Melanie’s heart raced. Her cheeks flushed. Damn, why couldn’t she just leave this on his voicemail?
“Hey, this is Taz.”
She took a quick, deep breath. “It’s Melanie,” she said and clenched her fists, her eyes, her everything. “Is that offer still open?”
| 5
Melanie stared over her steering wheel into the tangerine glow sliding over the Pacific. The clear silhouette of Catalina Island was in the distance. “If I’m going to do this, there have to be some ground rules.”
A pause stretched on the other end of the line, then Taz replied, “What’d you have in mind?”
“For starters,” she said, “I want to know exactly what I get in this bargain.”
“Fair enough. Let’s talk over dinner. I’m playing at the Tent tonight.”
The Sultan’s Tent was a Middle Eastern restaurant and nightclub in Newport Beach that attracted the local rich and trendy crowd. Over-hyped and overpriced, it was also the most coveted job around for belly dancers and like-minded musicians. Abby had worked there until the studio’s business turned around. Melanie hoped she would too, someday.
“I could pick you up, we could have a drink, maybe some dinner, and discuss it.”
His voice dripped with effortless charm. She had to remind herself this was Taz. This is what he did.
“Sure,” she said. “I just have to check on one thing. Just give me a minute…” She fumbled for her purse and pulled out her wallet. The Tent could be great for tips, but it was pretty hard on the budget.
“My treat,” he said, dangling the words like carrots.
She closed her eyes, embarrassed. Had she been so obvious? “Just checking my calendar. Yeah, I’m open.”
“Great. What time should I pick you up?”
That could be a problem. Quickly, she recalibrated. “How about I meet you there?”
“All right.”
“Seven?” she added quickly.
“Abby was right about you,” he said. “Once you put your mind to something…” He didn’t finish the thought, and she didn’t want to ask.
“So seven works?” she pressed again.
“Seven works.”
| 6
A few hours later, after another difficult exchange with her mother, Melanie pulled into the Tent’s parking lot. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the highway and giving the multi-million-dollar homes perched on the cliffs a bright, fiery glow. She took the last gulp of her diet soda, dropped the can in the cup holder, and maneuvered up to the obligatory valet station, trying not to notice the rows of luxury cars beyond. A silver Bentley, a black Ferrari, that distinctive yellow coupe.
A teen with a mop of blue-streaked hair jogged up to her door. She hopped out and noticed him glancing at the dingy windows and the dented side panel. She dropped the key in his palm. “Sorry, Skippy. We don’t all drive Porsches. Get over it.”
He smirked and mumbled, “Enjoy your evening, ma’am.” He emphasized the last word, aiming it like a dart at her vanity. It stung, but not as much as his dollar tip would later.
She wrapped her newly painted fingertips around a red clutch and steered her black stilettos to the door with her head high, ready to take on the world. Or at least Taz Roman.
Look, there he was, all hair and teeth and shoulders. His doumbek hooked under one of those giant arms, an Egyptian pyramid on the horizon behind him. The poster hanging at the door made her groan. What a pretty boy. Definitely not her type. Then again, maybe that was going to make this whole thing easier. Let him play his playboy tricks. She was immune.
Inside, she could hear the music pounding, a blend of traditional Middle Eastern rhythms and modern techno-rock. There was a distinct emphasis on the drumming that had to be Taz. She took a deep breath, inhaling the roasted meats and savory Moroccan dishes the Tent was known for, and steeled herself before pulling open the door to find the restaurant’s foyer filled to capacity with waiting bodies.
Great. She’d have a nice, long wait before she got the opportunity to demean herself. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. A twinge in her belly reminded her of the soda she’d guzzled getting ready and the other one she’d downed while driving. At least there’d be time for a trip to the ladies’ room.
