Just as the DJ started playing Madonna's "Erotica," Paige felt the warm presence of someone moving in close behind, and hot breath on her ear.
"Miss Gillette, I was hoping we'd run into each other this evening."
Paige instantly recognized that voice, the rich tenor that haunted her memories, that dominated her fantasies, that possessed the same inflections and resonant tones she had gifted to her most famous male character. And it gave her goose flesh.
With her heart leaping into her throat, she turned, half-afraid at what she'd find.
She needn't have worried. The sight of Vincent Martinelli, Trimble High's English teacher extraordinaire and assistant track coach, now in his early thirties, still had the invincible power to clench her stomach, enliven her pulse, and rob her of all breath and sane thought.
Not a single strand of gray marred his raven-black hair, still lush and shimmering in cleanliness, still cut in a rather unruly style that straggled down to his collar. In keeping with his rather "unconventional teacher" image, he wore a tan blazer over a black pullover shirt, its tautness advertising his wealth of chest and stomach muscles. From his neck dangled a silver chain, its mother-of-pearl shark's tooth pendant resting in the patch of swirling chest hair that peeked out from the top of the shirt's V-neck collar. His blue jeans encased the long, sinewy runner's legs Paige remembered so vividly.
And that winning, dimpled smile, those intense, blue-gray eyes, that five-o'clock shadow on his upper lip and firm jaw--damn it, did any man have the right to be this handsome?--had not changed an iota, sending shivers of longing down Paige's spine.
It felt as if she had stepped into some cartoon "way-back" machine and returned to her high school years, when just the presence of this six-foot-two package of outrageous masculinity filled her head with dizzying, lascivious fantasies. If this were a cartoon, she thought, a gigantic red heart would have already shot from her thorax, throbbing wildly in mid-air, her drool-moistened tongue would have carpeted the floor, and her eyes would have bugged out like oversized Ping-Pong balls. She supposed she looked like the flip side of one of her friend's "dance soldiers," practically quivering in desire at the man standing before her who radiated such intense sexual charisma.
Apparently mistaking her prolonged silence for confusion, he pointed to the name tag on his lapel. "Don't you recognize me? It's Vince Mart--"
"Yes," blurted Paige. Did her voice actually squeak? She hastily swallowed the lump in her throat. "Hi, Mr. Martinelli."
"It's Vince, remember?"
"Oh, yes, Vince, I remember you?I mean, I haven't forgotten how you allowed your students to call you by your name--I mean, your first name?" Her mind screamed--Quit babbling nonsense, you idiot!
Leaning closer, he smiled, his teeth as white and dazzling as ever, his exhale fresh and minty. And that cologne? "Do you know what you want?"
Paige blinked. Was he really so boldly asking her to state her desires? Right here? In front of everyone?...
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