Bad Reputation

by Stefanie London

  Instead, they’d served her Veuve Clicquot and macarons, and invited her to use any of the bottles of Chanel perfume that were meant for their clients.

  Chanel. Veuve. Your bill is covered in full.

  What parallel dimension have I fallen into?

  Remi watched the city crawl by through the limousine’s window as she smoothed her hands down the front of her new dress. The silvery-white fabric was decorated with tiny beads and seed pearls that caught the light, twinkling like the Manhattan skyline. She should have been pinching herself. Getting dressed up and going to a cocktail party was her favorite hobby. Instead, she felt more away from home than ever.

  Perhaps it was the pressure. She wasn’t here to enjoy herself. She was here to be paraded around. Shown off. Wes wanted her to charm people the way she’d supposedly charmed him. But that was before he’d had any expectations and before she had something to lose.

  Panic clawed up the back of her throat and her fists bunched against her thighs. What if tonight was a complete disaster and she made a fool of him? Of herself? Would he let her go as easily as her ex had?

  This is totally different. It’s work, not personal. You’re still the ballerina he chose for his show.

  Not personal? Had she suddenly forgotten that they’d shared a mind-melting kiss only days ago?

  Do not think about the kiss. Do not think about the kiss. Do not think about the kiss.

  Shit. She was definitely thinking about it. And worse still, the show would only go ahead if they could secure another investor.

  “We’re going to stop here for a minute, Ms. Drysdale.” The driver caught her gaze in the rearview mirror. His shiny, black cap and crisp, white shirt seemed so formal. Stuffy.

  Remi swallowed. “Okay.”

  She dug her hand into the absurdly tiny clutch the personal shopper had picked out for her—an abstract, black creation that looked like a gleaming chunk of onyx more than it did a bag—and found her mirror. The makeup artist at the MAC Cosmetics counter had done a lovely job, making her already big eyes seem even bigger with smoky purple shadows and a set of thick, fluttery false lashes.

  You’re being ridiculous. You love makeup, you love shoes and fancy dresses and tiny bags. This is your jam. Stop being such a wuss.

  Before she could send herself further into a negative-thought spiral, the door opened. Remi held her breath as Wes climbed in, the visual of him blanking out the worries in her head. The man wore a tuxedo so well it was borderline criminal. The black jacket fit him like a dream, accentuating his broad shoulders. The pants were even better still, hugging his muscular thighs and making his already-long legs look longer. And though his hair was loosely styled, it was still touchable enough that her fingers twitched with the instinct to reach out.

  He slid over the back seat to sit next to her, and she was hit with a heady mix of amber and citrus, a contrast of notes rich and crisp. A hint of him underneath.

  Legs together, eyes up. This is a work function.

  Yeah right, like she had that kind of willpower.

  “You look incredible.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek, his burgeoning stubble giving her skin the slightest friction. But it may as well have been a stun gun. A ripple of excitement shot down the length of her spine, and she shivered.

  “Are you cold?” He frowned. “I’ll get the driver to turn the heat up.”

  “You brought a bit of a breeze in with you.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “I’m fine, promise.”

  His eyes lingered appreciatively on where the dress split over her thigh. The neckline was delicate and modest, her back reasonably covered, and the hem swept across the floor, even in her stilt-like heels. If she was standing, the slit wouldn’t even be noticeable. But in the back of the limo, it gave a generous glimpse of skin and Wes didn’t look away.

  “So.” She clapped her hands together and forced herself to act like they were nothing more than two friends. “Tell me the who’s who of the Upper East Side. What do I need to know for tonight?”

  And like that, the tension evaporated. Wes leaned back and buckled himself in, his expression easy and light. This was Business Wes. Director Wes. And he slipped back into that mode with ease. Maybe too much ease.

  So what? You’re the one setting the boundaries. Why would that be a problem?

  Dammit. Why did her head and her lady parts have to disagree about everything? They were like The Odd Couple.

  Did you really just refer to your brain and your vagina as The Odd Couple?

  “It’s the American Ballet Theatre’s holiday preview, so everyone from the company will be there. Everyone important, anyway.” He drummed his fingers against his thigh. Remi watched the silent, even beat, trying not to remember how those strong, long-fingered hands had slipped up her body and torn the fabric of her top right off the elastic. “All the big donors will be there, and they usually have a few government representatives. Anyone in charge of arts funding. Heads of all the major ballet schools too, along with their wunderkinds.”

  “Does that mean your parents will be there?”

  He looked at her intently for a moment. “Yes.”

  That was it. In the short time she’d known Wes, there were only a few topics on which he had little to say. His parents were at the top of that list.

  “Sadie is going to meet us there,” he added, moving the conversation quickly on. “I could only get a few tickets tonight, so it’ll be the three of us from Out of Bounds.”

  Remi had to hold in a sigh of relief. At least that was one stressor off her head for the night. No other cast members meant not having to worry about them watching her with Wes. She had this horrible feeling that, as much as she tried to ignore their chemistry, her attraction to him was seeping out of every pore like a bloody pheromone.

