Di disconnected the phone. She walked into her bedroom where she tossed her phone onto her unmade bed and undressed as she went to the bathroom. Di stepped into the shower and turned on the spray. When the cold water hit her tight nipples, she moaned, needing release from the relentless pressure coiled inside her. She slapped the cold tile, angry at her lack of self-control. Angry that the memory of that one night with Van still got to her.
She grabbed the bath sponge and scrubbed her skin until it stung as she thought about tomorrow night. Soon her resolve and focus returned. Not only would she win this bet, she’d make sure Van lost his legendary composure. Again.
2
“Wow, you look more nervous than you did when you auditioned for your first Broadway show.”
Anne Northrop, Di’s long-time friend and the best choreographer in the city, stood calmly, arms crossed, in the corner of the private dressing room. Di glanced at her Aussie friend, but kept pacing as she focused on trying to breathe. “What was I thinking?”
Anne stood and pushed away from the wall. “I don’t think you were thinking, love. Thank God I came along to help.”
The day before, Di had been toiling away on a burlesque routine to “Lady Marmalade” at Anne’s dance studio, not feeling it after hours of work. Anne had taken one look and brutally told Di what she’d known all along. She needed something more contemporary. So, Anne had taken charge. She’d texted a friend to design a laser light show that would lend the illusion that she was stripping when she wasn’t. She’d changed the music to an upbeat Jessie J number, and she’d called in a costume designer to dress Di.
Standing before the full-length mirror, Di had to admit she’d never looked sexier. A red satin tuxedo jacket with black lapels and one crystal-studded button to hold it together and cover the essentials. It stopped at the top of her thighs leaving the lower curves of her butt showing beneath the high-cut black brief. A set of nude silicone nipple covers made it appear she was naked under the jacket. She wore her hair in loose curls that spilled down her back. Dramatic make-up with dark, smoky eye shadow and red lips completed the look. That and a pair of sky-high red stilettos that made her knee ache. She grabbed her bag and popped an ibuprofen.
“You look amazing, Di. Remember, it’s three minutes. With the laser show Todd is running, you won’t even see the audience. So, just dance your heart out. Exude sex. It’ll be over before you know it.”
Di nodded just before the door opened and a man in a black suit walked in. “Ms. Jenson, I’m Jeff Smith, the stage manager. Five minutes to your performance. If you’ll follow me?”
Di took a deep breath trying to soothe her nerves. She shook her hands.
“Hey,” Anne said, coming close and cupping Di’s elbows. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I have to do this,” Di said.
“And why was that again?”
Di fingered the drop lariat necklace that felt cold between her breasts.
“Ms. Jenson?” the stage manager said.
Anne glanced over at the stage manager and said, “Give us a second.” After he’d walked outside, she said, “I’ve heard things about Vanzant. He’s not someone you want to take on,” Anne said softly. “He operates on a level neither of us can even understand.”
“I don’t think it’s all that complicated,” Di said.
“That man is the definition of complicated, Di, and that’s why he’s so intriguing to you.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
Another knock on the door, and the stage manger opened it to say, “Miss Jenson? You’re up.”
Di raised a brow, looking at Anne. “Show time.”
* * *
Van checked his watch for the thousandth time, hoping, praying, Di would have a change of heart. The stage lights went dark and the deep voice of the club emcee announced, “Welcome to the Vanz stage, for an exclusive one-time appearance, Lady D.”
A spotlight hit her back as a slow guitar solo screamed through the speakers. “Jesus . . .” Van said under his breath. She wore a red satin jacket that didn’t quite conceal the curve of her sweet ass. Long, dark, wavy hair swayed in time with her movements. Her toned legs were spread wide, balancing on red “fuck me” heels with thick, rhinestone-studded cuffs at her ankles. As Jessie J began to sing about walking through the fire, Di began to swing her hips in time to the beat, each movement revealing tantalizing glimpses of more of her perfect butt. A few snaps of her fingers, and the tempo increased. Then she turned.
A hush fell over the audience, all eyes focused on her, mesmerized. She stepped around a simple black chair in a series of complicated but quick moves designed to make men lose their minds. Dear God. Only one button held her jacket together, and she wasn’t wearing anything underneath except for a trendy, black satin high-waist brief. Her long hair concealed her face. She kept her eyes down, not looking at the audience, which added to the spell she cast.
The words of the song . . . something about sex and dripping in sweat, then quick breaths, his or the singer’s, he couldn’t tell, then her hips pumping in time to the sound, mimicking the kind of moves he’d only dreamed of making with her. And now hundreds of other men were having the same fantasy. Van tipped the glass to his mouth and downed a double-shot of Crown in one burning gulp. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth as the lights went black and a series of red lasers slashed across the stage in a complicated pattern, framing Di’s dark silhouette as she appeared to slide the jacket off her shoulders in slow motion. She turned, teasing the audience with the curve of her breast.
