Angel in Armani
Page 26
The next week in particular was going to be hell. By taking this job at the last minute, she’d managed to give herself the mother of all scheduling headaches. Her next big-themed review at the club was starting the same weekend as baseball season. Which meant days here on Staten Island making the Fallen Angels—she hadn’t been able to change Alex Winter’s mind about the ridiculousness of that name—baseball’s next big thing in dance troupes and then nights and any other spare seconds rehearsing at Madame R before they opened for the night.
Which left her, as far as she could figure it, maybe six hours a day for sleeping, eating, and basic hygiene.
She was going to need a lot of caffeine. And possibly a clone army.
She reached the reception desk after riding the creaky lift up to the office tower where the Saints’ management and administration operated and smiled. The blond she’d met earlier in the week wasn’t there; instead a woman with shoulder-length, light brown hair and blue eyes was sitting behind the desk. “Hi. Where might I find Malachi Coulter’s office?”
The woman looked up from her computer screen. “Does Mal know what this is about?”
“He asked me to come by,” Raina said. “The name’s Raina Easton.”
Blue eyes lit. “You’re the dance coach? Is that the right word?”
“It’s as good as any,” Raina said. “And yes, guilty as charged.”
“I’ve been hearing all about you,” the woman said. “I’m Sara. Sara Charles. I fly the team’s helicopter.”
“And man reception?”
Sara shrugged. “Just helping out while Letty has her break. Anyway, I’ll let Mal know you’re here.” She picked up the headset on the desk—which gave Raina a lovely view of the sizeable diamond gracing the ring finger of her left hand, a diamond that was an amazing shimmering blue that matched Sara’s eyes—put it on, and touched something on the computer screen in front of her.
“Mal,” Sara said after a moment. “Raina Easton is here to see you. Okay, I’ll send her around.”
She touched the screen again and pulled the headset off with ease. Once again the ring sparked in the light.
“He said to come round. You take this corridor, then the second turn right, and his office is the end of the row.”
“Thanks,” Raina said. “I’d better go or the boss man will be cranky.”
“His bark is worse than his bite,” Sara said.
“Oh I figured that part out,” Raina said. “But he’s still signing the paycheck.”
She smiled a good-bye and headed off in the direction Sara had given. In the minute or two it took to find her way, the nerves returned, a fleet of butterflies apparently trying out their step ball change skills in her stomach.
Malachi Coulter’s bark might be worse than his bite, but she had the feeling she didn’t want to really see him growling.
She wasn’t sure that she wanted to see him in a good mood either. Add a smile to the chiseled lines of that face and a girl might be in serious trouble, anti–bad boy resolutions or not.
The door to the office at the end of the hall was open. She took a breath and stepped into the doorway.
Malachi was sitting at a desk, but his chair was turned to face a bank of monitors showing what she assumed was security footage of the ballpark.
“I thought security offices were down in the basement,” she said. “They always are in the movies.”
The chair swung back around to her. “Ms. Easton. Done with your practice?”
“For now.” She walked into the office, not waiting for his invitation, and put her bag down near the desk. She jerked her chin at the bank of screens, feeling a little bit of tech envy. She had as good security as she could afford at her club, but that was still limited to cameras on the main floor, and a few others covering strategic points in the building and the entrances and exits. The twelve monitors behind Malachi’s desk each showed views from four cameras, and she suspected they rotated through even more than that. “Nice setup.”
His eyebrows rose. “Just the key feeds,” he said. “Our main monitoring room is on one of the lower levels. Close enough to a basement, I guess.”
“I can’t imagine having to run crowd control for a place this size,” Raina said. “Must take a hell of a lot of people.”
“Yes, it does,” Malachi said. He tilted his head at her. “Security isn’t a subject I’d expect a dancer to know a lot about.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I ran away with a rock band when I was a teenager and spent my formative years hanging out with roadies and security teams.”
He shook his head. “According to your background check, you spent your teenage years in a number of different schools around the country until you landed in New York for Juilliard. Where you lasted a year before you started working on Broadway.”
They’d done a background check on her? Well, she shouldn’t be surprised. Alex Winters wasn’t the kind of guy to not obtain all the information he needed. And Malachi didn’t strike her as any more easygoing. “Busted. No rock bands for me. Well, not the kind with arena tours. But dancers spend their lives in theaters and other venues. And these days, those come with security. I pay attention.”
“I guess burlesque clubs come with security, too,” he said.
“Yes, they do,” she said. So he knew about the club. And what she did these days. She waited to see what he said next. A lot of people assumed burlesque meant stripper. Mal said nothing. “But not like this.”
“That might be a good thing,” Mal said. Then he waved a hand at the chair. “Please, sit.”
She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. “So, you asked to see me?” she said as she sank into the chair. The leather was old and soft, and she ran her hand over the arm, appreciating the feel of it. “Is there a problem?”
“Just thought we should get things straight about the security protocol around here.”
“O-kay.” She leaned back in the chair. “I’m sorry, no one told me that I had to do anything about security. I sent my practice schedule to Alex two days ago.”
“It’s probably still sitting in his in-box,” Mal said. “He’s been flying back and forth to Florida every other day with the end of spring training.”
“So, I should send it to you as well?”
He nodded. “Then you’ll be on the books and we can leave passes for you all at the gate for next time.”
She rummaged in her bag for her phone and then found her contacts. Held it out to him. “Fine. Give me your e-mail and we’ll be all set.”
He took the phone, and as his head bent as he typed, his hair fell forward over his face and she had another flash of “Oh Lord, he’s attractive.” In a perfect world he’d be giving her his details for a whole ’nother reason, but this wasn’t a perfect world and she’d learned over the years that men like Mal were among the least perfect things in it.
Damn it.
“There.” He passed the phone back to her and his fingers brushed hers. Brushed and lingered. Just for a second or two. Then she pulled her hand back, resisting the urge to shake her fingers to get rid of the tingle in her skin.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll send you that schedule.”
Also by
Melanie Scott
The Devil in Denim
About the Author
Melanie Scott is an unrepentant bookworm. Luckily she grew up in a family that fed her a properly varied diet of books and these days is surrounded by people who are understanding of her story addiction. When not wrestling one of her own stories to the ground, she can generally be found reading someone else’s. Her other distractions include yarn, cat butlering, dark chocolate and fabric. She lives in Melbourne, Australia. Her website is www.melanie-scott.net. Follow Melanie on Twitter @melscott or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/writermelaniescott.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously.
ANGEL IN ARMANI
Copyright © 2015 by Melanie Scott.
Excerpt from Lawless in Leather copyright © 2015 by Melanie Scott.
All rights reserved.
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St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2015
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