Naked Angel

Logan Belle is the author of the erotic romance trilogy, The Club Burlesque trilogy, set in the world of New York burlesque. Logan Belle’s short fiction has been published in the anthology
Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women
. Logan Belle lives in New York City, where she is working on her next novel, inspired by the life and work of pin-up legend Bettie Page.

Blue Angel

Fallen Angel

Naked Angel

LOGAN BELLE

Constable & Robinson Ltd

55–56 Russell Square

London WC1B 4HP

www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the US by Kensington Publishing Corp., 2011

First published in the UK by Canvas,

an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012

Copyright © Logan Belle, 2012

The right of Logan Belle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

Publication data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-47210-616-2

ISBN: 978-1-47210-619-3 (ebook edition)

Printed and bound in the UK

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

There is simply not a single ugly move in ballet. Not one ugly move. I like to hold burlesque to the very same standards.

—Dita Von Teese

This book series is dedicated to Bettie Page, who continues to inspire generations of women to be beautiful, to be sexy, and to be brave. Her legacy lives on at
www.BettiePage.com

“A
re you nervous?” Mallory Dale’s boyfriend, Alec, asked her.

“No. Should I be?” She surveyed the room, finally seeing the tangible results of nearly a year of work.

“It’s a big night,” Alec said.

“The first of many to come, I hope,” she said, putting her arms around him. “And I’m ready.”

In one hour, the club they had created would be unveiled to New York. Standing alone in the room, holding Alec’s hand, she felt confident in the world they had brought to life. The Painted Lady was unlike any burlesque club in the city: After careful research and their investors’ generous open check-books, they had managed to create a glorious throwback to the roaring twenties.

Mallory had always loved flapper style. It was fashion liberation. In that sense, flappers did for women of the 1920s what burlesque did for her: It shocked her, then irrevocably changed the way she saw herself. And now she’d helped create a space that would have made Zelda Fitzgerald proud: The Painted Lady burlesque club was a decadent tableau of unrestrained art deco. The red walls were decorated with portraits of Josephine Baker and iconic flapper Louise Brooks, a collection of Grundworth and Yva Richard fetish photographs, and illustrated
pochoir
prints by Erté. The brass and bronze chandeliers had been designed for the 1925 Paris Exposition. And the top-notch sound system was already playing Irving Berlin’s “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

“You definitely look ready. You are by far the sexiest flapper ever to grace a stage. Were women allowed to be this hot in the 1920s?” Alec asked. He pulled her over so she could see her reflection in one of the mirrored picture frames.

She’d never been more excited about a costume. Her former boss—and onetime owner of the famous burlesque club the Blue Angel—had created the pink satin flapper dress and beaded headpiece for her. Then, after scouring the best vintage shops in the city, she and Alec had found the perfect accessories: ropes of pink and black beads to wear around her neck, and black patent leather heels with ankle straps. Even her face was transformed to Old World glamour: Her best friend, notorious burlesquer, model, and actress Bette Noir, had spent an hour at her apartment earlier applying her makeup to look flapper chic.

Alec kissed the back of her neck, running his hands up from her waist to her breasts. She sighed, a swell of desire rising in her chest. But she forced herself to push his hands gently away. “We don’t have time. Save it for later, okay?” she said. Still, she felt a twinge between her legs. Alec could always get her going, even when she had less than one hour before the beginning of the biggest night of her New York life.

“Now that you mention it, I
am
saving something for later,” he said, the tone of his voice especially devilish.

She turned to look at him. “Oh, yeah? What’s going on?”

“I have a surprise for you.”

“You know I don’t like surprises,” Mallory said.

“Hmm. The last time you told me that, things turned out okay, didn’t they?”

She knew he was referring to the night he took her to her first burlesque show on her twenty-fifth birthday at the Blue Angel. Now, just two years later, it was the opening night of her own club. Well, The Painted Lady wasn’t technically
her
club. But she was the creative force behind it, along with Alec. It was their baby, and after designing the look and feel of the club, hiring the staff of dancers, choreographing the début show, and writing the script for the opening night’s MC, it was finally the moment of truth.

Bette Noir strutted over to them. With her signature black bob, she already looked like a modern-day Louise Brooks.

She carried a large flower arrangement wrapped in plastic. “Someone has a secret admirer,” she said, handing the package to Mallory.

“Is that my surprise?” Mallory asked Alec.