The lights came up just as he set his glass on the table. She had the jacket back on and faced the audience with the chair in front of her. She was swinging her hips slow, like she had at the beginning of the dance, making him wonder if he’d just imagined her topless up there a second ago. As a rap section of the song began, she did her thing, working the chair as a prop, moving around it, sitting, standing, lunging, executing high, arcing kicks over the chair’s back. Then she turned to the side and bent over, giving the audience beside the stage a nice crotch shot, while those in front of her got a mouth-watering view of her cleavage. But not to worry, she reversed the move so no one was left out. No one but idiots like him who’d seated themselves center stage, in front.
Then the singer repeated a phrase about burning up and needing to be put out over and over and over until Van became quite certain he was the one on fire, and no one but Di could douse the flames. The laser show began again, and the jacket came off. Again. The smoke machine came on, and fog rose across the stage while Di continued to stoke the flames her dance created.
Abruptly, the song ended. The house lights came up. The stage was empty. Nothing remained but dissipating smoke and the chair, with a red satin jacket draped across its back. Silence hung heavy over the room. Applause erupted and most of the men and women watching stood, looking around for the woman who’d just woven a spell over what was without a doubt a jaded, sophisticated, and hard to impress clientele.
His hosts manned iPads, their fingers moving rapidly over their surfaces as requests for private dances with Lady D blew up their devices. The club manager, Sam Collins, approached him. After taking a seat at the table with Van, he leaned in and said, “Where did you find her, and how do we get her in the lineup?”
Van motioned to the waiter for another drink. “I told you. She’s a one-time deal.”
Sam checked his device, following the summary of requests coming in. “Shit.” Van raised his brow in response, prompting the manager to elaborate. “The app crashed with people trying to request table dances even though she’s not on the list.” His fingers moved on the iPad, then he tossed it onto the table. “The number of requests for private dances in the executive suite was approaching twenty and rising, but the system’s crashed.” Sam stood. “I gotta go reboot.” He smiled. “At $10K a dance, it’s gonna be a record night, Boss.”
“No private dances,” Van said softly as Sam moved aw
ay.
The man stopped. “What? Sorry,” Sam laughed, “I thought I just heard you say no private dances.”
“That’s what I said,” Van confirmed.
Sam sat back down, hard. “You can’t be serious. How can we deny this many requests? Do you know how much money we’re talking here?”
Sam’s phone buzzed across the table as texts started coming in from the hosts.
“Let the hosts know, free drinks to everyone who made a request and a complimentary table dance.” Sam tried to speak, but no words came out. “Get the next dancer on stage.” Van stood and buttoned his jacket. “Now.” Sam moved away shaking his head. Van snagged the arm of a passing host. “Have the stage manager escort Lady D to the executive suite. I’ll need it for the rest of the evening.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Vanzant,” the host said, then headed for the backstage area.
Losing the bet grated, but right now, he had to deal with Di. She needed to be taught a lesson, and he was the man to do it.
3
“Oh-my-God. That was brilliant. Completely brilliant,” Anne said when they reached Di’s dressing room. “You mesmerized the audience. They were utterly under your spell.”
Di paced the length of the plush room. Adrenaline from the performance surged through her veins. “It felt amazing,” she admitted. “I know I shouldn’t admit that.”
“Why the hell not? You were bloody remarkable.”
Di shook her hands out to dissipate the tingling. “Dancing in a strip—you know how I feel about these places, Anne. So many young dancers come to New York with Broadway dreams only to get sucked into places like this.”
“We aren’t exactly in the red light district, darling. This is an exclusive, classy club. Look around. This dressing room is nicer than most on Broadway.”
Di sat at the mirrored table in the center of the room and worked to control her breathing. The woman staring back at her was practically unrecognizable. The overly bright eyes, the color in her face and chest, all made her appear post-orgasmic. She looked away, but had to admit, she hadn’t felt this alive in a long time. Not since—she shook her head, refusing to go there. “I didn’t expect it to be like—”
“Hot? Sexy as hell?” Anne supplied.
Jeff, the stage manager, came into the room, a big smile on this face.
“Well? How did she do?” Anne said.
“Very well,” Jeff said.
“Meaning?” Di said.
“I just spoke with the club manager. He had nearly twenty requests for dances in the private suite.”
“At $10,000 each? How is that possible?” Di said.
“The system crashed with people requesting table dances, even though you weren’t on the menu.”
Di grimaced. “Women are menu items? Oh my God.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Jeff said. “If you’ll follow me, miss.”
Di didn’t move. “Where are we going? I just performed.”
“To the executive suite.”
“So soon?” Di said, trying not to panic. Di chewed her thumbnail, her “tell” when she was nervous.
“As I said, there were a number of requests,” the manager said. “Quite extraordinary, actually, considering the price. But one customer outbid all of them for the privilege of having you dance only for him.”
“What?” Di breathed, unable to believe what had begun as a stupid bet had morphed into this. How the hell was she going to get out of this?
“Perfect,” Anne said. She stepped between Di and the stage manager and took her hands. “You can do this,” her friend said softly. “In fact, you’ve done it a thousand times dressed in skimpy dance clothes. Think of it as an audition. Five minutes and you’re out. You can be in yoga pants, sitting on your couch, and having wine in less than an hour.”
Di looked over her friend’s shoulder to the manager. “The room is monitored? I’ll be completely safe?”
