Authors: Patti Berg
He stepped behind her, tall, gorgeous, and powerful. They watched each other in the mirror, his eyes hot and searching, hers bemused and frantic because she was going to be late, because she had no idea what he planned to do.
He cupped his hands over her shoulders and pulled her back against his chest. His hands were warm and his fingers lightly kneaded her shoulders. She could see the jagged scar on the back of his right hand and she felt the urge to touch it, but she stood still and simply tried to breath.
“I want to know more.” Mike’s deep, velvety voice was almost a whisper as he lowered his head and kissed her neck, making her tense all over again in spite of the quiver of desire rippling through her. She still needed to put on her lip liner, her lipstick, and who knows what else. She could barely think. Fortunately she had enough sense to move away from a touch that had a way of making her lose all thought.
She skirted around him, saying, “I’ve got to get dressed,” then rushed the few feet toward her bedroom, kicked her stilettos inside, and accidentally slammed the door behind her. She wished she could collapse on the bed, find a way to steel her nerves, but there wasn’t time.
She tossed her robe on the bed and slipped into the shocking pink leotard that she’d bought just for this audition. There wasn’t much more in the back than the thong that ran between her cheeks and the measly piece in front that barely covered all those things that should be covered for respectability’s sake.
It was a stretch of the imagination to call it a leotard since—unstretched—the piece of fabric wouldn’t have covered a newborn’s behind, but it was exactly what she needed for her audition, just the right thing to call attention to her body and her moves.
Of course, it wasn’t perfect for parading past a minister, but that’s exactly what she was going to have to do since the sarong she’d bought to wear over it was still in a bag, somewhere on the living-room floor.
Somehow she sucked a deep breath over the lump in her throat, shoved her feet into her stilettos, fastened the straps at her ankles, and looked at herself in the mirror.
Pure sin. That’s what she looked like.
Definitely what a man of God would want in a woman, she thought cynically.
She stretched the skimpy top trying to cover a little more of her breasts, but she immediately realized that spandex had a unique way of expanding and then popping right back into shape. Unfortunately, its shape was minuscule.
She’d strutted around half naked for the past six years and it had never bothered her. So why did it freak her out now?
Relax. Relax
. Don’t let him make you nervous. Tell him you’ll have dinner with him and then send him packing, because he’s taking a toll on your energy!
She took a deep breath, threw her shoulders back, and yanked open the door. Mike leaned against the arch leading into the living room, obviously waiting for this moment. His hot green eyes took in every single inch of her anatomy, scanning the 99 percent that was bare and the one percent that wasn’t. Slowly. Too slowly.
That perusal was not the act of a minister. It was the scrutiny of a hot-blooded man who wanted the woman standing in front of him.
She flopped against the wall, clasped her hands somewhere in front of her pelvis—one of the places Mike’s eyes kept flickering toward— and sighed. “Look, Mike, I’ve got to go. This audition’s important, I’m already running late, and maybe you’re right, maybe we should talk about why you’re here and why you want to know more about me, but right now I’ve got to gather up my stuff, including my wits, and get out of here.”
“I’ll help you.”
“The only way you can help is to leave. Now.”
The annoying man only grinned. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
“Try your hotel. See the concierge and he’ll give you a zillion recommendations. Restaurants, entertainment, shows.”
“I’d like to see what an audition’s like.”
“That’s impossible. You’d be in the way. You’d make me nervous.” She frowned. “Or is that your game plan—do anything you can to make me fail?”
His jaw tightened. “My game plan’s to sit in the dark somewhere and cheer you on. If you think I want to make you miserable, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”
He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and for some reason she couldn’t explain, her stomach clenched when she thought he was going to leave.
He tossed the keys in the air and caught them again. As if the key toss wasn’t brash enough, he hit her with a dimpled smile. “You’re gonna be late if we don’t get going. I’ve got a car downstairs, a full tank of gas, and I’ve been driving around this town for hours so I know the roads like the back of my hand. Get your stuff, Charity, and let’s get going.”
Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “You’ll sit in the dark? At the back of the theater?”
“You won’t even know I’m there.”
Oh, she’d know all right. And she wasn’t going to like it a bit.
The musical score from
A
Chorus Line
reverberated through the auditorium, raising tension and anxiety to a feverish pitch as nearly forty women went through their individual warm-up routines while waiting for Duane to grace them with his presence.
Charity couldn’t remember a time when the famed choreographer hadn’t been late. It was part of his style, along with making people sweat as they waited for
the
call to come, once the audition was over. She’d waited for
the
call more times than she could count. She’d worked for the bastard, too, putting up with his torturous practice sessions, his exacting routines, his humiliating lectures. And then she’d punched him in the nose for getting too friendly.
But she’d never had an opportunity like this one. Never had the chance to try out for the lead. Come hell or high water, she’d not put up a fuss. She’d do what she was told, then go home and scream out her frustration.
Today,
Trouble
would not be her middle name.
She’d be perfect today. The best.
She slid her fingers down her right thigh, over her calf, grabbed hold of her ankle, and pulled her leg up until the toe of her stiletto was aimed at the ceiling. She held it there, stretching, then noticed a dancer she’d seen at half a dozen other auditions move to her side.
