Sleeping with Beauty (15 page)

This time she did let out a soft moan as her body eased into his.

“Good, good,” he crooned. “Now, I will move you. Let me move you.”

Dear God in heaven.

“Don’t fight it,” he told her.

Like she could have.

Then he was moving her hips.

“Shhh,” he schooled her, pressing his thumbs again into the base of her spine, until her pelvis rocked forward and her hips relaxed again.

“Left,” he told her, shifting her hips left. “Right.” He swayed her to the right. “Let me move you.”

Oh, you have no idea.

“Feel the music.”

All she could feel was Arturo’s hands. On her.

“Left again,” he said, swinging her hips. “Then right.”

Thinking of what would happen if he just swung her forward . . . then back, she couldn’t help it as the rhythm of the music slid past her defenses and eased into her body, until it felt like the hot, thrumming beat was part of her pulse. Latin music was the music of love, was it not?

God, the way he moved her hips. Swish, swing. She felt warm. Ripe. Remembering Vivian’s favorite word made her lips curve.

“Very good,” Arturo said, sounding vastly pleased.

Yes, well, if he only knew what she was thinking.

“Wonderful, you have it now,” he said, disrupting her fantasy just long enough for her to realize that he was no longer guiding her hips. In fact, she was swinging them from side to side with relative abandon. The key to finding her inner rhythm was, apparently, fantasizing about humping her dance instructor.

Arturo expertly turned her to face him with one easy grip and swing of her hips. She gasped in surprise, but he caught her easily enough, and then they were face-to-face.

Her breath caught as his gaze locked onto hers.

He kept one hand tight on her hip and grasped her hand with the other, pulling it out to the side, and up, so her elbow was bent and they were in classic dance position.

“Now—” She stopped, cleared her throat. “Now what?”

“Close your eyes. Let me guide you.”

If you only knew.

And then the hand on her hip was urging her to sway again. His grip on her palm was just as sure. He didn’t move his feet, or hers, but through subtle pressure with his hand and their interlocked arms, guided her body to match the rhythm of his.

“Feel the music. Let it back in. Left, right. In, out.”

In. Out.
Oh, God. Was he kidding?

His hand slid to her lower back again. Her thighs trembled and Lucy impulsively let her head tilt dramatically back, willing the music to take her once again.

Concentrating on the feel of his hand on her hip, his wide, warm palm mated with hers, his body so close, a mere step would bring them into full alignment—

“Yes, yes,” he said, “fantastic.”

Let the music be your pulse. You are a feather.
“‘Yes, yes,” she responded. “‘Fantastic. ”

“Now, come to me,” he said.

Yes!
She stepped forward quite willingly.

Only he now stepped back. So she stepped again. Again he stepped back.

“Slide your foot back.”

So caught up in the moment, she didn’t even question the command.

“Good, good.”

Then he spun her around and tugged her back, so her left butt cheek was snuggled against his right hip pocket. The edge of her body, aligned perfectly along the edge of his. He still held her hand. She held her breath.

“Lift on your toes,” came the command in her ear.

She lifted, swallowing a groan as her spandex-covered body slid along his hard frame.

“Forward,” he commanded, pushing his hip into her. “Hips first.”

She moved forward, one step, then another. Eyes tightly shut, feeling only his body so perfectly aligned with hers as they moved forward, as if flowing through water. Again, she felt her head tilt backward, her hair brushing his cheek.

“Lift and move. Yes, yes,” he said, his breath coming faster, his voice sounding even deeper.

Her heart was pounding, hoping for the moment when he would whip her around and pull her tight against him.

He whipped her around. Her breath caught. Her entire body yearned.

“You’ve got it!” he said. “You are ready!” Then as her eyes flew open—now she wanted to see him, see the look in his eyes, the desire—only to have him choose that exact moment to put on another display of his freakish strength and lift her easily onto the edge of the runway.

“I will get the shoes,” he announced.

“Shoes. Yes, get the shoes.” Her lips parted, her body tensed, waiting to see if he’d slide his hands down her hips, then up the length of her thighs to where she most needed him to—
What? What did he just say? What do shoes have to do with this? I don’t give a shit about the shoes!

Her eyes flew open again as his hands left her. She swooned back, catching herself by banging her elbows sharply on the runway behind her, then shoving herself back into a sitting position.

Cheeks flaming, the rest of her body rapidly cooling, she closed her parted lips . . . then after a glance downward, quickly did the same with her parted thighs.
Christ, Luce, if you’re a feather, you’re a damn slutty one.

Arturo popped up, instruments of torture in hand. “You were magnificent,” he told her. “All you needed was help to feel the rhythm.”

“Yeah” was the best she could do. What a complete fool she was. God, had he noticed? One quick glance down at the front of her leotard had her inwardly cringing. She should have kept her bra—complete with camouflage padding—on, and the hell with visible bra straps. There was no way Arturo could miss her twin beacons of lust. She was mortified.

She noticed he kept his gaze carefully averted while he strapped the heels back on her feet. She wanted to die.

