Rafa
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Grace pirouetted for Rafa, making her short skirt flare out. She was all dressed up for opening night in a black dress with gauzy skirts and a heart-shaped corset top, bubblegum-pink stockings printed with tiny black spiders, and black combat boots. Her tumbled purple hair was adorned with a 1950s style hat with a fluttering black mesh veil and a huge black ostrich feather.
The dress showed off her luscious breasts and thighs, the hat called attention to her beautiful face, and the entire outfit made him smile with how quintessentially Grace it all was. Where did you even go to shop for pink stockings with little fanged spiders?
“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”
“You look sexy and adorable. And weird in the very best way,” he said with a grin. “That’s what you were going for, right?”
“That’s what I’m always going for,” Grace replied, also smiling.
Rafa ducked into the next room, then returned with a bouquet of bright pink roses in a heavy vase of rough black pottery. He’d thought about how Grace liked to dress, with her signature contrasts of tough and pretty, black and pink, leather and lace, and had tried to replicate that in his opening night gift.
“Happy opening night,” he said. “I thought you could put them in your booth.”
“Thanks, I will.” Grace took the vase, smiling as she hefted its solid weight. “Wow, this is so me. Thanks. The roses match my stockings exactly.”
“Minus the spiders,” he teased.
“You never know, there might be one or two hiding in there.” She breathed in their scent. “This is really it. Big break or big bust. Or...”
“I’ll keep you safe,” he promised. “The show too. I promise. But nothing’s happened since I shot that sniper, and it’s been weeks since then. My guess is that whoever was behind the whole thing decided it was too hot to handle and called it off.”
“Have you heard anything from Fiona?” Grace asked.
“Nothing different from the last time she checked in,” he said with a shrug. “She’s still undercover, and she still hasn’t found anything. But I promise you, if anyone at My Fair Lady is—or was—behind this, she’ll catch them. And if they had nothing to do with it, she’ll be able to tell us that for sure, too.”
That seemed to reassure her. They drove to the theatre, where for once, Grace wasn’t the first person to arrive. When they went inside, the theatre was practically buzzing with excitement.
Paris was passing around a platter of cupcakes. “Rafa? Rose for you?”
He made a face, and she laughed and patted his arm. “Or maybe chocolate.”
“Later,” he said. To his amusement, Grace helped herself to a rose cupcake.
Ruth came in, wearing an elegant black dress and a necklace with a red stone carved into the shape of Mars. Paris gave her a chocolate cupcake, and she gave Paris a bouquet of red roses.
“You don’t look fully dressed without Tycho on your shoulder,” Paris remarked.
“He had to stay home. I doubt that the rest of the audience would appreciate him the way you do,” replied Ruth.
“Looking forward to seeing Mars from the audience?” Paris asked.
“Yes, I actually am. It’s not as scientifically correct as I’d hoped, but maybe people who see it will be inspired to read up on Mars. And to be honest, if it was more accurate it might be less entertaining.”
Paris grinned. “Admit it, Ruth. You love the Martians.”
“I don’t love the Martians,” Ruth said firmly. “They don’t exist.”
“You never know,” Grace put in. “The world can be stranger than you think.”
Ruth shot her a dubious look. “That’s true in general, but Mars has been very thoroughly scanned. If there were Martians or even Martian artifacts, we’d have long since noticed them. But I’m fine with Paris wearing her hair loose. It’s not accurate. But it’s very pretty.”
“Maybe this show will inspire the next generation of scientists,” Paris suggested. “Or astronauts. Just imagine some young person sitting in the audience who’ll see me and Brady exploring Mars, and think, ‘That’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.’”
“Oh, I hope so.” Ruth kissed her, then said, “I better get to my seat. Have a great show!”
Paris and Grace looked horrified. Simultaneously, they said, “Don’t say that!”
“Why not?” Ruth asked.
“It’s a theatre superstition,” Grace explained. “It’s bad luck to wish for good things to happen on opening night—whatever you wish for, supposedly the opposite will happen. What you say is ‘break a leg,’ and then they’ll have a good show.”
“You know superstitions aren’t real—” Ruth began.
“Ruth,” Paris said warningly.
“All right,” said Ruth. “Break a leg, Paris. You too, Grace.”
“What about me?” Rafa put in.
Ruth rolled her eyes, but said, “Break a leg, Rafa.”
As Ruth headed for the audience, Brady tapped Grace on the shoulder. “About the jello...”
“It’s raspberry,” Grace said. She’d clearly had it with Brady’s complaints about the jello. “And it’s homemade this time. I think what you really hate is artificial sweetener. But no matter how it tastes, eat it and act like it’s delicious. You’re an actor, Brady. So act!”
“Okay. Sure.” Brady backed off, looking mildly alarmed. Rafa suppressed a grin. Grace had clearly been repressing that remark for some time.
Rafa accompanied her as she made her rounds, checking to make sure everything was ready and safe.
Carl met her when she inspected the flying mechanism. “I just checked it. No tampering, no frayed wires, absolutely nothing wrong.”
“Thanks, Carl,” Grace said, but she went on examining it until she’d made sure of that herself. Then she turned back to her assistant. “All right. You’re in charge of backstage. Break a leg!”
Carl winked. “Shouldn’t that be ‘break a wire?’”
“Too soon, Carl,” said Grace, shaking her head in mock reproval.
Rafa and Grace went up to her booth, where she placed the vase of roses on a table, then checked the electrical equipment and headphones. As she did so, he checked the closed circuit camera tapes and monitor. The tapes showed nothing out of the ordinary. They never had, ever since they’d been installed.
There haven’t been any ‘accidents’ in weeks, Rafa told himself. Whoever was behind this obviously gave up when I shot their assassin.
All the same, he didn’t like the fact that he still didn’t know who had hired that assassin. With his mate’s safety at stake, he wouldn’t be able to relax until he’d brought that person to justice.
Fiona will figure it out, he thought. She’s the best at detective work. I’ll let her do her job, and I’ll do what I do best—protecting my mate.
Grace nudged him, pointing out the soundproofed window. “Look at that. We sold out!”
She was right. Every seat in the audience was taken.
“And no folding chairs in precarious places,” Rafa teased.
“Not with me around, there’s not.”
As she picked up her headset, he gave her a quick but passionate kiss. “Break a leg.”
“You too,” she replied.
She ran her fingers through his hair, then took off her hat and put on the headset. He watched as she began to murmur directions to the people backstage, her hands dancing over the light and sound controls. On the monitor, stagehands ran to move scenery and actors scrambled to change costumes; onstage, everything happened smoothly.
As always, the booth was very hot. Rafa took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. He watched Grace with pride as everything unfolded onstage so perfectly at her command. His mate was in her element, making her show a success. And so was he, making sure she was safe. He stood with his back aching from having to stoop in the low-ceilinged room, and sweat trickling down his spine from the heat. He’d never been happier in his life.