  They rounded the corner at Fifth Avenue and Ninety-First and the Guggenheim slowly came into view. The building’s unique round design had always appealed to Remi. It was of another time. Old and yet futuristic. A contradiction. The smooth whiteness of the curved surface felt endless, like if you followed the building all the way around, you might end up somewhere else entirely.

  The traffic slowed as they approached the museum and several other cars ahead stopped to let people in fancy ball gowns and tuxedos out. Important ballet people. It wasn’t a group she ever thought she’d join again.

  “How could you have been so stupid?” Melody said, her hands rubbing up and down her face. “After all the help I gave you, all the advice. You were going places, Remi. Shit, you could have gone anywhere. Why did you throw that all away?”

  “I didn’t think anyone would find out.” Tears streamed down her face, the ache in her chest worse than any muscular pain she’d ever experienced after a grueling rehearsal. Worse than the blisters and the broken toenails and the hairline fracture in her wrist. She pressed a hand to her stomach, instinct making her protective. “It was supposed to be a secret.”

  “Well, you’re even dumber than I thought. You know how people gossip here. They live for it. And you.” She jabbed Remi in the chest. Hard. “Those rich bitches want to see people like you and me fail. They don’t think we belong and they want us out. And you handed them your head on a silver platter, didn’t you? All because you couldn’t keep your legs shut.”

  “Stop.” The sobs turned to heaving shudders. But Melody was right. How could she have risked all this? Her future, all those hours of hard work. All the sacrifices. All the fights with her parents.

  “You knew she wanted him. You knew that her word would always be worth more than yours. More than any of ours.”

  “Why should she get to say who belongs with who?” Her eyes stung as her mascara ran, turning her vision blurry and blackened. “We can decide for ourselves.”

  “He decided, all right.” Melody picked Remi’s duffel bag up from the floor and held it
out. “He chose his career over you. You should have done the same.”

  “Remi?” Wes’s hand landed softly on her shoulder. “Have you changed your mind?”

  She blinked as a horn blared behind them. A chilly fall breeze blew into the limo through the open door as Wes waited on the sidewalk, his hand outstretched.

  “No, of course not.” She slid her palm against his and allowed him to help her out of the car. “Just preparing myself.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Or how do you Aussies say it? She’ll be right?”

  Wes’s terrible attempt at an Australian accent brought a smile to her lips. It was amazing how he did that—cut through her stress and doubt. Grounded her. “She’ll be right, mate.”

  “Mate. Of course.” He grinned. “How could I forget?”

  Remi’s feet protested the height of her new shoes as she steadied herself on the pavement. The personal shopper had insisted on a pair of open-toed sandals until Remi had proven to her that ballerina’s feet were the most ungraceful part of their bodies and the lady had promptly produced a pair of pumps with a pointed toe. Elegant, yes. But they would be even more murderous than her pointe shoes.

  “Clearly you need to watch Crocodile Dundee a few more times,” she said, slipping her arm through his so they could walk in together. “Homework. I want you to report back on Monday.”

  “Don’t challenge me, Reminiscent.” His grin turned wolfish.

  “Watch me, Wesley.”

  He laughed, and the deep, rich sound spread through her body like a bushfire. No matter how many times she reinforced her boundaries, he seemed to smash through them without even trying.

  They were stopped at the entrance by a security guard in a black suit who wanted to check their tickets. As Wes fished the thick, embossed cardboard out of the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, Remi looked up. The feeling of being watched trickled through her, sending ice skittering down her spine.

  After scanning the museum’s entry, she found the source of that uneasy, prickling sensation. Lilah. Judging by her arched, black brow, the surprise was mutual. Their gazes locked and Lilah’s lips tilted up into a cold smile.

  Crap.

  * * *

  At one point, Wes would have breezed into an event like this without a care in the world. He would have stopped to talk at least three or four times before making it to the rotunda, where the event was being held. A drink would have been pressed into his hand, palms slapped onto his back. Because he was one of them.

  Or at least he used to be.

  Right now, he was grateful to have Remi on his arm. The woman was a knockout in a leotard and leg warmers. But in a dress that fit her like a second skin, fabric shimmering like the scales of a mythical creature, she was otherworldly. Which meant all eyes were on her. And he was perfectly happy with that.

  He nodded to a waiter and the young man came right over so Wes could pluck a champagne flute from the gleaming, silver tray. “Here,” he said to Remi, handing the glass over. “You’ll need this.”

  “Fortification?” She raised a brow and accepted the flute, bringing it straight to her lips. “I think you might be right about that.”

  The people who’d once felt like “his” people were now distant. Walking into the Ronald O. Perelman Rotunda was like returning home a pariah. Eyes that would have once found his now avoided him. People who would have come to his side now slid past.

  Had his mother been doing the rounds? Or was this more to do with the Bad Bachelors reviews? In the conservative ballet world, such exposure would be frowned upon. But he wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

  “Do you get the impression everyone is staring at us?” she asked.

  “It’s hard not to stare at you in that dress.” He placed his hand at the small of her back, thanking the gods that it wasn’t skin-to-skin contact. Feeling the heat and life pulsing through her, feeling the smooth dip at her back, might’ve had “unsociable” consequences.

