book simply directed me to find a drugstore and pick up these additional items." he gestures to his shopping basket. "This one is close to Kroger's, so I drove here, shopped, and then you arrived. It seems that if anyone is following the other, you are tailing me."

"But it's just too pat, too much of a coincidence."

"Perhaps it really is fate."

"I don't believe in fate. Or in coincidence. So you are telling me the book told you to buy Tylenol? Really?"

"No, it lists the scented candles and the other things. The Tylenol is for my headache. The one you've given me and could cure by accepting my offer of dinner." He chuckles.

Deb is sorely torn. The repressed, wild part of her wants nothing more than to have dinner with Emil, to have an adventure, but though he's winning, more charming than anyone she remembers, Deb's cautious side wins out. Again. "But it makes me uncomfortable that you keep ending up at the same places as me. I'm sorry, it just seems suspect."

"Then just ask me to leave. I've done it twice now. But please don't ask quite yet. I'm enjoying this verbal fencing. It's fun, and Friday nights exist for fun. Now, it's certainly an interesting coincidence that we keep ending up in the same places, but, think, how I can be following you when I keep arriving first?"

"Maybe you've put a tracking device on my car. Or maybe you hide out, wait for me and then follow. I don't know, but I do know that I'm uncomfortable."

Emil sighs sadly. After a few seconds he says, suddenly serious, "I'm terribly sorry that I've made you ill-at-ease. I'll tell you what. Do you see that church up on that hill? See that van in the parking lot? I'll drive way up there, park right beside the van, get out walk to the other end of the lot, and wave to you. You can be in your car, leave in any direction, and, even if I were to sprint to my car - and I am very fast, mind you - and try to follow, you'd be long gone before I could even get close. Surely you'd have enough head start that I couldn't follow. But, I'd really much rather that you don't ask me to leave. Why can't I buy you dinner? I hear the Black Pearl Bistro is very good. Or perhaps you have a favorite spot? Please Deborah. What could possibly be the harm?"

Deb is again caught in the throes of ambivalence. She's turned him down twice already and regretted it both times. Severely. Three strikes and she'll be out. He is witty, charming and very sexy. But the book aspect is troubling, just too pat. Besides, even though John is being a cad, probably unfaithful even though they've never said they'd be exclusive to each other, they have been dating off and on, mostly on, for a year and a half. That she still has lingering hopes for permanence, that he'll finally become Mr. Right, wins out. "I'm sorry, Emil. You're charming, but I want you to leave now."

He sighs and says, "You're certain? I've truly enjoyed talking with you and would like to continue. Please reconsider. What could be the harm?"

Knowing she will hate herself for it later, but needing to stay in control, to be in charge, Deb says, "Please leave, Emil."

When she sees his convertible in the church lot three minutes later she wants to beckon him back, undo what she's done, but when he waves she drives off, purposely in the wrong direction, then doubles back and goes home. She quickly closes the garage door, stows her groceries, and plops down on the sofa. Her favorite Netflix series is boring, her can't-miss Stones album sounds flat and toneless, her Pinot Grigio tastes thin and bitter, and her internal bitch berates her ceaselessly as she stews on the couch.

*****

It's HIM! What the hell! This can't be possible. He must have followed me. Should I call the police? Confront him?

Deb had carefully kept an eye out her living room window but had seen no sign of a distinctive Impala. For half an hour. Finally convinced that Emil wasn't going to magically, or ominously, appear at her doorstep, aflame with anger at herself for being so defensive and conservative, at John for abandoning her probably for another woman, at Friday for being date night when she had no beau, Deb glumly shifted on her couch, misery churning through her. Bored to tears with her dismal prospects for yet another weekend alone, Deb had decided to treat herself to a nice dinner. Take that, John, I don't need you to go out!

Of course she went to Martello's - it was her favorite - and it was hopping as usual for a Friday night, so she chose to sit in the bar, at the bar. When Dave put the Pinot Grigio in front of her, the déjà vu flared like blazing magnesium when he said, "Compliments of the gentleman," nodding to his right. Wanting to suffer her lonely bout of melancholy in private she sighed, thinking she'll just thank the guy hitting on her and say she is waiting for her fiancé.

