“And you found it here,” Matt said, clapping her on the shoulder. “I knew you were something special. So what’s your real name?”
“Kristen Lowe,” she said at the same time as Dalton said, “Isadora Bennett.”
She’d understudied for Isadora Bennett once, and people had remarked on their similarity of appearance. She’d always thought the ballet uniform of practice outfits and slicked-back hair made them look the same, but now she had no choice.
She’d created this fucking lie, and she had to live with it. Isadora was on maternity leave right now, but she hadn’t wanted to announce it publicly.
Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. She’d just lied through her teeth again. But she couldn’t let them use the dancer’s name. Isadora would have ten shades of kittens if she heard what Kristen had done. “You can’t use that name here.” She spread her hands in mute apology. “Contractual obligations, you know. You’ll have to go with the more ordinary Kristen Lowe.”
“Did you sign a contract?” Matt asked Nathan quickly.
He glanced at her. “No, but that shouldn’t be a problem, should it, Kristen? We’ll just have to offer you the right amount.” Then he named a sum that made her go cold, then hot again.
“You can’t use the Isadora name or admit that you even know her,” she said. “You should give me what you’d give a new dancer.”
His brow arched. “How do you know that’s not what I just did?”
If he had, he’d have taken a zero off the amount. “Just give me what I’m worth.”
“Okay, how about we give you what we’d give a principal dancer here, plus a percentage of the take when you’re performing?”
She could live with that. At least she’d earn it. And she’d headed the other problem off at the pass. If she insisted they didn’t use Isadora’s name, or even refer to her in the publicity, she could cope. Not that many people over here would have heard of Isadora, surely? A dancer who’d always stayed on the other side of the Atlantic wouldn’t be well-known here by most people. “That sounds good.”
“After all,” Nathan said, moving closer to slip his arm around her waist and murmur in her ear. “You did say you wanted a new challenge.”
She knew he didn’t mean the dance.
Chapter Six
“For the record, I still think this is a bad idea.” Stu shoved a wayward lock of hair back and glanced at Kristen before turning his attention back to the road. They were driving past the club, and outside on a billboard there was that poster. The one that had gone up two days after she’d signed the contract.
There it was, a silhouette of Isadora Bennett in one of her most famous poses, the Dying Swan one. They’d blacked out her body, as if the lights behind were throwing her into profile, and put a teasing sentence underneath. Can you guess who it is? Come and find out!
The poster shamed Kristen, but she couldn’t do anything about it. The club had the right to promote her any way it liked, as long as it didn’t refer to Isadora by name.
“I’ve never done anything that stupid.” Stu turned a corner, and the club disappeared out of sight.
Kristen breathed a sigh of relief. “Says the would-be Goth,” she answered, deciding to do a bit of diversion. “Why did you decide to grow your hair? If you can’t afford a good haircut, I’d be happy to contribute.”
Stu scowled, looking like the boy he’d only recently left behind. That was despite the straggly dark hair. Had he dyed it? She could have sworn it was a lighter shade when he left home for the university. At first she’d put the lighter color down to the effects of the sun of their home, but now she wasn’t so sure.
His clothes were a kind of mix between Goth and new age, with a bit of grunge. Blacks, browns, with the occasional touch of purple and white. Today he wore all black, since he needed to for work.
Stu negotiated a junction before he spoke again. “I like it. So what? At least it’s my choice. The only thing they insist on at work is the black clothes. It’s fun, and I should experiment.”
That sounded like something somebody else had told him. Did he have a secret girlfriend? Certainly their aunt knew nothing, but that didn’t mean Stu wasn’t seeing someone.
“So are you with anybody?”
Stu shot her a dark look at the same time as taking corner, and Kristen regretted her question. She should have waited until the next set of traffic lights. “What’s it to you? Are you with the owner of Maskerade? Is there more to it than work?” He gave her another sly glance. “Are you fucking him?”
