Saving Mr. Bell

Chapter Twelve

Arlo

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed a day as much as this one, something about watching Rudolf laugh and joining in with it, a tonic money couldn’t buy. I realized on our fifth, or maybe it was our sixth, trip down the hill that while I might have told Rudolf he needed a break, that I’d been an accidental hypocrite in not realizing I needed one too. What with the breakup of my marriage and making three full-length documentaries this year, I’d been just as much of a workaholic as he had. I’d just done it with less alcohol and drugs. I wouldn’t include sex on that list because, as I’d told Rudolf the previous night, Bruno and I hadn’t been lacking in that department during the first few months of our relationship before things went wrong.

“One more?” Rudolf asked as he lay panting next to me, our shoulders touching.

I imagined the trek up the hill, my thighs already so sore that walking tomorrow would no doubt prove quite the trial. I shook my head. “No, I’m done. I’m liable to collapse halfway up if I go up again. You can, though.”

Rudolf struggled to his feet and eyed the hill. “No. I think I’m done as well. We must have been up there a squillion times.”

“At least.”

Rudolf held out his hand, and I took it, letting him pull me to my feet. With his eyes shining and his cheeks flushed, he couldn’t have looked happier. And it made me happy. There was something else as well, something that made me smile. I tapped his nose with my index finger. “Your nose is red.”

He batted my hand away, green eyes narrowing. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“Say what? I don’t know what you mean,” I lied.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I didn’t say it. Instead, I pursed my lips and whistled the first few bars of Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. I would have carried on, but apparently being pelted in the face with a snowball makes whistling difficult. Who knew? I spat snow out, Rudolf’s aim a little too good.

The annoying little shit was smiling as he backed off with his gloved hands raised in a defensive gesture. “Oh, come on, you deserved that. You know you did.”

“For whistling?” I bent and scooped up a generous handful of snow.

“For whistling that song. Have you any idea what it was like for me at school? One of my schoolmates even wrote a version where he changed all the words to being about me.”

“Creative,” I said, as I shaped the snow into a ball. “I’d like to meet him. What were the lyrics? Perhaps we could do a duet.”

“Don’t throw that,” Rudolf warned as I lifted my arm.

“Or what?”

“Or…”

I didn’t wait to see what threat he’d come up with before unleashing the snowball. He ducked, but not fast enough, the snowball hitting him square in the forehead. Anticipating that retaliation would be imminent, I rugby-tackled him to the ground, both of us letting out an “oof” as we landed. My intention had been to rub snow in his face like we were twelve.

I kissed him instead.

And not like we were twelve.

Like we were two men giving in to our mutual attraction and making the most of being alone in an isolated wilderness with no else around for miles.

When I drew back, Rudolf blinked up at me, the kiss seeming to have taken him as much by surprise as it had me. I kissed him again, taking my time with this one, luxuriating in it. Luxuriating in him and how much I wanted him, even though I’d done my best to deny it. Well, I guess the cat was well and truly out of the bag now. At least we couldn’t go any further than kissing out here. Because of the snow. And how cold it was. And how many layers of clothing we wore.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” I admitted once I stopped kissing him.

“I’m not complaining. It was definitely better than getting pelted by snow.”

“Thanks. I’ll put that on my CV. Arlo Thomas—a kiss from him is better than getting pelted by snow.”

“You have a sex CV? Color me impressed. You’re a dark horse, aren’t you?”

I kissed him again, this one more to shut him up. Rudolf didn’t seem to mind. He hadn’t minded any of the kisses, joining in enthusiastically. And he was one hell of a good kisser. He drew back first this time, the look he gave me speculative. “If we were back in the cabin, I’d be trying to get you out of your clothes around about now.”

“And I’d probably let you.”

Rudolf smiled. “Bingo! We have progress.”

I turned my wrist and peeled the edge of my glove down so I could see my watch. “Jesus! Do you know what time it is?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Half-past two. We’ve missed lunch again.”

“I wondered why I was hungry. We should probably head back before it gets dark.”

I climbed to my feet and hauled Rudolf to his, laughing when he leaned in and stole another kiss, the vertical one just as enjoyable as the horizontal ones had been.

Back at the cabin with the sledge once more returned to the shed, there were other things to worry about before we got round to food, like peeling off all the layers of clothes, most of the external ones wet from the time we’d spent in the snow. Rudolf’s back had taken the brunt while we’d been kissing, my weight pressing him down making it worse. It was for that reason that I offered to let him take the first shower. He paused in the bathroom doorway in just his T-shirt and underwear, and I did my best not to stare at his thighs. His lean, muscular thighs that were tanned for the time of year. “Want to share a shower?”