But it's HIM.

She springs up and stalks towards him, fishing her phone out of her purse. His winning smile fades as he stands.

"You have some nerve! You're definitely stalking me and I'm really calling the police. Now."

He raises his hands in surrender, then everything smiles, his eyes, face, lips, body, everything. Deb's knees go soft as she feels the same attraction, the animal allure, she has each time he's been close. "Deborah, please consider for a moment. You have just arrived, correct?"

"Yes, only to find you here, once again."

His hands gesture to the table in the booth in front of him. "But look - I've already ordered my meal, I've finished my salad and my entrée was just delivered. Is this not so?"

Deb is flummoxed, filled with consternation. It is true. There is an empty salad plate - except for the cucumber slices which he evidently doesn't favor, and who can blame him? - and a nice piece of grilled salmon, with rice pilaf and asparagus. How is this possible? "Well, I guess..."

"Ah, that's it!" Emil exclaims, Hercule Poirot revealing the true murderer. "I followed you here, cleverly keeping my rather distinctive automobile from your lovely green eyes - they are truly wonderful, by the way, especially when you smile - then rushed in just after you, mugged some poor chap and usurped his salmon. And his rather nice wine. It was child's play, for a master criminal such as myself."

His chuckles grow into a full, warm laugh, and thoroughly disarmed, Deb joins in, the humor of his statement overcoming her chagrin. There is simply no possible way that he could have followed her. He was here first. The part of Deb's persona, the wild, repressed part that never gets free, finally triumphs decisively over the inner school marm.

"Now, dear Deborah," God, I love the way he savors my name, "you obviously came here to eat. So did I. Please, now that you know that I cannot possibly have been following you, stalking you, please join me, dine with me and we can explore this serendipitous series of coincidences that have befallen us."

There is no choice. Deb remembers her self-recriminations after each other time she had declined his invitations, which now seems entirely foolish and unnecessary, and Deb the Daring has now soundly vanquished Deb the Daunted. She accepts.

Emil gallantly bows slightly as she sits on the bench opposite him, - the gesture would be silly from anyone else but is natural and fitting from him - then summons the waitress. He has Deb's wine brought over with a menu - which Deb doesn't need; she knows it by heart - and has the server take away his salmon to keep it warm until her Ahi Tuna is ready.

They talk of everything but the book and their chance meetings. As predicted they share many interests and views and Deb is thoroughly charmed. And aroused. His presence - always decorous and elegant - has a charisma, an aura of excitement, which affects Deb deeply. Perhaps because of the thorough defeat of her conservative self, Deb feels effervescent, clever, appreciated. And desired. Almost giddy, like a teenager on a first date with her dreamboat. Emil, this Greek god, is not perfect, of course. He could be a little more, well... He could act a little more like... Maybe he could be six feet four instead of just six three?

On her way back from the Ladies' Room the deal is sealed. As she now expects, he rises as she approaches, his dark hypnotic eyes drinking hers in. As she does not expect, he takes her hand and whisks her onto the dance floor. The band had begun to play unnoticed due to their intense conversation, but closer now it is loud, the pounding music surrounding her, the bass and drums vibrating her belly, stirring a cauldron already aboil.

Of course Emil dances beautifully, evincing a formal grace and fluid assurance that Deb notices draws the eyes of the others on the floor. His hands are warm, strong, graceful, and feel delicious on her skin, back and waist. He leads in a way that predicts his every movement, and Deb, who has always loved to dance, and been hurt each time John invariably refused to do it, has never felt more graceful.

There is simply no question that they should remain on the floor for the next one. A slow dance. They drift ever closer as it progresses, and the warmth, the heat, from his hand slipping down to the small of her back penetrates to Deb's womb. The sparks from her erect nipples rubbing on her bra as their chests connect shoot through her. She melds herself to him, and their movements make her acutely aware, and intensely proud of the bulge prodding her belly as they sway against each other. She feels the flush as her consciousness centers on it, the highest of compliments.