“Stu!” Not that the word bothered her, but her brother using it did, although she supposed it shouldn’t. He was twenty, after all.
When he laughed, she tightened her lips, refusing to answer his question. “You are, aren’t you? What a catch! He’s worth a bundle.”
“It’s not like that. Dancers have to get close and personal, so sometimes it happens, that’s all. He won’t even remember my name after I finish at the club. We dance well together, although he’s bringing somebody else in to partner me.”
Stu frowned and took another corner, nearly going on two wheels to do it. “So what’s the deal? Is he pimping you out or something?”
“No, he fucking is not!” She’d forgotten her resolve not to curse in front of her brother. Well, he was doing it, so what the hell? And he’d annoyed her, irritation adding to her anxiety.
Because what if he was right? What if she was a temporary toy, something to amuse the rich boy? Well, two could play at that game. If Nathan turned her into a great burlesque dancer, that would be enough for her, and they’d both move on, having gotten what they wanted from the relationship.
She hadn’t noticed they’d arrived on Lake Shore Drive. But Stu parked outside Nathan’s elegant building, his ratty old VW an incongruous vehicle to be stopping outside an address this posh.
Despite the freezing weather, Nathan was standing outside, effortlessly elegant, one booted foot propped against the wall he was leaning on. He was wearing black too, but his shirt was crisply laundered, the collar raised, curving around his throat like a bad fairy’s collar. His jeans fitted him just right. Not tight enough to show if he was circumcised or not—he wasn’t—but displaying strong thighs and an intriguing bulge at his crotch that she had reason to know didn’t disappoint.
He headed toward the car, his graceful stride betraying what she was too lust-crazed to recognize when she’d first met him. This man was a dancer, probably a born one. The smooth ripple of muscle, the easy strength, betrayed him.
“Stop looking at him like a groupie,” Stu grumbled.
“I wasn’t.” But she bent to pick up her weekend bag, which was lying at her feet, there not being much room for it to go anywhere else.
She scrambled out of the car, only to have Nathan grip her elbow firmly. “Steady. There’s ice here.”
He kept hold of her while he spoke to Stu. “Who are you?”
Stu gave Kristen a guilty glance. “Just a friend with a car,” he said. “She doesn’t have one anymore.” Isadora Bennett didn’t have brothers, which anyone with a computer could discover in an instant.
Nathan grinned. “That’s right, she doesn’t. I’ll give you a hand with that.” He peered inside the car windows at her suitcases. “Okay, let’s bring everything inside.”
He took them to a stunning apartment. Small, true, but beautifully decorated. A comfortable living room with a kitchen area separated by a breakfast bar. The bathroom led off the kitchen. She expected something soulless like a hotel room, since he’d said he used it for visitors, but the décor was mint-green and cream, fresh without being unfriendly, and it was furnished with elegant sparseness.
Stu went to kiss her cheek, as he usually did, changing it to an awkward hug. “See you around.”
“Sure.”
“I’m only along the street from Maskerade. Come around sometime.” His belongings were in the car too, and he was moving into the apartment above the place where he worked.
> Nathan watched the exchange without comment and murmured to Stu, “I’ll see you out.” He turned back to her at the doorway. “From now until the weekend, we rehearse.”
“I…saw the poster,” she said.
He smiled. “Good, isn’t it? When we open, we’ll replace it with one of you dancing. Everyone will have the message by then.”
Fuck. She hoped not.
* * * *
“Stick your ass in and push your hips to one side. Put your weight right over your foot.”
She spun around to confront her slave driver. “I’m a dancer, not a contortionist.”
Nathan raised a brow but said nothing. Grumbling, she went back to her task.
Nathan’s apartment mirrored his country home, in that he had one large room and several smaller ones leading off it. The room was two stories high, a huge expanse in one of the most expensive areas in Chicago. But the décor was rigidly modern—glass, black leather, and chrome, with a blond wood floor. A big mirror occupied the wall between two of the windows. No barre, but with the furniture pushed back, this was a great practice room.
