Sleeping with Beauty

by Donna Kauffman

  His smile didn’t so much as flicker as his broad palms spanned her waist and lifted her, effortlessly, to the side of the runway. She was still gasping in surprise—okay, shock—at being lifted as if she weighed less than . . . well, far less than she actually did, when she then felt those hands caress her ankle. She barely stifled a soft moan.

  “These will come off,” he informed her, his accent slight but distinct. He smiled up at her as he slid off first one heel, then the other. “For now.”

  “Thank you,” she said, telling herself the tremulous note in her voice was merely the result of her abject appreciation for being freed from foot bondage. Not because the brush of his hands against the sensitive skin of her ankles made her think impure thoughts. Lusty, R-rated thoughts. Thoughts that she hadn’t been aware of in a very long time.

  Just then the door to the auditorium opened and a Glass Slipper employee in a ubiquitous GS blazer—peach was the sherbet shade for today—hurried in carrying a plastic garment bag.

  “Ms. Harper?” she queried, motioning Lucy to follow her.

  Arturo and his hands were there without her having to ask. She was whisked—truly, it was whisking—off the runway and set lightly on her feet. “You’re stronger than you look,” she told Arturo, realizing too late that she’d spoken out loud.

  “I danced in the corps de ballet from the time I was twelve. You are but a feather.”

  She was still blushing when Sherbet Blazer took her gently by the arm and steered her to a small set of stairs behind a curtain to the side of the runway. “You can change behind this.”

  “‘Change’?”

  The woman nodded with a ready smile as she handed Lucy the garment bag. “Just come back out when you’re ready and Arturo and David will take it from there.”

  Lucy was efficiently shuffled behind the curtain and Sherbet Blazer was gone before she could ask any questions. “So,” she muttered, eyeing the garment bag, “this is what the whispering was about.” She unzipped it and found a body-hugging, long-sleeved black leotard and a wraparound skirt made of even filmier fabric. Dance clothes. Of course. Except, no.

  She started to flip the curtain aside and explain why she wasn’t going to wear that getup, but stopped herself. She looked over the outfit again. On a ballerina, the clingy, stretch fabric would look graceful and elegant, showcasing the flow and curve of the female body in its most beautiful form. On her skinny frame, the female form would more closely resemble a knobby giraffe stuffed in spandex.

  “Is okay?” came Arturo’s voice, disconcertingly close to the other side of the curtain.

  “I—I don’t know. It’s . . . not my style. Exactly.” Of course, that was why she was here, right? Because she had no style.

  “In order to learn the rhythm of your body, you have to be able to feel it moving, arching, turning with you. For that, mi amiga, you must have something on that moves with you.” There was a pause. “Or nothing at all.”

  She gulped. Was he teasing? Of course. Of course he was. Still . . . hmm . . . Remember, Lucy, you’re paying them to teach you new things, so challenge yourself a little. She let out a short, shuddering breath. “Okay. I—I’ll try it on.”

  “That is wonderful. I will be here when you are ready.”

  Checking to make sure the curtain was pulled tightly shut, Lucy quickly shed her blouse, then realized she was going to have to take off everything to put on the leotard.

  The space between the curtain and the stairs was small, and her elbow caught in the draping as she bent over to slide her pants off. When she straightened, the curtain adhered to her arm with a crackle of static electricity. She tried to tug it off while hopping out of her pants, which were now down around her ankles, but quickly lost her balance and grabbed the first thing she could for support. Turns out the curtain wasn’t her best bet for gaining leverage.

  With a muffled shriek, a half-naked Lucy and the twisted curtain crashed to the floor. Arturo really was nimble on his feet, thank God, and managed to leap clear to avoid being taken down himself.

  “Ms. Harper? Are you okay?”

  Define “okay,” she wanted to ask. If “okay” meant once again being betrayed by the uncoordinated phenomenon that was her body, then yeah, she was peachy keen. She pasted on a determined smile. “I’m fine. Really. But, uh, would you and David mind giving me a moment or two of privacy?”

  Arturo sent a concerned glance to David, and then another back to Lucy.

  Did they think she was going to bolt if they turned their back on her for more than two seconds? She tried her best to look reassuring. “Seriously, I’m okay. I just need a minute or two to untangle and finish dressing.”

  “If you are certain.” He still looked worried.

  “I won’t say anything to Vivian, if that’s what concerns you. I swear.”

  He looked affronted. “It’s not that—”

  “Okay, okay. Just saying.” She waited a beat, and he didn’t move. Her leg was beginning to cramp and her pants were wrapped so tightly around her other ankle that she was pretty sure she’d lost blood flow to at least one of her feet. Or it could be the aftermath of the heels. Either way, she wasn’t going to budge an inch until they left.

