MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; name="The Honey-Trap III.txt"; format=flowed Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Content-Disposition: attachment; filename="The Honey-Trap III.txt" Title: The Honey-Trap Part III: Blue Met Blue Rating: PG-13 Author: Alsepang E-mail: alsepang@hotmail.com Disclaimer: Own nothing save the storyline. Song used is 'Killing Me Softly', the original ballad sung by Roberta Flack. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* [I felt all flushed with fever Embarrassed by the crowd I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud I prayed that he would finish but he just kept right on...] ~~ 'Killing Me Softly' I sat there as still as stone and my fingers crushed the material of my white turtleneck as twenty-seven years' worth of life flashed before my eyes, including things I didn't want to remember. Who was this man? Why was he singing this? Who had put the words in his mind and made him sing my life out for the world to hear? I wanted to scream at him, but WILL HE HEAR ME? My face burned, and with every word, I found it harder to breath, nigh impossible to draw in air. It was too crowded in here, too crowded... [Strumming my pain with his fingers Singing my life with his words Killing me softly with his song Killing me softly With his song Telling my whole life With his words Killing me softly with his song He sang as if he knew me In all my dark despair And then he looked right through me As if I wasn't there And he just kept on singing Singing clear and strong] I caught my breath when he lifted his head and looked right at me-- right *through* me. I saw a breathtakingly handsome face, with chiselled features and large, beautiful dark blue eyes, as enigmatic as the night sky-- and just as fathomless. A soft shiver ran over me as the dark blue eyes looked piercingly at me-- or was it through me? Did he see me, or was I just another member of the hoi polloi to him? To this man, who sang of my life as if that was all it was-- a song? [He was strumming my pain with his fingers He was singing my life with his words Killing me softly with his song Killing me softly With his song Telling my whole life With his words Killing me softly with his song] I let my gaze fall to my glass, now half- empty of orange juice. I cannot meet those eyes anymore-- dare not meet that dark blue gaze ... "Serenity. How nice to see you." I gritted my teeth and looked straight ahead at a picture on the wall right at the other end of the café. She always sounded like a particularly bad movie. My cousin bent down and stuck her face into mine. "Serenity, honey, don't tell me you don't know me..." My lips thinned, but I deigned no reply. She laughed a tinkling little laugh. "Oh, dear, lost your voice, have we? Poor, dear--" I reached out and tapped the nearest bartender's arm. Providentially for me, he was at the next table. "Excuse me, Paul. Do you have any smelling-salts handy?" "Sure." He turned around as he said this and stopped, his jaw dropping, his eyes fixed on my cousin, who gave him one of her stock of sultry smiles. "You-- you're-- wow-- you're-- Titiane, the supermodel!" I took the chance to slip away, a pronounced malicious smirk on my lips. I had managed to ignore Beryl, insult her *and* shake her off in less than three minutes. Beryl Ashleigh-Fainsworth is my cousin, known to the world at large as Titiane, because of her flaming red hair, a natural shade far richer and deeper than Gillian Anderson's hair or henna dye. She acquired the hyphenated surname after marriage to a wealthy playboy before she was out of her teens. They divorced a year later. She's the darling of the media, who just love poking their noses into her not-very-private and always very juicy life. Paparazzi consider her a joy, because she never minds their flashbulb intrusions, and her pictures always sell. After all, who wouldn't plonk down at least two thousand pounds for a candid picture of gorgeous British international supermodel Titiane, stalwart of the tabloids and a regular and reliable headline-maker? Whatever Titiane does is news. She hasn't been too fond of me since some photographer from France caught my face on film-- entirely without my permission or notice. I think what irked Beryl was that the chap who took my photograph was very famous and he soon had my pictures splashed all over the glossy fashion magazines in both Europe and America. I considered suing him, but realised that I was being handed free publicity on a platter and Palais Alse-pang was rising just then. Instead, I set up a meeting with him and told him quite frankly that any use of my pictures for commercial or undesirable or unworthy purposes (among others) without my prior authorisation and handwritten consent would land him in court. I knew that dear cousin Beryl would turn the colour of pea soup when she saw some of the inscriptions under my pictures. Let's just say that they ranked me far ahead of her in the beauty stakes. Do I care whether she's better-looking, or whether I'm prettier, or if the small cocker spaniel my secretary owns is better groomed than either of us? Not a whit, but Beryl does. As I stepped out of the café, still smirking, I nearly collided with someone who had just come out of the men's room not far off. I glanced up briefly, murmuring a perfunctory apology, and met dark blue eyes-- the eyes of the man who had just sung the story of my life not fifteen minutes before. For a split second, another shiver ran through my veins. There was something about him...and I didn't know whether it was good or bad, or whether I liked it or not. And as I walked away, I could feel his eyes boring like gimlets into my back, almost as if he hated me. That did it. I stopped and turned to face Mr. Dark Blue Eyes. Hadn't anybody taught him that staring was rude? Very deliberately, I looked him up and down, drawing attention to what I was doing by lifting my chin slightly and then lowering it. I manufactured a smile, allowing it creep slowly over my lips, and added a seductive, suggestive twist to it. I watched with satisfaction as he blushed red. Evidently he had not expected *that* response from me. Still he did not turn away. We stared at each other for a long time, his gaze first mocking, then grim, whilst my eyes remained as cold as I could possibly make them. Not ice; simply impenetrable steel, as cold and hard as possible. He was the first to turn away. (c) Copyright 2001 Original storyline by Alsepang ****THE SINGING CLOSET**** I like this song, but it's-- how shall I put it-- uh, if you know something about gongfu, *koffs* you will not listen to it during dinner, because likely you'll choke with laughter, or just plain choke... the song is best "appreciated" when you listen to it rather than just reading the lyrics below... --KUNGFU FIGHTING-- (Sung by Carl Douglas) Everybody was kung-fu fighting Those cats were fast as lightning In fact it was a little bit frightning But they fought with expert timing They were funky China men from funky Chinatown (Alse: Really? Funky...*Sweatdrops*) They were chopping them up and they were chopping them down It's an ancient Chineese art and everybody knew their part From a feint into a slip, and kicking from the hip Everybody was kung-fu fighting Those cats were fast as lightning In fact it was a little bit frightning But they fought with expert timing There was funky Billy Chin and little Sammy Chung He said here comes the big boss (hor hor), let's get it on We took a bow and made a stand, started swinging with the hand The sudden motion made me skip now we're into a brand knew trip Everybody was kung-fu fighting Those cats were fast as lightning In fact it was a little bit frightning But they did it with expert timing (repeat)..make sure you have expert timing Kung-fu fighting, had to be fast as lightning.