Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  When finally he lifted his head, she was sprawled across his lap, her fingers clutching his lapels. “Don’t stop,” she muttered.

  “Have to.” He sounded as unintelligible as she felt. “We’re here.”

  “Where?”

  “At the ball.”

  She stared up at him, his face a contrast of shadow and light. “What?”

  “The dance. At Mrs. Tobias’s dance. We have to go . . . dance.”

  “Now?” She had been lost in the darkness with him, and she wanted to stay lost. “Now you want to dance?”

  He laughed, a sort of helpless-sounding amusement. “Since your mother’s in our suite—yes.”

  Her mother. Tiffany. She’d forgotten about Tiffany.

  “We could . . .” Could what? Get into Roberto’s bedroom without Tiffany noticing? Have wild sex while her mother slumbered in the next room? Fat chance. Even as a teenager, Brandi hadn’t tried that. “Oh, fine.” She gave up and sat up. “Let’s go dance.”

  The gust of cold air helped freeze Brandi’s desire.

  Unfortunately, the inside of the California-style mansion was bathed in the warm colors of adobe and earth, with blooming plants climbing every wall and birds singing in tall cages, and her appreciation of her surroundings and her pleasure in her companion started a rapid thaw.

  She could hear music. She hadn’t danced for months, and then only in a crowded bar with other law students . . . and Alan. There the Rule of Highly Ranked Law Schools prevailed; students good enough to qualify had no social skills and no ability to keep the beat.

  That night, it had become apparent that the rule applied to medical students, too, and that went double for Alan.

  Now, as a waltz played by world-class professionals filled the air, the ballerina within Brandi stirred, and she flexed her legs.

  “This is not so bad, heh?” Roberto smiled as if he correctly gauged her rise of anticipation.

  “This is good, and the other would have been . . . ” Not bad. She couldn’t bring herself to say that sex between her and Roberto would be bad. “Unwise,” she finished.

  “Definitely unwise.”

  He didn’t have to agree.

  A thin, old lady of medium height with dyed brown hair and bright brown eyes hurried to meet them. “Roberto, how good of you to come. You’re exactly the rogue I need to make this party a success.” She extended her hand and allowed him to kiss it, then stood on tiptoe to kiss both his cheeks. Turning to Brandi, she said, “And this young lady must be Brandi Michaels.”

  Startled, Brandi said, “Yes, but I’m sorry—have we met?”

  “No. But when a woman reaches my age she has to have a hobby, and mine is gossip.”

  Brandi’s mind leaped to the kiss in the car, to the affair at the hotel, to this infatuation with Roberto that led her to commit reckless acts of passion. She had known someone was going to talk, and apparently she was right.

  But Mrs. Tobias tucked her arm into Brandi’s and led her toward the source of the music. “First your fiancé runs off and marries some floozy, and you show the world how little you care by getting Roberto remanded into your custody!”

  What a lovely explanation. Brandi liked it very much.

  “You lucky thing! Of course, if I looked like you, jewel thieves would fight to be remanded into my custody, so luck had nothing to do with it, right?” Throwing back her head, Mrs. Tobias chortled with old-lady glee.

  “Is that all your gossip?” Brandi stumbled in her relief.

  Roberto caught her arm. “Careful, Brandi; don’t fall now.”

  “Do you have more?” Mrs. Tobias peered greedily at her.

  “No, but I do have custody of the one jewel thief,” Brandi said.

  “So far.” Mrs. Tobias led them through the sunny, open rooms toward the source of the music. “I’m sure they’ll all be knocking down your door. Good-looking attorneys—did I say good-looking? I mean decent-looking—are hard to find. And one who can walk and chew gum at the same time is even rarer. There!” They reached the balcony above a grand ballroom. She waved an arm. “Isn’t it glorious? I use it for my tennis courts the rest of the year, but this night is the night it was built for.”

  It was glorious. The huge room had a gleaming hardwood floor, gold plaster walls, and a raised dais for the twenty-man orchestra. A hundred people mingled in small groups, the men somber in black and white, the women glittering with diamonds and elegance. The dance floor covered half the room, and couples circled, swooping and dipping, as the orchestra finished its waltz.