  Mercifully, David motioned for Arturo to step outside the auditorium door with him. “We will be right in the hall. Just call out.”

  She nodded and would have given him a jaunty salute to prove how fine she was, except her hands were handcuffed in the leotard at the moment.

  As soon as she heard the door shut, she rolled to her back, looking, she was certain, like a hapless insect caught in a web. Only in this case, it was a web of her own making. Wiggling and thrashing, she fought her way out of her pants, managing to work up a light sweat as she finally kicked the twisted fabric off her feet. Damp skin would make pulling on the clingy leotard about as easy as getting into a wet suit that was already wet.

  For a split second, staring at the demolition zone around her, then the mangled ball of spandex she now had to unknot and get into without further destruction of property or self . . . she felt the urge to cry. Just for a brief moment. Really hard.

  Instead she sucked it up . . . and took it all out on the hapless leotard. By the time she had it untangled and on her body, it was stretched out to the point that it had lost its clinginess. Okay, so maybe the odd puckers and baggy spots had more to do with her bony body—so much for the wet-suit look.

  She then dug the skirt out of the twisted heap of curtain and tied that around her waist, intensely grateful there were no mirrors around.

  Heaving a disgusted sigh, she stepped away from the mess, only to feel the filmy skirt slide across her thighs for the first time. She stopped and let the mid-thigh-length skirt swish around her legs. Then stepped again.

  Oh. Maybe Arturo has a point. The leotard might not be body hugging, but she kind of liked how the wrapped skirt felt, all shifty and flowy around her body. She took one step, then another, lengthening her stride each time, just to feel the slippery fabric slide across her skin again. Then again. And again. And, hell, why not, once more after that, just for grins. A smile rose to Lucy’s lips, unbidden, and she suddenly felt like twirling.

  “Ms. Harper?” Arturo’s voice floated through the door. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m dressed,” she called out. It was the best she could commit to.

  David took his place behind the music and video equipment, and Arturo beckoned her to come join him in the relatively open space between the runway and David’s setup.

  Concentrate on the swish, she told herself as she walked, barefooted, thank God, to Arturo.

  He beamed enthusiastically and lifted his hands to her. “Come now. We will learn to move with the salsa beat.”

  Salsa? I don’t even eat salsa, much less dance to it. “Don’t you need, you know, rhythm for that?”

  “You will find your rhythm, mi amiga, don’t fear. And Latin music is best for this. Now turn so you face away from me.”r />
  That she could do. The less she had to actually look at anyone while she humiliated herself, the better.

  “Now,” he said, so close to her ear it made her jump a little, “I want you to take a deep breath.”

  She did. And maybe it felt a little good when the leotard pulled against her skin as she did. Just a little.

  “Now release.”

  She did, maybe too heavily.

  “Again,” he instructed.

  He was standing so close—well inside her personal space, and she had to remind herself that Arturo was a professional, an instructor. So what if he’d teased her about dancing naked. She quickly pushed that from her mind. She needed all her wits about her if she was going to even attempt doing this.

  “Breathe in,” Arturo reminded her.

  She did.

  “Now, when you breathe out, I want you to do so slowly. I want you to feel your breath and your tension ease from your body as you release.” She could feel his body just behind hers and began to grow twitchy at the sensations it roused in her. And maybe a little dizzy. Or perhaps she was hyperventilating from all the heavy breathing.

  “Breathe out,” he instructed.

  Oh. Right.

  “Slowly.”

  He drew the word out. His deep voice and that accent made him sound almost hypnotic.

  Just give yourself over to the feeling, she told herself. Don’t think, just feel.

  “Now,” he said, his voice softer, quieter, just behind her ear, “we will have some music.”

  She shivered, just a little. He was so close. And that voice.

  Then a slow, throbbing beat pulsed from the speakers, making her start. His hands immediately closed around her hips, making her gasp and jerk forward.

  For a sickening moment, she thought they were both going down. But for a man with a slim build, he really was quite strong. He righted her rather easily, in fact.

  I am a feather.

  The music continued.

  “Another breath,” he coaxed.

  She slid air into her lungs, fighting to let the tension go once again. It was harder than it seemed. His hands were still on her hips. And she was . . . feeling things.

  “Okay,” he said, after she sighed, barely keeping it from turning into a moan. “Now, let the tension slide from your lower back.” To help her, he pressed his thumbs there.

  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 s
hould 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?