The door opened again behind her, and a large, laughing party entered. Three or four couples? She edged up to the hostess stand. No need to make the wait any longer than it had to be. She leaned over the counter to be heard above the chaos of chatter and music. “I don’t have a reservation, but I’m supposed to meet with the guy who’s performing tonight.” She knew it sounded ridiculous the moment she said it. Before she could rephrase, the head of a blond, bright-eyed hostess popped up.
“Oh,” chirped the woman. “You must be Melanie. Taz’s friend?”
Melanie straightened. Friend? “Yeah, I guess that’s me.” She hid her surprise behind a frozen smile.
“Come with me, we have a table for you.” The hostess grabbed a menu and pushed through the crowd.
Melanie glanced around at the others still waiting. More than one glowered in her direction. She shrugged her apology, turned and hurried after the hostess.
The dining room was nearly as packed as the foyer, but all eyes were on the stage, where Taz sat in the center with a full band at his back: traditional instruments like an oud, mizmar, and ney, playing alongside an electric keyboard and something that looked like an electric sitar.
The hostess stopped at a two-seat table beside the stage and plucked off a “reserved” sign. Melanie settled into the seat with a perfect view of the stage.
The hostess leaned down to her ear. “Your waiter will be with you in a moment, but I can get you something from the bar, if you’d like.”
Something about the way she hesitated made the girl quickly add: “Don’t worry. It’s on the house.”
Melanie would have been embarrassed if she weren’t so relieved. “A dirty martini, please. Three olives, if you can.”
“Three olives, no problem.” The girl was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
When Melanie glanced up, Taz was staring back at her. Again, those startling green eyes seemed to penetrate her. He winked.
That inconvenient twinge returned. She crossed her legs, forced a smile, and waved, wishing she had opted for the ladies’ room when she had the chance.
At the end of the song, he pulled the microphone from his drum to his lips. “Thank you for the warm welcome. It’s always a pleasure to be back at the Tent.”
The applause drowned his next words. He paused. When it had quieted, he leaned into the mic again. “A friend of mine is in the audience tonight. A terrific dancer I know you would love to meet. Would you like to meet her?”
The crowd clapped and whooped. Someone in a back corner whistled. Melanie glanced around. Who was it? Someone from the Divas? Someone she knew?
“Melanie Drake, how about joining me on the stage?”
She whipped around. He locked gazes with her and smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
She froze. Was he serious? She was in a wiggle skirt and pumps, for crying out loud. And, damn, she really needed a ladies’ room.
She glanced around at the crowd that was still whooping and clapping. Every eye in the place seemed to be turned her way. Her stomach fell to her feet.
She dropped her glance to the floor and shook her head. A demure but polite refusal. No way was she going up there. No frigging way.
But Taz didn’t let up. He rose and made his way to the edge of the stage. “She must be feeling shy tonight. How about we coax her a little?” He joined in the clapping. A few more whistles joined the chorus. At her shoulder, a nice-looking woman smiled and whispered, “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
Fun. Yeah, like a root canal.
But one thing she knew: when things get out of control, it’s best to drive into the skid. It’s the only way to survive. She took a breath and stood. The applause ratchete
d up. She locked gazes with Taz again and gave him a long, you’ll-pay-for-this look as she made her way past the densely packed tables and chairs between her and the stage. Taz met her at the short stack of stairs on the side, took her hand, and led her to the center of the stage, as though he were a gentleman and not the devil incarnate.
“I’m gonna kill you for this,” she muttered between her clenched-teeth smile.
“You’ll be fine,” he whispered back. She offered a weak smile to the six-pack band behind him, who were either smiling at her or laughing at her. Maybe both.
Taz grabbed his microphone again. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to improvise a little. I’ll start playing. You and the band can join in when you feel comfortable. Ready?” He glanced back. The musicians nodded and gave him a thumbs up. He looked at her.