Wait a minute.
“Why the shoes?”

He straightened. “Because you are ready.” He said it quite matter-of-factly.

As easily as he’d lifted her to the runway, he vaulted himself up next to her. Moving gracefully into a crouch, he offered his hand. “Come. You will see.”

She didn’t get to a standing position nearly as gracefully as he had. In fact, it was a miracle they both didn’t take a header off the side. But she finally crawled and clawed her way to a wobbly stand. “Arturo, really, I—”

He shushed her. And, still smarting from her embarrassing hormonal overload, she shushed without further comment.

He motioned to David. “Play the music from the start.”

The opening of the song pulsed once again and Arturo turned to her, all confident smiles and easy charm. “We will do just as before.”

What, is he trying to kill me?

But Arturo was already taking her by the shoulders, lifting her arms until her hands rested on his shoulders. “Close your eyes.”

“I can’t walk in these. If I take one step, we’re both likely to crack our skulls open.”

“We are not walking, merely finding the rhythm once again. Close your eyes,
mi amiga.
”

Men with accents. There should be a law.

Lucy closed her eyes.

“Up on your toes,” he instructed, his voice a low rumble, mixing with the heated Latin beat.

She lifted on her toes, then realized she was already on tippy toe. Right. The shoes. But Arturo stepped back and her body instinctively followed.

Right hip. Swish. Step. Left hip.

“Ah,
carina,
” he murmured. He stepped farther back, his fingers sliding along hers, then gone altogether.
“Fantastico!”

Lucy’s eyes blinked open, as if awakening from a trance.

“Come, come,” he bade her, curling his fingers, beckoning her forward.

She moved as if on automatic pilot, then her surroundings snapped into place. She was three quarters of the way down the runway!
How is this happening?

Her eyes went wide as she gaped at Arturo. She lost her rhythm . . . then she lost her balance.

Arms flailing, she lurched forward. Arturo sprang forward and caught her before she could take a header off the ramp. But she was laughing too hard to be embarrassed this time.

“I did it!” she gushed.

Arturo turned her in his arms, his own handsome face split in a wide, beaming grin. “
Sí, sí.
That you did.”

Before she could register being in his arms, the wide, toothy grin, or the fact that her body was very naturally leaning in closer to his, all on its own . . . the door to the hall swung open and Vivian stepped back inside.

“Success?” she asked.

Arturo kept a steadying hand on Lucy’s arm, but shifted around her so he could see Vivian. “We will watch the tape and see. I think you will be pleased.”

“‘Tape’?” Lucy’s mouth dropped open. All thoughts of Arturo and doing an altogether different kind of tango faded as that one word sank in.

Oh. My. God. She’d barely survived the faux salsa sex. Now she had to watch it on tape? Could she be any more mortified?

Chapter
10
                                                                                                                                       

T
oo short,” Lucy said, as Vivian handed her another hanger. It was now day five of Barbie Boot Camp, and after Lucy’s successful session with Arturo, Vivian had decided she needed more runway clothes. The season in Milan being over, the next best thing had been a field trip to Georgetown. Lucy’s schoolteacher budget was toast.

“It’s not too short,” Vivian assured her.

“My principal would have a heart attack if I wore this.”

Vivian lowered her chin and merely stared at Lucy over the rims of her trendy minispectacles. “Good lord, Lucy, who said anything about wearing this to work?”

“I can’t afford an off-work wardrobe. Beyond jeans and shorts, anyway.”

“Darling, don’t take this the wrong way, but you can be quite exasperating at times.”

Lucy swallowed a sigh. “I know, but—”

“‘But’ nothing. You’re a vibrant young woman with many diverse facets, only one of which is dispensing knowledge to the youth of today. So I’d say you can hardly afford not to do whatever necessary to showcase those other facets.” She turned and hung the clothes on the dressing-room rack. “However, we can do our hunting in another place that has a smattering of top designers at bargain prices. Come with me.”

Lucy tugged on her khakis and buttoned up her camp shirt.

“That skirt would have been smashing with your legs. Which reminds me, we have to go shoe shopping.”

“I don’t think spike heels are ever going to be a staple of my off-hours life.”

“They don’t have to be, darling.” She and Lucy stepped outside into the hot August sun and quickly into the waiting Glass Slipper limo. “Lorna’s Closet,” Vivian told the driver, then turned to Lucy. “Lorna Swinson runs an adorable little boutique in Old Town. She takes Junior League castoffs on commission. We’ll find something there, I’m certain of it.”

Lucy settled into the soft leather seat and let her gaze drift beyond the smoked-glass passenger window. She wondered what Grady and Jana were doing. Grady was probably hard at work in the lab. Jana was out playing girl reporter. And Lucy was shopping. If they only knew. She could picture them, sitting around, eating lunch, reading the e-mail loop without her . . . and worrying about her immortal soul.

