by Lynn Turner
“In that great imagination of yours,” she murmured, “did you see me here?”
“You know I did.” He smoothed a few curls back that had fallen over her brow. “Every night since I met you in that sexy white dress.”
She gasped.
“Does it really surprise you, petite? As beautiful, as passionate as you are, that you’d star in someone’s dreams?”
It took her breath away, the way his expression turned oddly solemn. The way he said the words—as if he wasn’t talking about sex at all, but something that touched more than skin, delved deeper than shallow layers of tissue and bone—ignited more feeling than any nerve could detect. Something that was powerful enough, if she let it, to take the jagged edges of her soul, and fit them to another that was just as broken. There might be a scar where those edges met, but it was okay, so long as it was healed…right?
Was she ready to be that vulnerable? That naked? To give someone access to something much more fragile than her body?
Merde, she knew by the way it was hard to breathe, and the sting of tears around the rims of her eyes, that it was too late. Ready or not, she was falling, and she tried very, very hard not to look as scared as she felt.
“Mina.”
“Non,” she whispered. “Only that I’d star in yours.”
Then he kissed her, a continuous, sleepy meeting of lips and tongues. The troubles of the moment felt somewhere far, far away, getting farther each time he nudged her with his nose, changing the angle and kissing her again. By the time she pulled back, dizzy with desire and the need to breathe, there was only his mouth, only his arms around her, in this great big room.
“How did you see me?” She rode him slowly, enjoying the tortured sounds he made as he adjusted her over his erection.
“Like this—Oh…God…” Gripping her butt, he dragged her harder up and down his length. “And other ways. So many ways.”
She trailed her tongue over his lush bottom lip, pulling away before he could take her mouth again. He looked like he wanted to devour her, and it made her breathless. “Show me.”
“Petite,” he said hoarsely. “It’s been a long day. A lot’s happened—”
“Please, I need this,” she begged against his lips. “I need you to hold me…take my mind off things. I need you to show me.”
Groaning, he gently lifted her from his lap, turning her and settling her onto the bed on her knees, then tucking her back against his chest. The sheets were slightly cool at the first touch on her skin, but the heat from his body warmed her everywhere, driving away the chill.
“Oh, Dieu,” she sighed, excited to play out one of his fantasies. She shivered at the feel of him pressing against her butt. “Oui.”
Curving his hand around her neck, he gave her his thumb, and she sucked it softly, getting wetter at his answering moan. He removed his thumb and smoothed his hands down, down, over her breasts, rubbing them, squeezing them, circling her nipples with his thumbs. Arching her back, she danced her bottom over his erection. He cupped his hand over her pretty new panties, where she was unbearably hot and wet.
“O-oh…mon Dieu…”
His fingers dipped into her panties, sliding up and down between her folds, and she bloomed like an orchid for him, offering him the little nub hidden inside.
“You’re so sexy, Mina.” Pressing harder against her butt, he slipped his long fingers inside of her. Her muscles trembled and clenched, and he cursed. “I can’t wait to be inside you, feel you squeezing me just like this.”
The lusty rumble in his tone was driving her crazy, his strokes sure and purposeful—but missing the nub completely.
“Zack…please…”
“Sshhh, petite—little busy here.”
Her laugh broke on a whimper, and she could only writhe in pleasure. The muscled curves of his chest were embossed on her back, her nipples rubbing against the strong, sturdy arm that held her to him so tightly.
“S-s’il te plaît,” she begged in French this time, riding and riding his fingers, fascinated by the intense need in her own voice.
“You’re not ready yet,” he murmured against her temple. “I can feel you, you’re almost there.”
Rubbing firmly with his palm, his fingers glided deeper, her soft inner walls clinging to him desperately.
“Oh merde…oh merde, merde, merde.”
