The Virgin's Baby_A Forced Marriage Romance

by Michelle Love

  Now in her own place, her family a distant memory, Boh was as content as she had ever been—apart from one glaring thing. Lately, she had experienced fatigue for many days in a row. Days turned into weeks, and finally, last week she had been to see her doctor. She had anemia, probably, her doctor told her, hereditary. “A mild version, thank goodness, and we can treat you.” The doctor smiled kindly at her as she read through her notes. “I already know the answer to this, Boh, but could you see yourself taking some time off?”

  They had both laughed, but they both knew there was zero chance of that. “I’ll take any pills, eat anything you say I should, but that’s the one thing I can’t do. I will get as much rest as I can, I promise.” Boh told her, and the doctor had to be satisfied with that.

  Boh got up now and went to run a bath. She thought herself lucky that her naturally introverted nature meant she rarely went out at night, preferring to stay home and read or watch movies. She and Grace would sometimes cook for each other, healthy, made-from-scratch meals from recipes they found on the Internet, otherwise a usual diet of salmon or chicken with steamed vegetables was their mainstay.

  Despite the rumors of eating disorders plaguing the ballet world, it was less prevalent than expected and the NYSMBC had strict policies on nutrition. “Fit, healthy bodies of appropriate weight for age and height” was the mantra. When a dancer was suspected of developing a disorder, they were given three strikes to help combat it, and support to beat it. If the dancer didn’t do their part, after three sessions with the company counselor, they were dismissed from the company and sent to a treatment center. The company’s chief executive, Liz Secretariat, an ex-prima, enforced that rule fiercely, and chastised any teacher who made the dancers question their body shape.

  Of course, it didn’t mean the dancers could gorge themselves, but now, when Boh broke off a large piece of dark chocolate and put it on a plate to enjoy as she soaked in the bath, she didn’t feel guilty about it. She downed two of her prescribed iron tablets with some orange juice and grabbed her old half-buried-beneath-paperbacks copy of her company guidelines. She still didn’t know whether she was required to report her illness if it wasn’t serious. She would rather not. It would just mean the company watching her closely and she could do without that right now.

  She wished Kristof, the company’s art director, would make up his mind about which ballets to perform. It made rehearsals stressful when they were running through six or seven different combinations to vastly different music. All of the dancers’ feet were wrecked, but Kristof seemed to work Boh harder than the rest. While they caught their breath, he would tell Boh to run through a set of leaps and jumps, basic steps that even the apprentices knew.

  After the sessions, he would keep her longer to tell her about every single step she had performed, what was wrong with it, what was wrong with her. Boh had a thick skin and she would automatically filter out the nonsense and concentrate on the stuff that she could learn from.

  Of course, when Kristof was in an extra-spiteful mood, even her thick skin couldn’t escape his barbs. That, she knew, stemmed from her refusal to sleep with him. More than once he had come onto her, and every time she said no. It wasn’t just that she had no interest in him sexually, but the thought of his hands on her body made her feel sick.

  She knew some of her fellow dancers found him attractive, and looking at the man with an unbiased eye, she knew he was a handsome man. Dark hair, dark brown eyes, a square, strong jaw … yes, Kristof Mendelev was a catch.

  But she loathed his personality, his arrogance, even though his high opinion of his own talent was justified. Boh was so aware of the important of confidence tempered with humility that she couldn’t abide conceit.

  Serena, her fellow dancer and nemesis, would scoff at her. “You’re too soft, Dali. This is ballet—it doesn’t get more cutthroat than this.”

  “And yet, still, I made principal without having to resort to being a bitch, Serena,” she would shoot back to the amusement of the other dancers.

  Her hated of Serena went deeper than being rivals for the leading roles. Boh knew she had the edge—but so did Serena, and that made the other woman antagonistic. Not only that, but Boh suspected Serena of being racist. Boh was the first Indian American to become principal in their ballet company, and the company had made much in the media of her ascendance. Serena, an Upper East Side princess, had mocked the interviews and photo shoots, but Boh knew it was only out of jealousy.