I did. But if we shared a shower, we’d start kissing again. And if we were naked while we were kissing, as one was in the shower, one thing would lead to another. And despite resigning myself to the fact that sex with Rudolf was going to happen, I wanted to savor the anticipation for longer. I wanted to imagine what it was going to be like to touch him in places I still hadn’t seen yet—his hipbone, his inner thigh, the crease of his groin. His armpit, as weird and as kinky as that might sound. Had I ever thought about someone’s armpit before? I’d married Bruno and never given a moment’s thought to his armpit either before the impulse wedding or after.

Rudolf frowned. “What are you thinking about?”

“Your armpit.”

I laughed at his expression, Rudolf for once seeming unsure how he was supposed to react to that nugget of honesty. Which was understandable. “Go and have your shower.”

He tipped his head to one side and fluttered his eyelashes, his shock of blond hair falling over his brow. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you? I’ll let you scrub whatever parts of me you want to scrub. It’s up to you whether you use a washcloth or your tongue.”

The offer had a stab of arousal going through me, but I stuck to my guns. “Not tonight.” Thankfully, he didn’t push it, withdrawing from the doorway, and the familiar sound of the shower starting up a few moments later. I pottered around the kitchen until Rudolf called to say he was done and the shower was all mine. He’d left the bedroom door ajar, but I resisted the temptation to peek inside. To say we were in the middle of nowhere, the cabin had some of the best water pressure I’d ever experienced. Perhaps that was why: no competing with other households.

Having not bothered this morning, I shaved as well, a little voice at the back of my head asking me whether I was concerned about giving Rudolf stubble rash? I ignored it, refusing to entertain the suggestion that I was so sure we’d end up kissing again. Dressed once more, I found Rudolf in the kitchen, frowning at an onion. “What did it do?”

“Huh?”

“The onion. It seems to have upset you.” I sat on the stool at the breakfast bar, resting my chin on my hand. “Did it refuse to clap at one of your concerts? Did it steal one of your original compositions?”

Rudolf rolled his eyes, but I barely noticed. Now that I knew how enjoyable kissing him was, I was struggling to focus on anything but his lips. “It stands accused of being an onion.”

“I would say it’s guilty. Unless it’s a cleverly disguised potato. In which case, I believe there are extra charges that need to be brought against it for misleading the public.”

“I hate chopping onions,” Rudolf explained.

“So… don’t.”

“I’m making Spaghetti Bolognese. It’ll taste shit without onion. I was hoping if I stared at it for long enough, it would just volunteer itself into slices.”

I laughed. “Give it here.” Rudolf rolled it across the counter toward me and then crossed his arms over his chest and waited. “I’m clever, but I’m not that clever.”

“Huh?”

“Knife? Chopping board?”

He passed both across, and I set to work on it. “I never knew you could cook. I guess I assumed you’d have someone do that for you.”

“Back in England, I do. A chef hired by my father.” Rudolf pulled a face. “Which begs two questions.”

“Go on.” I sniffed as the onion fumes got to me.

“Why is it yet another person my father hired, and I got no say in? I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a fantastic chef. But maybe I want a chef who can cook Thai food. Or Japanese. Whereas Santino, in case you can’t tell from the name, is Italian, so it’s all pasta.” Rudolf laughed. “Which I appreciate is ironic while I’m boiling spaghetti. But yeah, I’d like to have had some input. And it’s not like he’s been there since I was a child. He’s a fairly recent hire in the last few years.”

“And the second question?”

Rudolf sighed. “The second question is why I’m still living with my father?”

“How often are you actually there?”

“Not that often.”

“That’s probably your answer, then. It’s just easier. Moving takes time and effort.”

“I should have made time. I could have a nice little penthouse in Central London overlooking the Thames. A bachelor pad.” He looked up, noticing for the first time how much I was struggling with the onion. He reached across and wiped a tear away with the pad of his thumb. “No need to cry for me, Arlo. I’ll be okay. My father’s enormous house and the Italian food made by a personal chef aren’t that bad.”

I batted his hand away. “Ha bloody ha. It’s the onion, as you very well know.”

“Which is why I hate chopping them.”

“Does it ruin your make-up?”

He pointed a wooden spoon at me. “If I were you, I wouldn’t remind me that your ill-timed abduction has left me without eyeliner.”

“You don’t need it.”

“The girls like it.”

“I daresay the boys do, too. I’m just pointing out you have gorgeous eyes with or without eyeliner.”

A faint flush crept into Rudolf’s cheeks. “You’re making it really hard not to kiss you right now.”

I smiled. “Good.”

We didn’t play any games that evening, both of us happy after the exertions of the day and the delicious meal Rudolf had served up to sprawl on the sofa. I’d switched the main light off, leaving us with just the glow of a single lamp and the wood stove. It created a cozy atmosphere, which left me more at peace than I could ever remember being.

“You should share the bed,” Rudolf announced out of the blue. “It’s plenty big enough for two. It’s not fair that I get a double to myself while you have to sleep on this.”