Finally, finally, he rubbed his thumb over her clit, and her body convulsed, tumbling forward onto the bed. He stayed with her, planting one hand on the mattress beside her head. In this prone position, completely at his mercy, her entire body tingled with vulnerability. It sent the most incredible heat simmering everywhere, and when his thumb circled firmly again, she felt the deluge, heard the slickness of it on his fingers.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Now you’re ready.”
Kissing her again deeply, he trailed kisses down her back, pressing his lips to the dip at her waist, and to the curve of her butt cheek as he pulled her panties down and off. She cried out at the pinch of his teeth there, shuddering at the delicious bite. A moment passed, filled with the sound of their breathing, the dip of the mattress as he removed his briefs. Then, arching over her and pulling her tightly to his chest, he slid into her body. She tensed and tightened instinctively, and he groaned, breathing heavily against her cheek.
“God, petite. You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” he said hoarsely, pulling back and sliding into her again.
“Oui.” She shuddered, swirling her hips to meet him. “The same thing you do to me.”
He groaned and filled her again—so full, she gripped the sheets, close to coming already from the ecstasy of his hard precision, the way he controlled her body so easily, and the way he so clearly enjoyed her. Squeezing her breasts, he thrust his body a little rougher, a little deeper into hers. She clenched down on him once, hard, then shuddered violently, sobbing softly into the sheets. Turning her onto her back, he spread her legs, caressing her until she finished.
“Oh mon Dieu, I’m going to die.”
Chuckling, he kissed her, all over her face, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “You’re not dying. You’re just exhausted.”
“So.” She wet her lips, arching to press against him seductively. “Why don’t you put me to sleep?”
“That, I can do.”
He stroked in her, slow and deep, her body moving instinctively into his rhythm, absorbing every jerk of his body, every groan, every sigh. Curving his arms underneath her this time, he wrapped her up closely—hugging her.
And she absolutely melted.
With a soft moan, she gripped him with her arms, her thighs, and very deliberately with the muscles hidden deep inside her body.
“Petite…” Even at a whisper, his voice was strained, his hips moving much less gracefully.
“I love when you hug me like this,” she whispered close to his ear. “I love how your skin feels on mine.”
The breath rushed from him, and he came, his shudders running all through her as he whispered her name. She was so tired, it was like a dream when he finally released her, when he wiped her with a warm cloth, pressing kisses like reverent Thank yous on her belly. Covering them with the duvet, he curled up snugly behind her with his face nestled in the fluffy pillow of her hair, and they drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
Curious, the way fear and excitement triggered the same heart-dropping sensation.
Zack felt both. It was like being on a roller coaster and sensing the acceleration on the first drop. Like his stomach had been wrenched from his body and left on top of the mountain, his heart falling into its place.
It was finally hitting him.
Lady in Red was happening.
Presently (nine o’clock in the morning), the lady was flying through the air in Alex’s luxurious second-story studio, photographed by Luc Davies, the renowned dance photographer they’d flown in from London. They’d agreed on a minimalist approach, with Mina appearing by hersel
f in a stunning, ruby-red chiffon gown that would be eye-catching among the many billboards in Times Square. Her pointe shoes were hand-dyed by the tireless young Amy, who was hired to dress and undress Mina for the show. For as long as Mina was on his payroll, her slippers would be dyed by someone else.
For fuck’s sake.
After working through the lighting challenges of the dance studio, Luc set up a white, seamless background and did some test shots, adjusting the flash units to create a white blow-away background that would enable the photos to be easily composited for the official poster, playbill, and other promotional materials. Next, he used strobes to freeze action while capturing Mina’s strength and grace in motion. Zack worked with her to make sure her expression was relaxed through her various leaps and poses. The first few shots were a bit shaky, but after that, she nailed them.
It was the moments when she looked weightless, flying and floating—like she was dancing on absolutely nothing—that sent exhilaration zipping through his veins. By stroke of luck, or divine intervention, or magic, her eyes met his just as the long, sheer skirt of her gown caught the air perfectly, billowing red all around her as she struck an incredible pose.
His brain immortalized her before the flash did.