The man nodded. “Of course.”
Di nodded as well. “Give me a second.”
“I’ll wait for you in the hall,” the manager said and stepped out.
When the door closed, Di said, “What kind of person pays more than $200,000 for a dance?”
“Some ridiculously wealthy man who wants you all to himself. There are worse things, love.” Anne picked up the powder and dabbed it on Di’s face. “Have fun with it. Just think of all that gorgeous money going to charity.”
“There is that.”
Anne set the powder aside and grasped Di’s shoulders. “Channel your inner vixen and do what we always do.”
“Leave them wanting more?”
“There’s my girl.” She stepped to the side and gave Di a little push.
Di took a step towards the door and then another. She could do this. One dance. Five minutes or less, and all this would be behind her.
She opened the door and said, “I’m ready.” She followed the stage manager upstairs. A huge security guard fell into step behind her. As she walked, she visualized perfectly executing the steps of the dance just as she did before an audition. She would not see the person she performed for. She’d focus on a point past them and lose herself in the moves, the music.
When the manager opened the door to the suite, she walked in expecting him to follow her. Instead, she heard the door click shut. She wanted to go after him to have him explain what she should expect next, but stopped when she heard a silky voice behind her.
“Hello.”
Di turned and quickly scanned the room, but didn’t see anyone.
“Thank you for coming.”
Thank you for coming? She hadn’t bargained for small talk, or any interaction for that matter. He didn’t want to show himself? Fine. She didn’t need—didn’t want to see him. She looked for and found a camera in the corner of the room, focused on it, and nodded, hoping they’d catch her cue and begin playing the music. No such luck.
“Don’t stand in the doorway. Come into the room,” the man said in low tones.
Di stepped further into the room—not because he’d commanded it, but because she wanted to get this over. “I didn’t come here to talk. I’m not your date.”
“Mmm . . . The lady has claws.”
The way he caressed the words said he wouldn’t mind getting scratched, and her mind went to Van. Awareness came in a hot rush. Di shivered.
“You look beautiful, but I’d like to see you in less. Much less.”
The lights dimmed and a spotlight hit a stage in the corner of the room. Lights moved like glitter across the floor and music began to play. Something with a medium, driving beat that would be easy to move to. Di walked to the stage in long strides, stepped up to the center, and with her back turned to the room, positioned her feet wide apart and began swinging her hips in time to the music, just as she’d done center stage downstairs. She did a mock snap of her fingers and unbuttoned her jacket with the other hand. She bared a shoulder, gave her audience a teasing look, and then pulled the garment back into place.
She reversed the move, snapping with the other hand and bared the other shoulder. This time, she didn’t look back. Still facing the back of the stage, she let the jacket drop to her waist and slowed the sway of her hips. She bent at the waist, and then with a hand in her hair, slowly came back up while undulating her hips.
“Turn around,” the man growled.
She gave him a teasing smile, but didn’t comply. Di liked denying him. She felt powerful and in complete control, so she got bolder with her moves. She rotated so he could see the curve of her breast, heard his intake of breath. Enjoying his reaction, she dropped into a squat, knees wide, and bounced slowly up and down, like she would if she was making love to a man. Heat and moisture flooded her core. She cupped her breast and squeezed, stood, and pulled her jacket back up to her shoulders, then faced the empty room.
“You’re turned on,” he said. “The flush gives you away. Lovely.”
Shit. She’d lost focus and taken it too far. H
olding the edges of the blazer, she executed a series of dance moves that left her a little breathless. Good. Concentrate on breathing, she told herself, not where you’re dancing.
He clapped, a slow, percussive sound that grated on her already overworked nerves. “Perfectly done. Now, once more . . . with the jacket on the floor.”
Ignoring his most recent command, she worked the blazer, left and right, as she lowered her body and rose again, then turned and dropped the jacket off one shoulder again.
“I paid handsomely to see you strip. Drop the jacket and shed the granny panties,” he growled.
The music stopped. Di breathed a sigh of relief. The dance had ended and she could go. Another song began, but she ignored it. She should walk off the stage, but found she couldn’t move. “You paid for a dance. You got a dance,” she said.
She heard him chuckle, and again, she was reminded of Van. “I paid for all your dances, love. You’re mine for the evening. Don’t get me wrong. It was a lovely dance, but I expect a bit more for a quarter of a million.”
Di gasped.
“The tip alone is more than most make in a year.” He paused then added, “But you have to earn it.”
She squinted, trying to find the body that went with the voice, but the spotlight in the darkened room kept the man in the shadows. So, she stepped off the stage and moved in the direction of his mesmerizing voice. “I have an arrangement with the owner. One dance—no stripping.” She blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust. “Take it up with him.”
Screw this. She wasn’t about playing with fire. Not tonight. She buttoned her blazer and made for the door, but a hand on her arm stopped her progress.
“So the owner makes the rules, does he?” he said against her ear. His scent, a familiar scent, flooded her senses. His thumb caressed her arm, enticing her to turn into him.
“Van,” she breathed.
“Forget the rules, Di. Dance for me.”
4
Dared: Scandalous Moves Series Page 2