He leads her back to their booth when the next fast dance begins. He nods to the bench, then slides in beside her. She likes the intimacy, the electricity, when their thighs touch. Wondering when it got so warm in the bar she takes a drink of water, then picks up the cocktail glass in front of her. To her unasked question Emil answers, "A stinger. Tasty, and I so do not want this evening to end." Deb takes a sip. It's good. When she compliments him on his dancing he demurs, insisting that although Zorba is a myth, all Greek men do indeed dance. Invariably poorly, alas. Instead it is Deborah's grace and beauty that inspire him. He lies so charmingly.

They dance again. Beginning to know each other's proclivities, or perhaps because he's learning hers, it is even better. When the following slow dance begins they immediately meld and Deb is again lost in the feel of his hands, his scent, his breath on her neck, his heat, the fiery trails from her nipples when they brush his chest. Her pussy throbs to the prodding of the bulge between his legs when she presses her abdomen close, nudging her belly against it.

Deb feels overcome, by the erotic sensations, by the immense gratitude coursing through her that her foolish refusals did not drive him away, and by the realization that she has decided to fuck Emil. Even should he not continue to seduce her (oh yes, she knows, and is delighted), he will be unable to fend her off. Deborah, the Biblical judge, has decreed that tonight she and Emil will make love. Or perhaps first fuck and then make love.

At the end of the dreamy slow number Deb raises her head to be kissed. When he avoids her lips and nuzzles her neck the effect is immediate and the fire within her flares ever brighter. She leans on him as they return to their booth, legs wobbly, weak with arousal. As she sips the second stinger - when did it arrive? - she wonders why he didn't kiss her. Is something wrong, is she misreading things?

The next slow dance - which makes her recall a definition of dancing as ritualized sex - dispels her uncertainty thoroughly, more completely than would have been possible had doubts never arisen, as does the kiss afterward, replete with promise of passion untold.

Back at the booth, her mouth is already opening to suggest they adjourn to his place, when disaster strikes.

"Deb! Is that you? Thank God!"

"Louise! What a surprise. Is everything all right?" She looks panicked, mussed, disheveled. But gorgeous, wearing a low-cut, black silk wrap-around party dress with an intriguing gap in front half way up her taut, tempting thighs. It mirrors the plunging décolletage, which seems hardly able to contain her large, milk-white breasts. Heavy makeup, tousled shoulder-length blond hair. Fuck-me black stilettos topped by sheer silk stockings. Louise is dressed to kill.

"Oh, Deb, I'm sorry to intrude. But no, everything's not all right. It's Vince. We just had a huge fight." Louise's voice cracks, broken by sobs. "We were on a special date. I thought he might even pop the question. It was going fine until he went to the bathroom. This other guy I didn't know asked me to dance. I should have said 'no' but it seemed easier just to go along. I didn't mean anything by it. But Vince got very upset. He's really drunk and fell into a rage. He said some awful things. I'm really afraid of him. Could I stay here with you, just for a couple minutes until I'm sure he's gone? Please, Deb?"

As she stands to embrace and comfort her friend - Emil had risen when Louise began to speak - Deb notes the subtle changes in Emil. The bristle, the feral look in his eyes as they survey the room is intimidating and Deb is thankful it is not directed at her. Deb pulls Louise down onto the bench next to her, saying of course it's OK, and Emil stands sentry beside the table, eyeing the bar and dance floor.

"Louise, this is Emil. Emil, Louise."

"Emil, it's nice to meet you. Deb, again, I'm so sorry to intrude. Have you two been together long?"

"Oh, we just met today," rattles off Deb's tongue before she can think. Damn, why did I say that? I'm planning to have sex with this gorgeous man. She is even less amused to see Louise's lips break into a coquettish smile.

"A pleasure to meet you, Louise," says Emil. As they nod and shake hands Emil's eyes soften and Deb laments her plight. She had been literally seconds from being whisked away to heaven by her Greek god lover, when her friend, not her best friend but a close one - even if she does sometimes act a bit like a slut - became a friend in need, and Deb is always there for her friends. So is Emil, it becomes evident when he asks Louise if she sees Vince, and then tells her to let him know if she does.

The conversation, how Vince had lost it, couldn't control his jealousy and frightened Louise, becomes less tense as his failure to appear makes it seem likely Vince has left. Louise becomes obviously more comfortable and relaxed. Deb becomes more peeved, seeing Louise morph into her dumb-blonde, vulnerable Marilyn Monroe guise, obviously aimed at Emil. Though there is no sign of Vince, Emil continues to pan the bar, seemingly oblivious to the blonde bombshell batting eyes at him.