She was the living, breathing title of his work, elegantly posed in mid-air. Her back was arched, one arm extending to the tips of her fingers, the other stretching behind her, her silk-wrapped toes pointing toward the floor. A perfect assemblé. The beauty of it snatched his breath—almost like she was suspended in water, rather than air.
“Bloody hell,” Luc swore during a few more lightning-fast clicks of his camera. “That’s a wrap, sweetheart. That’s the one.”
Yeah. Zack’s heart still pounded like a gorilla’s fists in his chest. No shit.
Within the hour after Mina’s session, the studio was packed with assistants, dressers, makeup and hair artists, press, and all the principals of Lady in Red. Faye was there to keep them all in check, and help maneuver them around equipment, props, luxe furniture (on which they’d drape themselves stylishly), and the ladies’ voluminous courtesan gowns. Riha had designed the gowns with a modern twist, the skirts cut with a much higher hem in front, to show off the dancers’ flawless legs. The men wore her Eastern-infused take on nineteenth-century Parisian fashion, their top hats, vests and shoes vibrant with prints and textures.
Zack tried to be present in the moment, but he couldn’t help the flashes of time when he’d look outside himself, watching with pride and a sense of great accomplishment as the cast bonded even closer during the experience. Half of them had gone with him to Mina’s apartment the day after it was burglarized, helping her to clear away the mess and get things looking right-side-up again. They’d ribbed each other and exchanged stories, and Kyoko invited Mina to stay with her for a few days. Watching them all now, a week later, he realized it had been a team-building exercise in disguise, forging a new family from a terrible experience.
Mina posed for a mournful long shot, and Kyoko got a makeup check. Sebastian flashed a huge smile during his interview as other principals checked their appearance in the mirrors. He got all the Mina-draped-over-the-baby-grand shots his heart desired—and then some. She even danced on top of it in her pointe shoes. All the while, he’d catch her watching him, too. Sometimes it was a quick glance and an embarrassed smile for being caught. Sometimes, he’d feel her looking, then catch her eyes tracking down his body, or staring at his mouth as he gave an interview.
It drove him insane.
“No judgment,” Faye said from his left, yanking him back into the moment. “But if you two want to keep this thing under wraps, maybe stop the long, yearning stares.”
“This thing?” He let her herd him toward the setup for the final part of the shoot.
“Look, I’m a feminist, okay?” She presented a stack of papers to him. It was her chicken-scrawled to-do list—an obvious prop to ward off suspicion the conversation was about anything other than work. It was Oscar-worthy, really. “The prime minister of New Zealand had a kid out of wedlock. I want to burn my bra and buy an urn for its ashes.”
“I’m afraid we’ve veered past the point and into The Upside Down.”
“It’s Broadway, not Hollywood—not that you aren’t interesting—but no one’s gonna pay a mil for a snap of the two of you sharing a spaghetti noodle…”
“The point, Faye.”
“It’s not a big deal, until it is,” she said bluntly. “You’re already established. She is too, to be fair. But theater’s a different animal. She’s getting her feet wet here. It would be a shame for the other animals at the watering hole to talk about anything but how fabulous she is, capisci?”
Oh God, he’d dragged the Italian out of her. He’d better behave. “Understood.”
“Good, get back out there, tiger.”
Flashing her his perfected devilish grin, he said loudly, “Actually, I fancy myself more of a lion.”
Mina had a sudden fit of coughs, and a drink of water from Amy, before joining him and the rest of the principals in a steamy series of promotional photos.
Hours later, in an enormous room wrapped in mirrors, Zack watched the woman he least wanted to see hurt, dropped to the hard, sweat-shined floor repeatedly—from every direction.
“Stay sharp, Hughes!” he yelled at Sebastian. “I’m throwing her to you, not at you. So the objective is, of course, to catch her.”
“Shit, I know.” Sebastian winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “My bad, Mina.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, glaring at Zack.
Her eyes said, Put the paws away, I can handle myself.