She stifled a little sigh. For all her doubts early on, since Vivian had taken over her transformation, Lucy had to admit she was becoming more hopeful. To look in the mirror, you wouldn’t guess anything had changed. Her hair, face, and makeup—or lack thereof—looked just as it had when she’d arrived. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she felt different. She felt . . . transformed, from the inside out. Okay, so they were just getting to the outside part.

But when she’d caught her reflection in the mirror, she saw past the lumpy brown hair and plain face. She saw anticipation, a banked excitement, and she wondered what other hidden talents she might possess.

Vivian had been right about the Brazilian wax, the silk lingerie, strutting her stuff on the runway in heels that she’d now been forced to admit actually did make her long legs look more lanky than knobby.

But she wasn’t confident enough to take a spin in the real world just yet. She had another week yet to practice. During which time she could only pray her outside self caught up with her newly awakened inside self.

“Here we are,” Vivian announced.

The limo pulled over on the shaded side of a tree-lined street, filled with small, trendy, and expensive-looking boutiques.

“Are you sure this will fit my budget?” Lucy clutched her purse, pledging she’d keep the escalating balance on her credit card from escalating any higher.

“You forget, I used to do this for a living. And not always with a fabulous studio budget.” Vivian slid out of the backseat as the driver held the door for both of them.

Her eyes were alight with such excitement that Lucy had to admit it was becoming a little contagious.

“Let’s see what treasures we can find. I know Lorna always keeps some fun things tucked away for her regulars.”

Twenty minutes later Lucy was naked once more, standing behind a ruffled floral curtain in a tiny rear dressing room, an assortment of dresses, skirts, and blouses hanging on every available hook.

“The little black number first,” Vivian told her. “Every femme fatale needs a little black dress. From Bette Davis to Sharon Stone, a little number like that can make a career.” She smiled. “Trust me on that, darling.”

Lucy dug around through the tangle of hangers until she found what looked more like a little black slip than a dress. She very carefully slid the dress over her head.

It was a bit clingier than she’d anticipated and didn’t drop as far down on her thighs as she’d hoped. The neckline was a loose, drapy affair that dipped daringly low between her breasts. “At least Sharon Stone had cleavage,” she muttered.

“Come show me, darling. Remember to slip the heels on.”

A pair of black, strappy sling-backs were nudged beneath the curtain.

“I don’t even want to show myself,” she muttered.

“Do you need a different size?”

“No,” she said.
A different body.
Knowing Vivian wasn’t going to let this go, she grabbed the clothes hook and leaned against the wall as she carefully slid her feet into the shoes. She kept her death grip on the hook until she got her wobbling under control. These heels weren’t as high as the ones she’d practiced with on the runway, but she still wasn’t entirely confident she wouldn’t fall on her face. She needed to find that inner rhythm again.

Humming a Latin rumba under her breath, she relaxed a little, moved her hips a little, and slowly straightened away from the wall. “You can do this,” she whispered. She pushed the curtain aside and took two stuttering steps.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Vivian pronounced, punctuating the remark by waving her ebony cigarette holder in the air. No cigarette, just the holder. On her it worked. Bette Davis had nothing on Vivian dePalma when it came to owning her own eccentricities. “Absolutely stunning.”

Lucy wished she had that kind of natural élan that made eccentricities seem glamorous.

“Turn around, darling, now let’s see the back. Your exit is as important as your entrance. No femme fatale worth her Christian Dior handbag would turn her back on anyone without making sure she’s still turning heads.”

Lucy had only the curtain for support. Refusing to make that mistake again, she shot a rather helpless look to Vivian.

“Oh, come now, just pretend you’re turning into Arturo’s arms.”

“Don’t I wish,” she muttered.

Vivian let out a sly laugh. “I know, darling. All I have to do is look at that man and I crave a cigarette.”

Smiling, Lucy closed her eyes and focused on listening to her inner rumba. Then, with a tiny hip swing, she shifted her body around until her back was to Vivian.

“So, what do you think?” Vivian asked.

“What?” Lucy opened her eyes and realized she was staring into a full-length, three-way mirror. “Oh. Wow.”

“Exactly, darling.”

From the neck up, she was still third-grade teacher Lucy Harper. But from the neck down? Yowza! Who was that sexpot, anyway?

“Sharon Stone
and
Bette Davis, eat your heart out,” Vivian crowed triumphantly. “That dress was made for you. Slinky could be your signature look, darling.”

Lucy had to admit that the drapy front thing actually made her meager curves look less so. And the heels along with the short length of the dress made her legs look kind of sleek. She looked up and caught Vivian’s wide grin of approval, and for the very first time, she allowed herself to believe that she could pull this off.

Impulsively, Lucy struck her best Madonna “Vogue” pose, throwing her head back for good divalike measure. “How you like me now, boys?” she purred.

Vivian let out a delighted hoot of laughter, and Lucy couldn’t help but join in.

There was sudden applause from behind them. Still laughing, both Lucy and Vivian turned to find the store owner and several patrons clapping and nodding in an endorsement of her ensemble. Lucy gave them a giddy little curtsy and caught the approving wink from Vivian, who also put her hands together, as well. “Brava, darling, brava!”