Naked Angel (28 page)

“It hasn’t been for nothing. We created a great club, and in building it I fell in love with you even more.” He hugged her.

“I just want to be alone for a while. Can you give this little pep talk to Nadia and Poppy? I don’t want them to feel bad, but I don’t have it in me to take care of them right now.”

Alec nodded. “Yes—but you have to promise me you’ll show up for the party tonight.”

“Oh, my God. The party. I forgot.” Alec had planned a celebration and rented out the Chandelier bar for the night. Another extravagance from the days before money was an issue.

“Yeah, we have a lot of people coming. So you can indulge in all of these negative feelings for a few hours, but you have to pull it together by tonight.”

She nodded. “Will you call Bette and tell her what happened?”

“Yes,” he said, kissing her forehead. “I’ll take care of everything. I’ll come get you in time for the party.”

Violet squinted under the stage light, trying to make out individual faces in the crowd applauding her, but they were just a blur.

Marty Bandinow was saying something as he handed her the twenty thousand-dollar check, but she had no idea what words were coming out of his mouth. He held both of her hands in his, presenting her to the audience like a father giving away the bride. She wondered, fleetingly, if their poolside encounter had had anything to do with her win, and then decided she didn’t care either way: She would get her money, and she would keep the club going until she found a new sucker to throw some cash in her direction. Maybe even that clown Marty. He was obviously way into her shit. She’d tell him she’d bring Violet’s Blue Angel to Vegas if he also subsidized the club in New York. Forget running a dinky little contest once a year—he’d be a burlesque mogul on both coasts.

He presented her with the microphone, and she mumbled a few words of thanks. She had no interest in being in that room one second longer than she had to be. No need to mingle among the riffraff.

Chelsea Corners guided her offstage.

“Congratulations!” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of burlesque, but your performance had an edge that really electrified the room.”

“Thanks,” Violet said. She looked around the dressing room. Someone had already sent her flowers. She looked at the folded white card. “For Violet and Gemma—congratulations—Marty.”

Gemma? What the hell was her name doing on the card?

“How’s my star?” Marty said in the doorway.

“I’m thinking Vegas is my lucky charm,” said Violet.

“I realized the same thing when I first came out here,” Marty said. “And I don’t even want to tell you how long ago that was.”

I can imagine
, Violet thought.

“You know,” Marty said, “I think you should consider opening a Blue Angel out here.”

Violet flashed him her best smile. “That’s a brilliant idea, Marty. If I did, I could really use the help of an insider like you. We should talk.”

“At some point, maybe. But I’ve just committed to a new business venture that will be taking a lot of time and capital next year.”

“No rush,” Violet said coolly. “I’m busy running the hottest club in New York. But I am going to seriously consider Vegas.”

“And your costume designer will already be out here.”

Violet felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. He could not have shocked her more if he’d slapped her across the face.

“What are you talking about?” she said slowly.

“Gemma and I got to talking the other night, and I was really taken with her talent and business goals. I’m going to set her up with her own burlesque fashion line.”

Violet, heart pounding, said, “Excuse me for a minute, would you, Marty?”

The lights were now on in the club, but it was still difficult to find Gemma. People had abandoned the tables and were mingling, laughing, and making plans for the night now that the pressure was off. Other dancers tried to pull Violet aside to talk to her, but she shrugged them off. She finally spotted Gemma talking amidst a small group. Violet grabbed her arm. Hard.

“Ouch!” Gemma said. “What are you doing?”

“I need to speak with you. Alone.”

Violet pulled her to the nearest exit. It was dramatically colder in the lobby, and she shivered—though she wasn’t sure if it was from the change in climate or her rage.

“What did you do with Marty Bandinow?”

Gemma’s pale face flooded with color. “Nothing, really.”

“Are you moving here to Vegas? Is he bankrolling your clothing line?”

“Yes.”

“Did you fuck him?” Violet said, so loudly a passing hotel guest turned to look at her.

“No—I let him fuck me. The only one I ever fucked is you.”

“You did fuck me, you dumb British cunt. He probably would have helped me open a club out here if you hadn’t distracted him with your stupid clothing idea.”

“Marty doesn’t seem to think it’s stupid,” Gemma said.

Violet had to work very hard not to slap her smug face.

“He will once he wakes up from this pussy fog,” Violet said.

“That won’t be for a very long time. And I have you to thank for urging me not to let my talents go to waste. God bless America,” said Gemma.

N
adia felt like she was floating.

She pressed her keycard into the door to her room, Max’s hand on her lower back. He had been telling her over and over again how proud he was of her, and each time felt like a kiss.

And she had to admit, she could scarcely remember a time when she’d felt more proud of herself. Yes, she had accomplished a lot in ballet, but it had been a gradual ascent, years of grueling work. The work in burlesque—emotional and physical—had evolved in such a relatively short amount of time, the overall sense of accomplishment was more intense.

She had felt such a rush out on that stage. She had thought she would feel vulnerable and exposed once she took off her clothes, but it was just the opposite: She felt completely empowered. And the applause felt much more personal than the applause she had experienced as a member of the corps de ballet; today’s applause had been just for her.

“What time do we have to be downstairs for the party?” she said when Max closed the door behind her.

“We have plenty of time. You could even nap if you want.”

“I’m not going to sleep. But I am going to take a long shower.”

Max kissed her cheek and hugged her. “Whatever you want, babe. I’m just going to check my e-mail and make sure that everything is under control back in New York.”

Nadia walked into the bedroom, humming “China Girl.” And then she noticed the large, gift-wrapped box on the bed.