He was very tempted to growl his response. Instead, he said, “Let’s go again.”
It was the last day of a weeks’ worth of grueling studio rehearsals with the entire cast: dancers and dance captains, swings and standbys and understudies, accompanied by Harper on the piano, and Carla with her cello in the corner. Those not rehearsing a number sat or stood along the walls, watching with rapt attention. Something was always being tweaked or reworked, and they needed to take down all of Zack’s notes.
Mina was starting to look like a punching bag under her clothes. So far, they’d had energy and opportunity enough to make love twice that week, and both times, he’d seen the impressive collection of old and new bruises dotting her torso.
He’d threatened to wrap her in bubble wrap before rehearsal.
She’d threatened to share the dance belt story.
The measly leotard and footless tights had won out.
The pas de trois was risky, he’d admit, but it was such a provocative visual that, if they got it right—before Mina ended up dead (or Zack killed Sebastian for killing her)—it could be one of the defining moments in the show. It symbolized the tug-of-war between Zack’s middle-class character, Armand Duval, and Sebastian’s extremely wealthy character, Baron de Varville, for the most beautiful courtesan in all of Paris.
“You’re anticipating too much,” Zack told Sebastian. “She’s not a bag of rocks, so stop worrying about getting hurt.” He slapped the younger man’s shoulder. “That’s what all those strapping muscles are for.”
That drew teasing laughter from the rest of the cast. They went through the pas de trois again. Over and over, until Mina looked like she could hardly stand, and Sebastian was able to catch her like she weighed no more than an infant. Rowdy cheers, whistles and applause went up all around the room, and Harper played “Pomp and Circumstance” for shits and giggles.
Zack didn’t go easy on them after lunch. They paired up and waltzed in a circle for one of Camille’s lavish parties, the men wheeling the women into the air. Zack raced around the floor with Mina, demonstrating Armand’s passion by lifting her into a leap every few steps. It was a damned demanding body of work, and the dancers hit the floor so often, they joked good naturedly about it during breaks.
“Oh, I’m madly in love!” Drop.
“I’m dyi
ng!” Flop.
“I simply cannot contain the fire in my loins!” Plop.
But it was drama, after, all, so they didn’t just fall. They dove, swooned, or fought their way down rapturously, pretending to tear off their outer garments. Zack subjected Mina to his athletic pas de deux for Act One three times, whirling her around his body and hoisting her high, her wrap skirt in his face as he stared amorously up at her. It was a pose that was supposed to make them appear besotted with each other, but her acting needed a little work.
“Bordel!” She was clearly feeling much abused. “Is my character not dying of tuberculosis?”
Several people snickered. Zack practically swallowed his tongue to keep his grin in check. Her temper wasn’t supposed to be cute. Or hot.
“Technically, yes,” he said. “But it’s more romantic to call it ‘consumption.’”
“Nom de Dieu! You’re a man, of course you think it’s romantic to throw a sick woman around.”
More laughter from the cast…
He hiked a brow at her, unfazed. “If you’d like to depict Camille’s fragile health more accurately, you’re welcome to cough a few times.”
There were snickers, accompanied by some impressive snorts. Then, to Mina’s obvious delight, they did it again.
It was after dark when rehearsal wrapped, and Mina was meeting Zack at Vera’s new theater at ten o’clock. Well, he hoped she was. Given her temper toward the end, there was a chance she wouldn’t show.
Who was he kidding? Of course she’d show. The curiosity would kill her otherwise. It was just as well, because he wasn’t at all remorseful for pushing her so hard. She was capable of so much more than she thought, and if he had to piss her off to prove it to her, so be it. Still, he wanted to sweeten the ache with a little surprise. There were a few minutes before she was supposed to arrive, so he was checking the rigging for the stage again.
“Everything looks good,” said Jamal, the fly captain for the show, and Zack’s friend since their days as theater interns. “Highs and lows on the drops are set, and the counterweights are balanced.”