  As it was, he was having a hell of a time restraining himself. He respected Remi’s wishes, of course, but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t thought about their kiss. About what he’d wanted to do next. About backing her up against a wall right now and delving a hand between her legs.

  “Such a smooth talker,” she said under her breath. “You make it look so easy.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not supposed to be?”

  “Not everyone goes through life always knowing the right thing to say, always having a line on hand.” She stared out into the crowd, champagne flute hovering by her lips.

  “You think it’s a line?”

  “Do you always return a statement with a question?” She turned, something murky and uncertain simmering in the depths of her eyes. Tonight, with all that sexy, smudgy makeup, they looked so big and so richly brown.

  “I don’t censor myself. I say what I think, and if that happens to be a question, I ask it.” He scanned the room. Most of the faces were familiar—dancers who’d trained with his parents and had gone on to work with the American Ballet Theatre. Friends of his parents. Everywhere he turned, there were ties to them. “Out of the two of us, it’s more the opposite. You’re the one who doesn’t say what you think.”

  “Excuse me?” She blinked. “Since when?”

  “The other night.” He lowered his voice, leaned in to her, and let the scent of flowers on her skin wash through him. Normally he hated the oversweet, synthetic scent of perfume, but it seemed to melt on her. Become part of her. “When you kissed me.”

  “You started it,” she hissed.

  “You want to watch the replay on that, Remi? I helped you down from the chair as any friend would.”

  “Friend,” she scoffed. “Puh-lease.”

  “I helped you and my hands were at ten and two. I wasn’t pushing you. Not like that.” His voice was practically a growl—the mélange of anxiety about tonight, anger about his family trouble, and frustration at the fact that he wanted her so fucking bad all working him up. “I didn’t lean in. You did. Now I’m not complaining, but at least own your actions.”

  Her mouth popped open into a surprised O shape, the gloss on her lips glinting in the light. “My, my. Who knew Mr. Genial had claws?”

  “Mr. Genial?” He rolled his eyes. “Wow.”

  “What’s wrong with being nice?”

  “It’s boring.” He narrowed his eyes. “And don’t try to change the subject.”

  “This really isn’t the place to be discussing this,” she said primly.

  Right, so now she wanted to act all prim and proper. The other night she’d been an open flame, scorching hot. Her tongue and lips and hands all burning him to ash. Each night he’d been haunted by that kiss, temptation twisting in his mind. Creating scenarios he knew he couldn’t act on.

  “We are going to talk about it,” he said. “You’re hot one minute, cold the next. I want to respect your ‘no mixing business and pleasure’ thing, but you’re giving me some confusing signals.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “No response, huh? That’s what I thought.” Did it make him a bastard to feel so incredibly smug that he’d backed her into a corner? Probably. But dammit, the whole Mr. Genial thing stung. Maybe he was too nice. Chantel always said as much when they were growing up. He let his parents lead him around, let himself be molded by expectation. Let people use him.

  “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” She laid a palm on his arm. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “In what world is ‘Mr. Genial’ a compliment?” he grumbled.

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like it’s stopped you from getting anywhere in the dating scene.” She huffed. “You might not be a bastard playboy, but you’ve had your share of beautiful women.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Her express
ion turned sheepish. “I may have looked you up.”

  “Where?” If she said the name of that fucking website—

  “Bad Bachelors.”

  He let a growl rumble in the back of his throat. “Not you too.”

  “What’s so bad about it?”

  “Other than what I said at dinner the other night? I thought the whole point of dating was to figure out if a person was right for you without any preconceptions. But maybe that’s just me.”

  “Dating is tough. I guess some people feel like any form of safeguarding is better than nothing,” she explained, though her tone wasn’t exactly rock solid. “It’s not always safe for women out in the big, bad dating jungle. And I don’t mean emotionally.”

  “I understand that.”

  “If you’re not the kind of guy who hurts women, it probably wouldn’t occur to you,” she said. “I know that’s obviously not what people are talking about when they’re reviewing you, but it might explain why it was created.”

  Possibly. But even if that was the case, Bad Bachelors was flawed in many ways.

  “I don’t care that people want to write reviews, but it would be better if the site wasn’t completely open to the public.” He sighed. “I don’t give a shit what people say, but I don’t want it affecting my work. Besides, why did you care about my dating history?”

  “I was researching.” The defensive words were belied by the guilty way she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I wanted to know who I was working with.”

  “Then why didn’t you look at Dance Magazine? Or Pointe magazine? Or the New York Times?” Countless legitimate publications had covered the Evans Ballet School. If she were really concerned with due diligence, she wouldn’t have been looking at a gutter-dwelling gossip site.

  An uneasy sensation settled in his gut. What if her reason for looking him up on Bad Bachelors was more nefarious? He thought their kiss held real passion. He thought the tension between them was organic. Without ulterior motives.

  But it wouldn’t be the first time someone had courted his attention for their own personal gain. Remi didn’t have an entrée into the world here. Was it possible her initial refusal was nothing more than a tactic to tempt him further?