When Emil excuses himself to go to the restroom and the women watch him walk away, Deb plans to correct the mistaken impression she left with Louise that she has no designs on Emil. But just as her mouth opens, Louise paraphrases Shakespeare.

"Yon Emil has a lean and hungry look," she quips approvingly, licking her lips. Deb cannot help but nod.

Then, as she tries again to clarify her intentions concerning Emil, the band tearing into its opening number after their break drowns out Deb's attempt. When she leans forward, determined to tell Louise, Emil reappears, sporting stingers. The three huddle together in order to hear. Louise leans close to Emil, fawning, flirting, as she unfolds her litany of woe, a damsel in distress. Deb, annoyed and disturbed by Louise's obvious advances, fears that though there is something fierce, almost dangerous in Emil, there is also something very gentle, maybe too considerate.

Too susceptible to Louise, who breaks into tears when answering Deb's query about whether Vince could actually become violent. She recounts how her now ex-boyfriend has abused her, hit her hard, leaving bruises, in the past. Deb can tell that Emil is more engaged, protective, when he again tells Louise to inform him if she sees the villain. Emil will talk with him, convince him to leave Louise alone.

"Oh, that would be wonderful! Could you? Would you? Thank you SO much," coos Louise, fluttering her false eyelashes.

"Perhaps we should go look for him," offers Emil proactively. He and Louise begin a tour of the bar and dance floor. No Vince. At Emil's suggestion they decide to make certain he's not lurking in the parking lot. Deb goes to the door after they pass through it. She doesn't know why - Louise can certainly point out Vince if he is present. It's instinctual. Just as Deb steps outside she sees Louise stumble. Emil catches her, she wraps him in her arms, pulls his head down to hers and kisses him passionately, pasting her voluptuous body onto his. The kiss lasts far too long as Louise grinds her hips and breasts into him, and after it finally ends Emil whispers intently in her ear.

Devastated, Deb spins around and rushes inside, getting out of sight, anger and injury warring in her roiling brain. She stumbles to their booth but doesn't sit, shaking, livid, desolate. Louise leads Emil inside by the hand, smiling at Deb like the cat that ate the canary as she heads for the Ladies Room.

Emil walks briskly towards her. Deb turns away, not wanting him to see her anger, her hurt and humiliation, knowing somehow that he saw her outside, after the kiss. She'll just leave, get away, immediately...

God! He is so strong!

Emil's hands on her shoulders spin Deb, throw her into his chest, then his arms encircle her, holding her fast. One hand takes her turned-away chin and guides it to him. The kiss is as powerful as the arms, crushing her lips, teeth clashing until she opens, letting his tongue wedge into her. Can this be? What is going on? wonders Deb as she feels the fire that has been smoldering inside her for the last hour rekindle, flare up, and rage out of control.

The best kiss, ever, eventually ends and Emil's whisper is urgent, penetrating. "Deborah, Louise is very badly hurt, truly injured and vulnerable. She will be helpless prey for any cad who might try to pick her up tonight. We need to protect her. But, dear Deborah, it is you I will fuck tonight."

It is fortuitous that he is gripping her to him so tightly as Deb would otherwise collapse. Her legs are wobbly, useless. When he kisses her again, her body, suddenly gelatinous, melts into his. He sucks her tongue into his mouth when it ventures out, and the passion inside her again rages, fed by the joy of knowing that he has chosen her.

They are sitting, close, on one bench when Louise returns from the lavatory, having fixed her hair, redone her overdone make-up, and smoothed over the tracks of her tears. Emil rises and gestures to the other bench, putting his hand on her shoulder as she sits. His eyes burn into Deb's throughout however, and sparks fly from his hand when it lands on her thigh when he sits beside her. Emil tells Louise how beautiful she looks, how appealing she is, how gracefully she moves, and when Deb recognizes that he is propping her up, reassuring her as one would an injured child, she joins in. Before long Louise is aglow, buoyed, and again apologizes for forcing herself on Deb and Emil.