She stared up at the skylight that was presently covered with a fresh coating of snow. The promised storm had finally arrived and with it fresh chaos on the roads. Just as well she didn’t have to get public transport to reach the club or travel miles to get there.
Smokey had to deal with the slush as it was trodden into the club’s entrance hall. She stopped for a word with him every time she entered the club. Unlike a theater, the staff could enter through the front door, which was a nice change. She’d taken to using it, exchanging a smile and a few words with the friendly doorman.
Not that Nathan cared, or so it seemed. But he knew every member of staff by name and details about their lives. Of course, Kristen knew his secret, his telepathic techniques. He could skim a mind and extract superficial information better than a stage mind reader. He didn’t need an assistant with coded messages.
She knew when he touched her mind. She felt a tingle in the forehead, just above her eyes, in the place where the Hindus said the first chakra was situated, then warmth and thoughts not her own.
He spoke to her sometimes, amused at her starts when she realized what he was doing. He’d nudge dirty words in there, suggestions of what they’d do once they were alone. Shocked, she’d lift her head and glare and find him smiling. His lips rarely moved, but the sensation in her mind was there—gentle warmth, more seductive than anything else she could remember.
Except feeling his lips on hers, his body inside hers. That was the best of all. She was addicted to Nathan. She couldn’t get enough of him. He was a busy man. Even with their rehearsals and the marathon sex sessions they indulged in, he found time to work on plans for the clubs. They’d blocked out the dances, and she and Steve, her partner, were working hard on them.
Steve was due to arrive later, but Nathan already had her working. Her official dance partner was handsome and knew how to dance. He had the polish of a champion, and Kristen picked the movements up easily. She’d always been a quick learner.
Today Nathan wanted her to tango. The Argentine tango, although she protested that it didn’t fit with the theme they’d chosen. Or rather, he’d chosen.
“Did Regency rakes do the tango?” she demanded, hands on hips.
“They’d have done it if they thought it would get them what they wanted. Lift your chin. Glare at me. Yes, just like that.”
That part of his instructions she found easy. Much too easy.
He was watching her from a distance. This room was long, like a gallery, and one side of it was window, but it was all window with a broad balcony outside. He had the penthouse, of course, so the view over the lake was spectacular. It was still icy out, so she hadn’t ventured onto the balcony.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t sweating now. She wore a T-shirt and a small skirt together with spiky heels that she was finding more than troublesome. She wasn’t used to dancing in them. The calluses on her feet were designed for different shoes—ballet shoes, soft slippers, and point shoes. The heels on these fuckers threw her weight forward.
Nathan frowned. “That’s better. I want you to get a feel for Latin. We could play at gaucho and dance-hall worker.”
His phone rang, and with a sound of annoyance, he unclipped it from his belt. “Just as we were getting to the good stuff,” he muttered and then barked, “Yes?” After listening for a moment, he said, “I’ll be there.” Glanced at her. “We’ll be there.” With a shrug, he told her, “I’m wanted at the club. Some kind of mix-up with the liquor order. We can practice there. I’ll tell Steve of the change of plan.” He tapped a text into his cell.
He checked the time before he put his phone away. “Just throw something on top of what you’re wearing, but bring the waltz shoes.”
She sighed with relief. They were an inch lower, and it made a lot of difference.
“I’ll teach you the bourrée, and we’ll work on the polka. I want to see if we get any ideas.”
“But I’m sweaty!”
“I’ve never been afraid of a bit of fresh sweat.” With one of the swift movements she was learning was typical of him, he pulled her close and kissed her. “If we had more time, I’d prove it. I might do that after we’ve worked some more.”
She was also learning that Nathan was a hard taskmaster, but she didn’t care because he was fair. He gave her praise when she deserved it but kept her working. He wanted to debut their dance next week.