  “It’s so grand.” Brandi clung to the rail and watched, enthralled, quivering with the desire of a much-thwarted dancer. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s not for you to look at; it’s for you to join!” Mrs. Tobias placed Brandi’s hand on Roberto’s arm. “Roberto, take this girl dancing!”

  “With pleasure.”

  Ballerina Brandi had always loved her recitals, loved moving to the tempo, loved the grace and the flow of movement set to music. As they descended the stairs, the music changed to a tango and she gave an excited laugh. “Roberto, can you tango?”

  “But of course. My mother insisted I learn.”

  As soon as they reached the dance floor, he put his arms around her and she knew she’d hit the jackpot. He could dance. Really dance. He’d been well trained, but more than that, the music recalled the skill and grace of his lovemaking. And the frustration of being always together yet always apart made the anguish of the tango real to her.

  The violent rhythm caught them up, taking them back and forth across the floor, one fleeing, one pursuing in exclusive, desperate passion.

  The other guests gave way, clearing them a space until they danced inside a circle of enthralled observers.

  Roberto’s dark gaze never wavered from hers.

  Brandi concentrated on him, saw only him, knew intimately what move he would make next.

  The room faded to nothing more than a backdrop to their movements.

  They were sex set to music.

  Then Brandi caught sight of a familiar face on the edge of the crowd. It sneered with such contempt, she missed a step.

  Roberto pulled her back into him, absorbing the motion, but he must have sensed something was wrong, for he guided her with more force, ruthlessly taking her through the motions, allowing her the time to get over her shock.

  By the time the music stopped, she had disciplined herself enough to smile engagingly at Roberto and clap as if she had nothing on her mind except her admiration for him.

  He acknowledged her, too, bowing and clapping, but he leaned down and spoke in her ear. “What is it? Who’s upset you?”

  “It’s nothing.” But that was stupid. Roberto was going to find out. “There. It’s Alan.”

  Roberto searched the crowd with his gaze and unerringly settled on the handsome man with brown hair, blue eyes, pale, freckled skin, and muscled, lanky body. “Ah. I see him. The extremely foolish fiancé has returned.”

  Roberto made her smile with a little more sincerity.

  “He’s not at all as I pictured him.” He sounded perplexed. “I thought he would be . . . well, not necessarily good-looking, but certainly I imagined he would have an imposing presence for I hear he has a brilliant future. Instead he’s . . . just short.”

  “He’s not short. He says he’s five-ten.”

  “He’s shorter than you.”

  “Only when I wear heels.”

  Roberto snorted. “And when don’t you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “No. Don’t tell me you catered to his fragile ego and wore flats. Brandi! No!” Roberto started toward Alan. “I must meet the man who so crushed my Brandi’s individuality.”

  She caught his arm before he’d taken two steps. “He didn’t crush my individuality.”

  Roberto looked down at her.

  “Okay, he mushed it a little. Oh, come on!” Deliberately casual, she strolled toward the edge of
the floor where Alan waited, a petite and curvaceous redhead clinging to his arm.

  She was all too aware of the speculation running rampant through the watching crowd. Chicago society now knew who she was, that Alan had jilted her and that she had become Roberto’s companion. They anticipated a scene, but Brandi was determined to keep it civilized. After all, Alan had made it more than clear that he didn’t care about her, and she . . . Well, her sapphire earrings had gone far to mend her broken heart. Her earrings—and Roberto.

  “Alan.” She extended her hand. “How good to see you here. You’re back from your honeymoon in Las Vegas, then?”

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t take her hand. Instead he stood looking up at her—in her wedge heels, she was two inches taller—and shook his head in what looked like disbelief.

  The chill of humiliation started, but Brandi would not allow it to control her. Alan had already controlled her through neglect and . . . oh, Kim was right. By an insidious kind of abuse. Lowering her hand, she smiled with quizzical amusement. “Come on, Alan, you walked out on me. You can be civil.”

  Alan looked as if she’d stung him like a wasp. “Don’t be stupid, Brandi. We’re not here to assign blame about who walked out on who.”