She wanted to flip him off and run to the nearest exit. Maybe he thought this was funny. Humiliate her in front of all these people. Show her she wasn’t ready to dance in the big time. Put her in her place. Well, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
She sauntered back to the staircase, listening to the audience gasps. They expected her to flee. She looked out over the faces staring up at her, glowing pink and blue in the darkness from the stage lights. She turned up a coy smile, winked, and kicked off her stilettos. Then she walked along the stage’s edge, searching… searching… perfect! She pointed to a woman wrapped in a white silky shawl with long floss fringe. “May I borrow your wrap?”
The woman brightened, unwound it from her neck, and offered it up. Melanie thanked her and tied it around her hips. When it was secure, she shimmied and the crowd oohed and ahhed.
Behind her, Taz said, “Well, folks. I’d say she’s ready. What about you?”
The crowd cheered.
With a plastered, false smile, she sauntered back to where he had pulled his drum up onto his thigh and gave him a smirk she hoped said, “I can take whatever you dish out, pretty boy.”
He launched into a taksim, a slow melody with a strong, slithering beat.
Her hips twitched to the rhythm, and then smoothed the move into a graceful sway. The music sank deeper beneath her skin and the movement rose from her hips to her chest. Her body wove endless circles and figure eights. She focused her attention on Taz, which was all she could do because the spotlight blinded her to anything else. She studied his fingers on the drum skin, and soon it was as though she could anticipate his notes. If he changed the rhythm, she was right there with him. If he paused, she stopped on cue. Even the incessant and uncomfortable twinge had disappeared.
Wrapped in the spotlight, it was as if no one else existed. Just the two of them, playing and teasing. She followed his lead, then he seemed to follow hers. It was so easy, this back and forth. It was even fun.
Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
But then, just as quickly as it had begun, it all stopped. The music. The glances. Everything. He set his drum on the floor and stood, took her hand, and led her in a quick bow to the audience. He kept her hand in his through the surging applause, but then all but pushed her back toward the stairs.
Confusion then anger burned through her. Was this some kind of power trip? Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. And she certainly didn’t like him. He might get away with that kind of thing with other women, but not her. All the good looks in the world didn’t earn him the right to humiliate her like that. To think she thought this whole stupid scheme might work. She should have listened to her gut.
She tossed the scarf back to its owner, scooped up her shoes, and descended the stage stairs. At her lonely table, she snatched up her clutch and marched past the martini now waiting for her. She ignored the smiles and pats on the back from the strangers in her path. With a brittle smile, she pushed through all of it with one driving goal: to leave. She was no marionette for Taz Roman to control. She hated him. She never wanted to see him again. She wanted to get home, crawl into bed, and never come out.
But damn, her bladder was about to explode. She’d never make it home. She probably wouldn’t make it to her car. She clenched her thigh muscles as she pressed on. It was no use. One stop in the ladies’ room, then she’d leave.
| 7
The Tent’s empty ladies’ room looked like something the Lawrence of Arabia set designer would dream up, with decorative wall tiles and sumptuous burgundy drapes, but it was just a blur to Melanie as she rushed in and found an empty stall.
She peeled the snug black skirt over her thighs and dropped onto the cool wooden seat. Finally, relief.
The restroom door opened while she sat, and then she wasn’t alone anymore.
“No way, that was part of the act,” said a woman with a drawl thicker than Texas toast.
Another one answered in a timid, mouse-like voice. “Maybe, but it looked improvised to me. Kinda like they knew each other. But I’m sure you’re right. You know him better than I do.”
Melanie tried to peek beneath the stall but could see only two sets of wedge sandals making their way into stalls on the other side of the room.
When both women were behind locked doors, Melanie flushed and yanked up her skirt. She had to get out before either of them saw her. She didn’t need more embarrassment heaped onto the rest. She bee-lined it to the sinks and soaked her hands quickly, grabbed a paper towel, and dried her hands.
“Of course I’m right,” the Southern one said. “You can’t just improvise something that good.”
Melanie froze with the paper towel in her hand. They were talking about her. They thought she was good.