“It’s a comfortable sofa, not a bed of nails.”

“Still…”

“Stop trying to dress up an attempt to get me into bed as concern.”

Rudolf grinned like I knew he would. “Shit! Busted. You should sleep in the bed, Arlo. Naked. And we should cuddle for warmth just in case something happens to the wood stove while we’re sleeping and the temperature in the cabin plummets.”

“I presume you’ll also be naked?”

“Of course. I’d hate for you to feel like the odd one out.”

“So kind.” Rudolf was sprawled diagonally across the sofa, mostly lying, but the sofa too short for his feet to fit with me on the end. Acting on impulse, I bent over and scooped them into my lap. He lifted his head but said nothing, straightening so he could lie more comfortably.

“I could go to sleep,” he eventually said.

“Then go to sleep. What’s stopping you?”

“Hmmm…” Taking gentle hold of one ankle, I picked up his left foot and studied it. Rudolf lifted his head again. “Am I just supposed to ignore you being weird?”

“These are very famous feet.”

He let his head thud back on the arm of the sofa. “Right.”

“They are.”

“If you say so.”

“Whose idea was it to play the piano barefoot that first time?”

“I wouldn’t say it was an idea.”

“No? What was it?”

Rudolf smiled to himself. “I didn’t like my shoes. They were very un-me, so I refused to wear them. My costume designer at the time told me I could hardly go on stage barefoot and was extremely snooty about it.”

“So you called her bluff?”

“Yeah, I said watch me, and did exactly that.”

“And the media loved it.”

“Yeah,” Rudolf said with a slight sigh. “And now I’m stuck with it, no matter how freezing cold the auditorium might be. And the rest of the image came from people liking it and seeing how far I could push it before someone said, hang on, what does he think he’s doing when he plays classical music? Except no one ever did. I reckon I could go on stage naked one day and no one would bat an eyelid.”

I placed his foot gently back on my lap. “Maybe don’t choose the freezing cold auditorium for that.”

Rudolf smiled. “Can you imagine? All my press coverage would be about how being blessed with musical talent was to make up for other areas. Which… in case you’re worried, I’ve had no complaints.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Because you like small cocks, or because you have no intention of going anywhere near mine?”

I rolled my head sideways to look at him, Rudolf lifting his head again with a look of challenge as he waited for the answer. “That’s a very direct question.”

“It is. Are you pointing that out so you don’t have to answer?”

“Possibly.” I shifted Rudolf’s feet off me to the sofa so I could get up. “Wait there. I’m coming back.”

“Where are you going?”

I ignored Rudolf’s question as I went into the bedroom and rummaged through my luggage until I found what I was looking for. I held it aloft as I walked back into the main room. “Massage oil.” Rudolf obligingly lifted his feet, and I maneuvered myself back into my original position, settling them back on my lap as I sat.

“Lube,” Rudolf said.

“No. Massage oil.”

“Same thing.”

“A condom would disagree.”

“Well, if you’re having arguments with condoms, I would say labeling liquids is the least of your problems.”

I squeezed some oil into the palm of my hand. “Are you ticklish?”

“I don’t know. No one’s ever massaged my feet before.”

It turned out he wasn’t. It also turned out that there were several places on Rudolf’s feet where digging your thumb in made him moan like he was having sex. At least that’s what I imagined he sounded like while having sex. “Stop doing that.”

“I can’t. It feels too good.”

“I’ll gag you.”

“Promises, promises.” Once I’d done one foot, I started on the other, Rudolf tucking a cushion behind his head so he could watch. “Did your hubby get this treatment?”

“Bruno?”

“Do you have another husband I don’t know about?”

“No.”

“Bruno, then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It was an excellent question. Why was I carrying out what most people would consider an intimate act on Rudolf when I’d been married for months and had gone nowhere near my husband’s feet, nor felt tempted to. “His feet aren’t famous. In years to come, I want to tell people I’ve massaged Rudolf Bell’s feet.”

“Thank you for not using my middle name.”

“Rudolf Good King Wenceslas Bell’s feet.”

“The extra bit is not required.”

I laughed. “No, but it’s funny.”

Rudolf’s brow furrowed. “Bruno’s a famous actor. I mean, not Robert De Niro famous, but he’s pretty well-known.”

“So?”

“So…” Rudolf let out another moan as I hit one of his magic spots. “If he’s famous, it stands to reason his feet are famous too.”

Apart from the occasional moan, we lapsed into silence for a few minutes. I’d given up on getting him to stop. I’d just have to put up with my brain cycling through what sounds he might make when other more sensitive parts of his body were stimulated.

“I should be on TV now,” Rudolf said. Was I supposed to apologize? “I’d rather be here.”

A firework went off in my chest at the whispered words, and I didn’t have to think twice about how to respond. “I’d rather you were here, too.”