She approached it gingerly, as if someone or something were going to jump out at her.

“Max?” she called.

“Yeah?”

“Come here for a sec.”

He appeared in the doorway.

“What is this?”

He grinned. “A performance gift. I was going to get you roses, but flowers are for ballerinas. I needed something for a burlesque dancer, and this seemed to fit the bill.”

She shook her head.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Open it,” he said.

She slowly untied the wide black ribbon and lifted the lid. Whatever was inside was covered with tissue paper. She pulled the paper aside and gasped.

“You didn’t. . . .” She pulled out one shoe, then the other. They looked like the red passementerie Louboutins. But that couldn’t be.

“I’m so proud of you, Nadia.”

She ran over to him, and he pulled her into his arms.

“How did you find them?”

“I can’t share my trade secrets,” he said.

“No, seriously Max—how did you get a pair of these?”

“Let’s just say I employ a very resourceful costumer. And I know you’re not comfortable in heels yet, but you’ll get there. I don’t intend for these to just sit on a shelf.”

The gesture so overwhelmed her, she started to cry. He kissed her eyelashes and wiped away her tears.

“Don’t shower yet,” he said softly. “I’m just going to make you dirty again.”

Max lifted Nadia’s dress up and off over her shoulders. She got busy unbuttoning his shirt and pants.

He cupped her breasts, slowly stroking her nipples to hard points.

“Put on the shoes,” he whispered.

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah—I want to see them on you.”

“Now?” she said.

He nodded. She stood, wearing only her white cotton underwear, and carefully stepped into the Louboutins. As magnificent as they were in the box, they were meant to be worn.

He pulled off his pants and underwear. His cock was erect. She stood in front of him and stroked him.

“Don’t stand in the shoes,” he whispered. She could sense he was already breathing more quickly. “I don’t want to stress your feet. Just lie down.”

She complied, lying across the bed on her back. Max looked at her as if she was a piece of art in a museum, then he slowly pulled off her underwear, but left her shoes on.

He stretched out beside her, stroking her breasts, then her pussy, while his tongue played with her nipples. His fingers moved over her so lightly she could close her eyes and almost wonder if she was really feeling it. Then he grazed her clit, and finally rubbed it more firmly. She squirmed.

“More,” she said. But he didn’t touch her inside, even though after a minute or so she had spread her legs, and it took all of her willpower not to just grab his hand and press his fingers where she wanted them.

Sensing her impatience, he moved on top of her, and she eagerly guided him inside. He had to work his way slowly into her, even though she felt totally ready for him.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes—you feel so good.”

He pulled back slightly and pulled her right leg over his shoulder, then the left. The angle gave him deeper penetration—and it gave her a view of the shoes as he fucked her.

The pleasure between her legs was so intense, it almost felt like pain. She didn’t know if it was the post-performance high, the position, or the sight of the shoes, but a tremor rippled through her pelvis, to her breasts, and higher, until it felt like her mouth was vibrating. By the time she cried out, Max was bucking against her with an intensity she had never experienced. Their hands were clasped together over her head, and the noise they both made was enough to worry her about someone calling security.

Nadia slowly pulled her legs down, and Max collapsed on top of her.

“What
was
that?” she said, stroking his head. His hair was soaked with sweat.

“We came together,” he said. “I’m so glad we finally did.”

“I’m so glad I finally did,” she said.

“Wait a minute.” He rolled off of her and propped himself up on one elbow, looking at her. “You’ve never had that before?”

“No,” she said. “I thought that was something people just made up for books and movies.”

He hugged her, and she tasted the saltiness of his chest. “Oh, Nadia. Ballet dancing might be in your past, but there is a whole future full of physical experiences ahead of you. I will be your personal choreographer,” he said.

“And exclusive?” she said. She couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to say it. She thought of the adage that a guy isn’t thinking clearly before sex, and a woman isn’t thinking clearly after.

“Yes. Exclusively,” he said, kissing her. “Let me ask you something,” he went on, stroking her hair. She ran her hand over his chest and felt his heart still beating fast. “Do you want to keep doing burlesque? I mean, the way you danced today . . . I don’t want to be the one responsible for holding you back.”

She tilted her head up to look at him. “My God, I love you for asking me that. But the truth is, no—I don’t. I’m glad I did it, but no burlesque performance could ever top the experience I had today. I’m ready to let it go.”

“You’re really going to work with me at Ballet Arts?” he said.

“Yes. I want to work with you.”

“I’ve spent my whole career looking for my muse. I think I’ve finally found her,” he said.

“That’s my job, head muse?”

“Well, I’d say that’s your unofficial title.”

“What will be my official one?”

“We’ll figure it out. We have plenty of time.”

“Oh, we do?”

“I’m hoping the rest of our lives.”

She pulled him close and slid her shoes off gently. She would wear them soon. She wasn’t sure when, but she wasn’t worried about it. The bones and muscles would strengthen and mend.

As for now, the most painfully broken part of her was finally healed.

Mallory woke up disoriented. Where was she? Was it day or night? And why was Alec shaking her?

“Come on, Mal—time to get up.”

She groaned. “What time is it?”

“Almost five. The party starts in an hour.”

The party. Everything came back to her in a rush: Vegas, the competition, Billy Barton, the loss. And now she had to get dressed as if she had something to celebrate.

She sat up and propped an extra pillow behind her head.

“Can you explain to me now what Billy was doing at our table?”

“Really, it’s the craziest story: The only reason he backed Violet and the club was because she was blackmailing him.”