  She replied immediately, defensively, before she could stop herself. “I am not stupid, Alan.”

  Alan smirked.

  “And I certainly hope you don’t think I still care whether you walked out on me. I just think you should show some manners.” But it was too late. Her fists and her stomach clenched.

  Beside her, Roberto chuckled. Taking her hand, he smoothed her fingers and lifted them to his lips. “My darling Brandi, I deeply admire your ability to respond appropriately in any occasion.”

  Roberto had wrenched her attention from Alan’s sour and offended face to him. To his warm appreciation, his generous support . . . his height.

  “I would very much like to meet these people.” He smiled broadly enough to show all his teeth. “I’m sure it will be a pleasure.”

  They shared a moment of intense communication. He didn’t think it would be a pleasure, but no matter what happened, he was there to support her. “Of course, Roberto.”

  When she had done the honors, Alan accepted Roberto’s outstretched hand and shook it, then quickly took his hand back.

  Obviously he would have liked to ignore Roberto, except Roberto was too important to ignore. And too big. And from Alan’s point of view, that rather odd sparkle in his dark eyes might look dangerous.

  Fawn looked up at Brandi with the helpless amazement of a toddler viewing her first giraffe. “Alan? Alaannn? Does she have the diamond? Because I want the diamond.”

  “I don’t have the diamond anymore,” Brandi told her gently. “I pawned it.”

  “Oh, no!” Fawn turned to Alan. “She’s a rich lawyer. Let’s sue!”

  Alan ignored his wife. “Brandi! I don’t understand how you could have done something so stupid.”

  Beside her, Roberto lurched forward.

  She stopped him with her hand on his arm.

  Stupid. That was the second time Alan had called her stupid.

  How had he come to assume he had the right to interrogate her and disapprove of her actions? Even now, when their engagement was over? Had she been so weak, so willing to go along with his dictates? Was she like her mother?

  And if that was true, who did that make Alan?

  Her father.

  She stared at him. He looked nothing like her father, but he was the same. He was a manipulator. He was an abuser. And he’d done her a huge favor by dumping her.

  Just as Roberto had done her a huge favor by showing her the way a man should treat a woman.

  She glanced at him.

  Roberto stood absolutely still, his laser gaze fixed on Alan. He might have been waiting for her cue.

  But she could handle Alan. She turned back to him, to the short, petty, unhappy man she could now gladly walk away from. “You don’t understand how I could do something so stupid? Like what? Pawn your ring? Spend the money on a day at the spa, a great dress, and some tall fuck-me shoes?” Her clear voice was carrying across the dance floor.

  Wearing avid expressions, people pressed forward.

  She continued: “Move into my apartment, start work, and get over you in less than a week? My God, Alan, when you got her pregnant”—she nodded at Fawn—“you didn’t even have the guts to tell me not to come to Chicago. I uprooted my life for you, but you had to fly to Las Vegas and get drunk before you dared pick up the phone and admit what a weasel you are. I’m smarter than you, and unlike you, I’m not a coward, so don’t you dare insinuate anything different.”

  In a clear, hard, carrying voice, Alan said, “No, Brandi. If you’re over me so easily, it’s obvious I did the right thing by marrying someone else. I don’t understand how can you dance around the floor of an elegant ballroom draped across that man’s arms like some kind of cheap whore.”

  22

  Dressed in her best black suit with her most dynamic red blouse, her most sensibly hemmed skirt and her highest stiletto heels, Brandi marched down the corridor toward Uncle Charles’s thirty-ninth-story office.

  Behind her, Roberto sauntered like a man out for a summer stroll.

  Uncle Charles’s secretary’s workplace was twice as big as Brandi’s cubicle, and the double doors leading into his private sanctuary were polished black walnut and without a word declared his importance.

  Right now, Brandi didn’t give a damn about his importance.

  She tossed her mother’s warm Gucci coat on a chair. Planting her fists on his secretary’s desk, she leaned over and said, “Tell Mr. McGrath that Brandi Michaels is here to see him.”