“No. It’s not from me.” He raised an eyebrow, as if looking at her with suspicion.

“Busted—my secret lover,” she teased. A year ago, it might have been true. But all of that was behind them now.

Mallory tore the plastic wrapper away to reveal a remarkable bouquet of pink flowers that happened to match the exact shade of her costume.

“Will you look at this!” she said, almost afraid to move the arrangement, it looked so delicate and perfect—more like a sculpture than a flower arrangement. A dozen or so Phalaenopsis orchids brimmed over the top of a long, rectangular vase. Underneath the flowers, circles of grass were arranged inside the glass walls, as if an artist had painted green loops with a delicate brush.

Mallory detached the card. “For Mallory: Thanks for all your hard work. Tonight, we see it bloom. Our love, Justin and Martha.”

“You gotta love those guys,” Bette said.

Justin Baxter and Martha Pike were the money behind The Painted Lady, and they were among Manhattan’s most visible—and unusual—couples. Martha had made her millions in the vaginal rejuvenation field: She’d invented a device called the Pike Kegel Ball, and many a bold-faced name over the age of thirty, when pressed, would admit it had helped take years off her vag. Justin was a drop-dead gorgeous former playboy who’d settled down with the less-than-attractive Martha when he was in his early thirties, and the two seemed extremely happy together. They both had an appetite for beautiful young women and kinky sex, and they happily indulged their desires together. They also threw the most decadent, incredible parties on both coasts and were major patrons of the arts. When their favorite burlesque club, the Blue Angel, was bought out by a woman they knew would run it into the ground, they decided to open a club of their own. That’s when Mallory and Alec had gotten their dream jobs: The club was theirs to create and run. Martha would write the checks.

“Now I’m tempted to give you my surprise,” Alec said, putting his arms around Mallory. She tilted up her face so he could kiss her.

“So give it to me, baby,” she said.

“Ah, my favorite thing to hear,” he said, pulling her close. “But you’re just going to have to get through the show.”

“You’re such a sadist,” she said.

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Violet Offender paced the dressing area of the club formerly known as the Blue Angel. She ran a hand through her short-cropped, white-blond hair, her cheeks flushed with irritation.

“What do you mean it’s by invitation only?” she snapped at the petite redhead busily getting into costume. For once, the sight of the woman’s luscious breasts bound in a corset wasn’t enough to calm Violet’s nerves.

“I did what you told me to do: I went to get a ticket for the show tonight, and the woman at the door told me the opening night was by invitation. Press and friends only.”

“Jesus! Why do I have to do everything myself around here? Give me a phone.” The girl scrambled to hand over her iPhone. Violet punched in the number of her reluctant business partner and bankroller, the magazine publisher Billy Barton. “Billy, I need you to get off your ass and do something for this club for once: We need press passes to the opening of The Painted Lady. Apparently, I am the only one around here who seems aware of the fact that a major competitor is opening up shop tonight. I didn’t buy this fucking dump to get steamrolled by Mallory Dale six months later. Call me back ASAP.”

“Baby, there’s nothing to worry about,” said the redhead, half-dressed in her costume, a sexy equestrian ensemble complete with riding boots and crop. “We’ve already been open for months and months.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Violet snapped. “This isn’t the Internet: Getting there first doesn’t mean shit. It just means you’re old news. Change back into regular clothes. I’m getting you into that show tonight one way or another. And I want you to report back everything: the music, the girls, the costumes. Take photos.”

“They probably won’t allow photos,” said the redhead.

“I’m not asking you to get permission, I’m
telling
you to get photos. God, I’m tense,” Violet said. She knew there was only one way to relieve her stress. Now that she was running the club, she barely had time for her former day job and favorite pastime, her work as a professional dominatrix. Fortunately, her latest fuck toy, a five foot two inch former investment banker with enormous breasts and the burlesque name Cookies ’n’ Cream, was always willing to bend over backwards—sometimes literally—to accommodate her needs.

Violet locked the dressing room door. “Take off your clothes,” Violet said. “But leave on the boots.”

Cookies wordlessly complied, unfastening her corset and stepping out of her lace panties. Her legs were covered in black English riding boots with zippers up the sides. The rest of her costume, including a black riding helmet and riding crop, was by her feet.

Cookies’ delicate porcelain skin was red from the pressure of the corset, and it gave Violet the irresistible urge to see matching welts on her ass.