  Serena was a thorn in her side but not a big one. As Boh soaked in the tub, she tried to concentrate on her book—the new Paul Auster—but found her mind wandering. Today she had received a letter from her oldest sister, Maya, telling her that their father was seriously ill and not likely to live another six months.

  Boh tested her heart and felt nothing. Nothing for the man who’d ignored her for the first seven years of her life, and then, on her eighth birthday, the day they had moved into a new apartment and she had her own room for once, the day he had crept into her room for what he would call their “Special Secret Time.”

  No, she felt nothing for the man who had abused her. She had told only one person—Maya—who had slapped her face and told her never to tell. Boheme knew, at that moment, that her father had done the same thing to her sister.

  Bastard.

  She had written back to Maya.

  I’m sorry for the pain it causes the rest of you, but really, he gets what he deserves. You know why.

  Boh.

  There had been no reply and now Boh pushed the memories of her father away. You, she thought, you are the reason I have no heart, no passion for a man. You.

  She hauled herself out of the cool water and studied her naked body in front of the mirror. Tall, lean, with skin the color of milky coffee, she nevertheless had full breasts, something Serena mocked her for too, but she never worried that she didn’t fit the preferred dancer body type. It wasn’t such a big deal, nowadays.

  She dried herself off and changed into her worn but comfortable pajamas, slipping into bed and switching off the lamp. It was only10 p.m. but she didn’t care. Sleep was ambrosia to her, especially now. God, I am middle-aged at twenty-two, she thought to herself, but soon her eyes closed and she fell into a peaceful sleep, woken only by Beelzebub padding his paws onto her back in the early hours.

  “You little asshole,” she said, then smiled as he curled up on the pillow next to her and immediately stretched his leg over her face. She removed it gently and kissed his tiny paw. “You’re the only man for me, Beez,” she whispered, then closed her eyes and slept until her alarm sounded at seven a.m. the next morning.

  Chapter Three

  “I can’t remember—have you been inside this building before?” Nelly asked Pilot as he arrived with his Polaroid camera—he was old school when it came to initial scouting—two weeks after their lunch in the city. He’d moved things around, avoiding calls from Grady Mallory until he could no longer put it off. He’d had to make something up on the fly to tell Grady. “It’s a study of the human body in movement,” he said. “I’m visiting with the New York State and Metro Ballet to see their ballerinas at work.

  He didn’t blame Grady for sounding less than enthusiastic. Ballet dancers in movement had been done before, many, many times, but Grady, being the nice guy that he was, nevertheless thanked Pilot for his ideas.

  Pilot felt bad about his lack of direction. “Look, Gray, I promise I’ll come up with something spectacular.”

  “I have faith,” Grady had told him. Pilot hoped he could repay that faith.

  Following Nelly into the ballet company’s building, he shook his head. “No, not this one, but the old one down on Bleecker.”

  “Ha, yeah, that’s a story. That building was just condemned … asbestos. We dodged a bullet there, selling it before it was discovered. Anyway, where do you want to start? Do you want to meet the dancers or just look in on a class?”

  “Just look in, if that’s all right. I
just need to see who I’m going to be shooting.”

  “In that case,” Nelly directed him into the elevator, “there’s a mixed class you should see. Principals down to apprentices. Celine likes to hold a two-hour long class on Monday mornings which is more about fine-tuning than it is rehearsing for anything specific. Very good for building comradery in the company. Everyone loves it, as you can imagine, although they’re all terrified of Celine.”

  Pilot grinned. His own mother was a strident, effusive, strong woman, and he’d inherited a love of powerful women—powerful, not manipulative. “How is the comradery?”

  Nelly laughed. “What you would expect. For the most part, they’re a friendly bunch, but there’s always one or two assholes.”

  “Who should I look out for?”

  Nelly chuckled. “I shouldn’t say.”

  “Go on, gossip a little.”