  The secretary, a petite young woman with a face carved out of ice and a nameplate that said, MELISSA BECKIN, was not impressed. “Mr. McGrath is very busy right now, but I’ll be glad to pass him a message when it’s convenient for him.”

  Brandi recognized the heat as Roberto walked up behind her. She knew he smiled at Melissa, because that ice melted so quickly she feared a flood. And she hated it when he said, “Brandi and I both need to see Mr. McGrath. Is there any chance you could get us in right now?”

  “Who should I say is asking?” Melissa fluttered like a bird wounded by the arrow of love.

  “Roberto Bartolini.” His Italian accent deepened. “Count Roberto Bartolini.”

  Brandi had never heard him use his title, and she’d liked that. It seemed to indicate some modicum of humility. But obviously he didn’t know the meaning of humility. Or of constraint. Or of the basics of good manners. Last night had proved that beyond all doubt.

  “Let me speak to him.” Melissa shoved her chair back a little too hard and almost toppled backward. “Oops! Sorry. So silly of me.” She stood and sidled toward the door. “I’ll just check and see if . . . Hang on a minute . . . don’t go anywhere. . . .”

  “I’ll be right here waiting . . . for you,” Roberto assured her.

  She fumbled for the doorknob, turned it, and slid inside without ever taking her eyes off Roberto.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Brandi swung on Roberto. “Why did you do that? You ruined her coordination!” Like Brandi really cared. “Were you trying to prove a point?”

  “You wound me, Brandi.” For a man who had danced half the night, he looked remarkably fresh. “You seemed hell-bent on speaking to Charles, so I got you in to see him.”

  “Thank you very much, but don’t do me any more favors! I can’t afford them.”

  “As you wish.” With his hand on his chest, he made a little bow.

  Continental. Suave. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. He was all of those things, and if Brandi weren’t careful, she’d be roadkill beneath his wheels, because she found him just as irresistible as did poor Melissa.

  But she’d learned her lesson, and irresistible wasn’t nearly enough for her. She wanted respect, damn it, and she was going to get it if she had to wrin
g it out of Roberto’s thick neck with her bare hands.

  Melissa opened the door and smiled at Roberto. “Mr. McGrath will see you now.”

  “Thank you.” He strode toward her, his long legs eating up the space between them.

  Brandi watched, sure of his intentions, biding her time.

  “Signorina, you have been so helpful.” He took Melissa’s hand and bowed over it.

  Melissa fluttered like a bird enthralled by a snake.

  By Roberto, the snake.

  Brandi moved closer to the door.

  He lifted Melissa’s fingers to his lips. “Grazie molto.”

  While he was gazing into Melissa’s eyes, Brandi slipped past him and into Uncle Charles’s office.

  Roberto whipped around.

  Melissa whipped around.

  The two of them stared, appalled, as she smiled and shut the door in their faces. She flipped the lock and turned to face Uncle Charles.

  The old guy was dwarfed by his huge leather chair and broad wooden desk. “I’m so glad to see you. Come and give me a kiss on the cheek.” He cocked his head, his eyes bright like some inquisitive, baldheaded bird. “How is your mother this morning? As beautiful as ever?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t up when we left.” In fact, Tiffany had been only a lump in the bed next to Brandi both last night when Brandi came in and this morning before she left, and she hadn’t stirred to even offer her daughter a good-bye kiss. Brandi didn’t really blame her—she could probably tell Brandi was furious by the way she moved, and Tiffany never looked for confrontation.

  “Ah.” Uncle Charles smiled. “Then what are you here about?”

  “I am here about that man.” She pointed through the door at Roberto. “Do you know what he did?”

  Uncle Charles leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You’ve got ten minutes to tell me.” He sounded brisk, no longer kindly Uncle Charles but the busy head of a large law firm.

  “Last night he took me to three different parties and he treated me like arm candy.” She stalked toward the desk. “He showed me off to the businessmen of Chicago as his ‘lawyer.’” She created quotation marks with her fingers. “He took me to a party with his low-life Italian gangster friends and their mistresses, patted me on the fanny, and told me to go talk to the other ladies because he had business.”