“Who’s the guy that came in with you? The one sitting in the dark so Duane won’t see him?”
“Just a friend,” Charity said. She didn’t see the need to elaborate, not when she was concentrating on her warm-ups and psyching herself up for what was to come.
“Is he
more
than a friend, or someone you might like to introduce around—to me, maybe?”
Charity leaned toward the dancer and whispered, “He’s a minister.”
The girl’s eyebrows nearly knit together. “Not my type. Sorry I asked.”
Charity didn’t think Mike was her type, either, although he did have a wonderful way with his hands. And then there were the special things he did with his lips, his tongue, not to mention those eyes. She could almost feel the heat of them now, bearing down on her, watching her bend, stretch, and pirouette.
What was he up to? Was he out to torment her by making her want him all over again? And once she succumbed, would he want to control her just the way he wanted to control Satan? Would he tell her again that dancing was a senseless, dead-end job? Would he whisper sweet nothings to her until she helplessly fell in love with him, then wave
adios,
because he still loved his wife?
The threat of all those things rested behind his green-eyed stare, a predatory gaze that lay in wait somewhere out in the dark auditorium. But she wouldn’t fall for it. Not now. Not ever.
Focus! Concentrate
! Take a deep breath, this is important, she told herself. Don’t blow it by placing your energy on a man, when you need to put every ounce of effort—and passion—into your dancing.
Tryouts were tough. No one told you ahead of time what the routines would be. A showgirl had to learn fast. She could be hired one day and stuck in a show the next. Part of the tryout was to see if you were a quick study. New routines— dance steps—were thrown at you right and left, and only the best dancers, as long as they remembered the moves the first time around, survived. It wasn’t a time for distraction.
The music came to a sudden halt and the stage hushed to a deathly quiet. Then the familiar staccato tap, Duane’s signature dance, clicked rhythmically on the wooden floor, out of sight at first, then magically he appeared and the women around her stared at him, wide-eyed, mouths almost agape. Charity herself could barely keep down her breakfast. Average height, lean and wiry, he was dressed in black slacks, a skin-tight white T-shirt, and black tap shoes. He’d shaved his head since she’d seen him last, giving him the appearance of a dictator.
How appropriate.
“There’s no time to waste,” Duane barked. “Watch what I do, don’t make a sound, and we’ll get along just fine.”
He laid out a quick routine, a little tap, a few shimmies, a lot of kicks. Charity put every ounce of her energy into memorizing the movements so she could repeat them perfectly.
Duane strutted to the corner of the stage where a spotlight shone down on him. Someone in the wings tossed him a cane and he caught it dramatically, bounced it against the floor, then used it to lean on as he studied the dancers who hung on to his every breath. “All right, girls, show me how well you can execute those steps.”
The music started. Charity tapped her heart out, focusing on the cadence of the music. She twirled rapidly, kicked high, smiled brightly at Duane as she shimmied, and then did a slow, sensual, straight-postured split, stretching her leg muscles to the max as her thighs bounced against the floor.
It was impossible to miss the way Duane focused on her. The way he licked his lips, then methodically rubbed the bridge of his nose—the one she’d punched.
He strolled toward the line of women, cocky, self-assured, and announced haughtily, “I’ve seen better.”
Duane never gave an inch. He was a bastard with a capital B and he expected perfection. That’s why he was in such demand. That’s why producers and dancers alike put up with his difficult and odious nature. That’s exactly why she was putting up with him now.
He strode through the ensemble, winding his way past the dancers like a drill sergeant inspecting his troop. He stopped in front of Charity, just as she’d expected. “
You
.” He pointed directly at the hollow between her breasts, and his cloudy gray eyes froze on her face.
Hell had begun.
“Step out here and show everyone how that routine should
not
be performed.”
Her jaw tightened, but she moved to center stage.
“Shine the light on her,” Duane shouted, and the heat of the bright spotlight flashed down on her. She knew she’d done the routine without a flaw the first time around, knew that Duane was being an annoying, temperamental jerk. But she also knew that doing the routine all on her own would make her stand out, and that’s exactly what she wanted.
She faced the other dancers, head high, shoulders back, breasts perky, and listened for the proper beat in the music. At last, she began.
Tap
. Smile.
Twirl
. Smile.
Kick
. Smile.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the hint of a very tall, very broad-shouldered man walking down the center aisle, the stray beams of the stage lights reflecting off his bright green eyes as he moved toward the front.
Tap
. Smile.
Twirl
. Smile.
Mike crossed his arms over his massive chest. His face was impassive as he stared at her.
Duane’s face was cold and threatening as he stared at her.
One man confused her.
One man she despised.
She wanted to scream at both of them to leave her alone, but she smiled instead, and finished the routine with the perfectly executed split.
Duane’s gaze had frozen on her movements. He loathed her just as much as she loathed him, but he knew and appreciated an impeccable performance when he saw one. He wouldn’t tell her it was good, and she didn’t want or even expect him to. It was enough that she knew she’d done it right.