  She sighed. “Serena. A Grade 1 uber-bitch. Fantastic dancer, of course, but a harridan. Jeremy can be a diva.”

  “You play favorites?”

  “I don’t teach them so I can.” She gave him a mischievous look. “Boh. You’ll love Boh. Lexie, Grace, Vlad, Elliott, Fernanda … look, most of them. Just look out for Serena, Jeremy, and maybe even Alex.”

  “Good info, thanks.”

  They stepped out of the elevator and Nelly pointed him towards the studio. “I told Celine to expect you.”

  Pilot chuckled. “You know me so well.”

  He opened the door to the studio a crack and caught the eyes of the fierce-looking woman inside. She nodded, unsmiling, and nodded her head to the front of the class.

  Pilot slipped inside, his eyes sweeping over the dancers inside. A couple looked at him curiously, but most were focused on their practice. A young man, around Pilot’s age, was playing the piano. He looked up and smiled at Pilot.

  “And up, good. Arms lifted … Lexie, extend, please … beautiful. Alex, turn out … good. Lovely stretch, Boh, well done. Double pirouette, no, Elliot, double. Thank you.”

  Pilot listened to her guiding her pupils through the class. He had to admit, the way they used their bodies to form shapes was beautiful and impressive. He squatted at the front and took some shots. A dancer with pale, red-gold hair in a tight bun on the top of her head caught his eye and smiled seductively, posing for him.

  “Serena, pay attention to me and not Mr. Scamo, please, no matter how pretty he is.”

  Pilot gave a snort of laughter and Celine glared at him, winking to show she was kidding. He liked her immediately.

  “Okay, and rest. Thank you. Well, as Serena has noticed, we have a visitor. For those of you who live under a rock, this is Pilot Scamo, photographer extraordinaire.” Celine came over to shake Pilot’s hand as the assembled group gave him a small round of applause. He felt his face flame—he never got used to being the center of attention.

  “Hey everyone, listen, I’m just here to capture the action, so please, don’t let me interrupt …” Pilot’s voice faltered as he saw her. The tall, athletic woman standing a little way behind a male dancer. She was looking at him shyly, her dark brown eyes large, her body all curves and yet athletic and toned. She was luminous. Pilot realized he was staring and quickly looked away. “Sorry, um, don’t let me interrupt you.”

  Celine hid a smile. “You heard the man. Right, next combination. In fourth, then plié, relevé, plié …”

  Pilot continued his shooting while the dancers practiced. After working at the barre, Celine had them showcase their leaps and jumps for him. “And, Boh, if you could finish for us with your triple pirouette and into arabesque.”

  At the end of the jetés, his girl stepped forward, all grace, and executed a flawless pirouette and finished in the classic pose of arabesque. Every line of her body was exquisite, down to the placement of her fingers. Pilot sucked in a deep breath.

  He had found his muse.

  Chapter Four

  As Boh left the studio, she couldn’t help glancing back at the man talking to Celine. The way he had looked at her … if any other man had looked at her like that, she would have frozen, gotten distressed, and panicked. But this man …

  It was his eyes. Bright green, and large, his thick dark brows making them intense, dangerous, sensual. A line between his brows made it look as if he was frowning or troubled until he smiled. Then his entire face lit up, became boyish, almost beautiful. He was the sexiest man she had ever seen, and she felt it everywhere.

  Lexie nudged her. “Somebody made an impression.”

  Boh grinned at her and lowered her voice. “So you noticed too?”

  “Everyone noticed, Boh. It was almost a cartoon double-take he did. And he’s gorgeous too.”

  “Old enough to be your father,” Serena butted in, obviously listening to them as they made their way to the changing rooms. “And you, Dali, don’t go thinking you’re something special just because a man gave you the eye. He’s a superstar—he’s probably had more supermodels in the last week than you’ve had successful triple pirouettes.”

  “Serena, your bitch is showing.” Fernanda, the mild-mannered guest dancer from Ecuador spoke then, and Serena flushed with anger, muttering something under her breath. Fernanda stopped and gripped Serena’s shoulder. “What did you say?”