“Wait,” the Southern one added, “what do you mean it looked like they knew each other?”
“I don’t know,” the timid one said. “Didn’t it seem like there was something between them? Some kind of chemistry?”
Chemistry? What did that mean? Melanie waited to hear more, but the women were finishing up. She heard a toilet flush. Damn! She should leave, but she wanted to know what that woman meant. The stall door pulled open.
Melanie lunged back into her empty stall and slammed it closed. She sat and wrapped her arms around herself, and tried to calm her thumping heart.
The women didn’t pay any attention. Melanie could see them both at the sink through the sliver of space between the door and the post.
“I’ll bet she was one of the Belly Dance Divas,” said the Southern one, pulling a pocket-sized brush through her wild mass of blond hair.
“I don’t think so,” the other one said, hardly glancing at her own thin, brown bob. “I didn’t recognize her.”
“It’ll come to me,” the blonde said, stuffing the brush back into her purse.
“If she is with him, are you still going to talk to him?”
The purse dropped with a thud on the counter. “Why would you even ask me that? Of course I am. It’s just an interview.” She stopped. “That’s how I remember her. I interviewed her for the blog when the Divas performed at the Lava Theatre last year. She’s not a soloist, but in the company. Absolutely.”
“I still can’t believe I missed that show,” the brunette said. “I begged for the night off, and I was still scheduled to work.”
“You better make sure it doesn’t happen next weekend. Do you know how hard it was to get those Pandemonium Ball tickets?”
The conversation wandered away from Melanie and the Belly Dance Divas, and on to the more practical matter of managing a frustrating work supervisor. Melanie stopped listening. She was still stuck on the earlier comment about her.
They thought she was a Diva. Really?
Maybe she had a better chance at the audition than she thought.
But if she did, she better not blow it by walking out on Taz Roman.
| 8
“Oh, Mr. Roman, that was so amazing. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
Taz snapped his drum in its case. “Nope. What can I do for you?” His answer was crisp, bordering on curt, and he didn’t turn around as he propped h
is instrument at the edge of the stage. It wasn’t his usual way of dealing with after-show fans. His father had taught him better than that.
“When you perform, you belong to the audience,” Leopold Roman would say in that accent that was as thick as the Carpathian forests until the day he died. “Before the show, during the show, and after. That is the performer’s life, Tazarian.”
Taz had taken the words to heart. Ordinarily, he’d drop anything to chat, and it didn’t hurt that most of the time the fans seeking his attention were sweet, starstruck women with kitten-soft voices that did dangerous things to his thoughts. Just as this one would’ve been doing if he could just shake the feeling that he’d made a terrible mistake, or silence that little voice in his head telling him it wasn’t too late.
Go after her.
“I was just hoping you might autograph this for me,” the woman cooed.
He turned, and it was just as he’d suspected. She was a petite platinum blonde with a dress cut low to reveal her perfectly tanned, perfectly plump assets, and legs—he dipped a quick glance—oh man, legs that were tailor-made for those red-hot stilettos.
Those legs alone might have brought him back to his senses if he could just take his eyes off the door and get rid of the gnawing in his gut.
Why had he pushed Melanie? Why hadn’t he stuck to his plan? Put her on the spot for a moment and see how she handled herself. See if there was anything there.
He’d expected a shoulder shimmy or two. Maybe a playful undulation. What she’d given him would have knocked him on his ass if he weren’t already sitting down. The woman had moves—that was obvious. Not to mention a body with all the right curves, even without one of those glitzy stage costumes that could make a tree branch look good.
But it was more than that. She had connected with the music in a way he’d never experienced before. It was as if she anticipated him, or maybe it was the other way around. Damn, it had all happened so fast, and as soon as he realized what was happening, he’d shut it down. He wasn’t even sure why.
Romance: Dance with Me (California Belly Dance Romance Book 2) Page 3