Although she had her own place, she spent every night in his bed. They got mutually sweaty then and had the pleasure of sharing his large walk-in shower or the tub. After four days, they’d slipped into what was dangerously close to a routine. Punctuated by lavish sex. They couldn’t get enough of each other.
She grabbed her coat, the big woolen coat that had seen her through a few winters in her hometown. After throwing it on, she followed him through to the elevator that led down to the garage.
They used his all-weather vehicle. More like a luxury tank than a regular car, although he did say he needed it to get to the house in the country. That meant he wasn’t one of those idiots who drove cars meant for wide-open spaces in the city.
In the car she slid on her boots. He’d bought them for her to replace her soaked ones. He’d wanted to buy her more, but she’d said enough. The luxury of fur-lined waterproof leather had made her sigh with delight.
The drive to the club wasn’t a long one. In better weather it was easily walkable, but now with fresh snow thick on the ground, the car was the faster option. Plus, Nathan had his own parking space. He used it, waited for her to get out, and grabbed his thick flying jacket—an original, he told her, from World War II. An antique, she’d said, but he’d only laughed.
She loved that he held his hand out to take hers. He’d made no secret of their relationship. She liked that too. No subterfuge.
They used the front entrance, and Kristen received her first shock of the day. Coming to a sudden halt, she stared at the new billboards outside Maskerade. “What’s that?”
The shadowy figures of a man and a woman confronted her. They were both dressed in Regency costume, and Kristen’s gown was transparent. “I don’t have the costume yet.”
“A little computer graphic work and there you go. Like it?”
“I—I don’t know.” She’d dreamed of seeing her picture outside a theater, of her name in lights. Now she had one because the woman was her.
Meet the new dancer at the club, our mystery woman!
“I’m a mystery woman?”
“Only until opening night,” he said. “Then they get your name. Or do you want to use your stage name after all?”
They hadn’t removed the other poster, of Isadora in silhouette. “No, I can’t use Isadora Bennett.” Mainly because she wasn’t her.
He sighed theatrically. “A shame.”
She knew how to prevent him reading her thoughts by now, instinct showing her how to p
ush them deep, where he didn’t venture. So she was safe in her regret. In any case, he would misread it as regret that she couldn’t use the name, not regret that she’d said that stupid thing in the first place. She’d thought about confiding in him, but in all likelihood, he’d fire her and throw her out.
“Do you want a new stage name?”
She shook her head. For once she’d see her name on a billboard. For once she’d be a leading lady.
“Hey, Kriss!”
Kristen spun around, nearly losing her balance in the slippery snow. Nathan caught her and kept on holding her. He glared at the man approaching them. Stu.
He grinned unrepentantly. “This is a change from the ballet, isn’t it?”
“Did you come to see Kristen?” Nathan asked coldly.
“I work at Vampire Heaven.” He gestured to the place down the street. “But I’m studying at St. Paul. I was heading for the library.” He glanced down at the battered laptop case in one hand.
Kristen wanted to snap that she was glad to hear it, since Stu hadn’t exactly concentrated on his studies since she’d arrived in Chicago.
Nathan drew her closer so she stood under the shelter of his arm. “Do you want to come in?”
Stu flushed. “No— Yes, I guess. Thanks. Just for a minute.”
Nathan gave him a long look and then turned and led the way inside.
Smokey smiled at her and gave Stu a calculated stare before nodding and letting him through. Kristen couldn’t blame him. Stu was dressed in what had become his habitual wear—black clothes, a ripped T-shirt, and studs. The ones in his left ear were real, but the nose and mouth studs were fake, as was the tattoo around his neck that said Cut here. The club provided those and required employees to wear them as well as the little bottle of “blood” he wore around his neck.
Stu grinned and flashed his tongue-stud. Another real addition, and one Kristen didn’t particularly like, although she wondered what kissing someone with that decoration was like.
The Thorndyke Trilogy 2: Dancing at Midnight Page 9