  Serena smiled nastily. “You heard.” She wrenched her shoulder from Fernanda’s grip and stalked off. Boh sighed. Serena’s attitude had gotten even worse lately, and she wondered why Fernanda had got involved. It wasn’t like her. She looked questioningly at her friend now and Fernanda shrugged.

  “Sometimes she just needs to hear shut the fuck up from someone new, you know.”

  Boh and Lexie laughed and Fernanda grinned. “Come on. We’ll be late for Kristof.”

  After the noise of the class, the studio rang with silence as Pilot laid out his Polaroids on top of the piano and studied them. He noted down several of the dancers he’d like to photograph, choosing them for the clean lines of their bodies, but really, he was trying not to concentrate on the last three pictures.

  Boheme. Boh. The way her body moved through the air, her curves made as gracefully as the pin-thin dancers. Strong, athletic, and almost otherworldly. He knew enough about ballet to know her body type wasn’t the preferred willowy waif. Her body was all woman, the result of a finely tuned workout program, he guessed, along with a healthy appetite. He found her thrilling. Her poise and grace were reflected in the natural beauty of her face, devoid of make-up and with a fine, dewy sheen of sweat making the light sparkle from her …

  Calm down, man. Pilot sucked in a deep breath but his stomach was in knots. The old feeling. When he knew he’d found someone who could radiate sensuality, strength, and above all artistry through his lens. He would gladly photograph the rest of the dancers for the company, to help with their publicity, but he would ask Boh to work with him for his exhibition.

  He went to find Nelly, who was delighted he had enjoyed the class. “The dancers are astonishing,” he said honestly, sitting down on her desk. “There were a few who really stood out … here.” He handed her a set of six Polaroids and she sorted through them, nodding.

  “Grace, Lexie, Jeremy, Vlad, Fernanda, and Elliott. Oh.” She looked up at him curiously and he knew what she was thinking. He grinned and handed her the last three Polaroids.

  “I said they stood out. But there was one who blew the rest out of the water.”

  He saw Nelly’s shoulders relax as she looked at the pictures of Boh. She nodded and smiled. “I knew it. I knew you would like her. She’s something else.”

  “That she is,” he said and Nelly chuckled.

  “Crushing?”

  Pilot pretended to look affronted. “Please, I’m a professional. I’m also a man, and who could blame me? But seriously … I have a proposition.”

  Nelly gave him a mischievous grin. “God, we’re not talking Pygmalion, are we? I already have Machiavelli on staff.”

  “Ha, no, not quite. Listen, I told you about the Che
n Foundation exhibit?”

  “You did … ah, I see. You want Boh to be your muse?”

  Pilot nodded. “If she’ll agree. It would mean working around her ballet schedule, of course, and she may not want to put in the extra hours. I’ll pay her, of course … and on top of that, I’ll do your publicity shots free of charge.”

  Nelly’s eyes bugged. “No, Pilot, I couldn’t …”

  “Look at my eyes,” he said, with a grin, “If you can tell me you’ve seen me more excited about a project than this, I take it all back.”

  A slow smile spread across Nelly’s face. “Okay, you’re on … if Boh agrees.”

  “Of course, absolutely. But I’ll do your stuff for free anyway.” It wasn’t as if he needed the money and as far as Pilot was concerned, Nelly had given him his mojo back and there was no price on that.

  Nelly looked at the clock. “Well, Boh’s in with Kristof at the moment. I could pull her.”

  “No, don’t interrupt her class.”

  Nelly snorted. “It would piss Kristof off though, and everyone would enjoy that. Come on, let’s go see if we can steal her away.”

  Kristof Mendelev stared at Boh as she moved through the mime section of La Sylphide and then stopped her. “Boh, this isn’t a sarcastic rendition, nor is it a cartoon. Subtly is key in this part of the dance. If you break out and make the audience laugh then you’re doing a disservice to the sensuality of the moment.”