She stayed on the floor, right at center stage, and watched attentively as Duane ran through another routine. When it was time to dance again, she rose quickly, lithely, and rejoined the troupe.
They worked in the same fashion for hours on end, the number of dancers whittled down every so often when Duane singled someone out and told her to hit the road.
You couldn’t survive in this business if you weren’t tough and today, standing on the stage, putting up with Duane’s abuse and doing the suggestive moves he’d devised, Charity felt as hard as they come, a seasoned showgirl who’d seen it all, and still hadn’t walked away.
“Five minutes, everyone,” the stage manager called out. Duane walked into the wings and Charity immediately rushed to her backpack, pulled out a bottle of water and took a quick, relieving sip.
She stood in the shadows and wiped a bead of perspiration from her temple, quickly searching the auditorium for the man who’d remained invisible except for that first moment when Duane had put her through hell.
He sat halfway back, and their eyes met. She focused on the dark figure, for some odd reason feeling she needed something from him now, something to sustain her. Slowly, he smiled. It was soft. Warm. Tender.
And suddenly she felt she could survive anything.
“Time’s up!” The stage manager flashed the troupe a knowing grin, rolling his eyes at Charity as he walked across the stage. They’d worked together more than once and she knew full well his feelings for Duane. But the job was good and like any Las Vegas veteran, he played the game in order to stay alive.
Duane pranced across the stage and dramatically put one hand on his butt, one on his pelvis, and did a few bumps and grinds. He grinned at Charity, swaggered a few feet further, and did another set of hip rolling, hip thrusting, sexual stunts. He worked them into every show because they were suggestive, risqué and provocative.
When they were woven into the program they worked and worked well, and Charity pretended they were no different from any other routine. But Duane paid special attention to bumps and grinds during tryouts. They were of utmost importance to him, and he wouldn’t hire someone who couldn’t execute them in the most suggestive, risqué and provocative style ever seen.
An extra spotlight flashed down on the stage. The music rolled through the auditorium, and EXiane went into his act, showing the girls what he wanted them to do—professionally, and in a lot of cases, personally. There was nothing sensual about what he did. The routine was as raunchy as they come. In spite of it all, Charity watched and memorized for two long minutes.
Then it was time for the troupe to perform.
Duane clapped his hands as he marched back and forth in front of them. “I want you in one straight line.” The last ten women left in the audition scrambled into place. “I want to see you do that routine in a coordinated effort,” he said. “I don’t want any show-offs, I don’t want jerky thrusts. I want it fluid. Smooth.”
A trumpet sounded across the stage, mournful, almost wailing. The tempo increased, and Charity watched the dark figure in the audience move closer, closer. Mike stepped just out of sight—but she knew he was there, knew he was watching, his gaze intent.
Her heart beat out of control as she began the moves, splaying her fingers over her pelvis, almost slipping them between her thighs. Slowly, slowly, she swirled her hips, thrust them out then back then out again.
Mike came out of hiding, and his hot, green eyes flamed over her. No longer was she standing on stage doing one of Duane’s nearly indecent routines. Instead she was in Mike’s bedroom, in his arms, and it was Mike’s ringers splayed over her belly, Mike’s fingers moving lower, lower, searching for something he desperately needed, something she wanted to give him and only him.
“Stop!”
Charity jerked her head toward Duane.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She felt a trickle of perspiration glide between her breasts. She had to fight for breath. A deep one. Her eyes bored into Duane’s, refusing to give him an inch. “I’m doing exactly what you showed us.”
He laughed. “You’ve never been any good at bumps and grinds, Ms. Wilde. Come here and let me show you how they’re done.”
Her jaw tightened. So did her fists, but still she moved toward the choreographer who could make or break her. She stopped right in front of him and hit him with a defiant glare, mixed with a halfhearted smile. She hated the man. Hated what she knew he was about to do ... but it was all a part of the audition, it was what she had to do if she wanted the job.
Duane circled her, his lascivious gaze slithering over her body, concentrating on her breasts, her hips. Then he disappeared behind her. He stood there for the longest time, not saying a word, not moving, and she could feel his cold-blooded stare groping her bottom, studying the way the shocking pink thong rested between her cheeks.
Stay calm, she told herself. Just relax. This is your chance, Charity. Don’t punch the lech this time.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mike slipping closer to the stage, saw the way his jaw had clenched, the way anger raged in his narrowed eyes.
But no one else was looking at Mike. All eyes were trained on Duane, at the way he slid his long, slender fingers over her stomach and tugged her against his hips.
Mike’s fists tightened and Charity prayed like she’d never prayed before. “Get out of here, Mike. Don’t watch me. Don’t watch any of this.” Her prayer was answered in a heartbeat, as Mike turned and quietly walked away.
If only she could breathe. If only she could relax, but the torment in Mike’s eyes had settled in her throat.
But she had no time to think about Mike’s departure or his torment. She had to think about the dance, the audition, her chance to be a star.
Duane pressed his cheek against hers, slid his hands down the length of her arms and pulled her hands around him, resting her palms flat against his butt. “Hold on tight, Ms. Wilde. Let me show you how this is done.”