by Susan Laine
When thinking about burlesque, Cain pictured a scantily clad Dita Von Teese writhing in an oversized champagne glass, soap bubbles floating about, or Christina Aguilera singing her heart out as a small-town girl with a majestic voice, dressed in a skimpy outfit. Beyond those well-known images, he wasn’t wise to this particular form of entertainment.
He soon got the gist of it, though. Glam Vamp indeed.
Camille Astor pranced around the stage on heels so high she could have been a tower in human form. She wore glittering red body paint and red silk panties with amazingly huge feathers sticking out the back in all directions. Cain could see her figure right down to the hardened peaks of her nipples. Her long black curls waved about in an old-fashioned hairdo, and her raucous makeup matched her outfit.
She was singing and dancing to the beat of “In My Blood” by The Veronicas. Her sexy movements—the swing of her full hips, the jiggle of her plump bared breasts, the high kicks of her long legs, the stomping of her high-heeled feet, the sharpness of her voice—showed a different side of her personality than the one Cain had witnessed earlier.
This was Camille’s onstage persona, the high-priced courtesan in red, flashy and overly sexualized, in-your-face and brazen, brash and feminist, a woman who dared to not only enjoy her sexuality but to openly flaunt it—and make a killing doing so. She could kill you with kisses—or just kill you dead.
Cain swallowed hard. But he wasn’t hard himself. No, he was confused.
Unlike before, Glam Vamp awakened no hidden desires in Cain. She was too audacious compared to the other side of her, the one Cain had immediately felt drawn to. Her act, as powerful as it was, didn’t arouse him. It was all so over-the-top, tawdry, and cheap.
He didn’t care for this raunchy temptress in red; he wanted the mysterious, mesmerizing lady in black. The Camille he’d met who had appeared to him like a dark vision of a feverish dream. She’d been a Christmas present, with black lacy ribbon tied around her, that he couldn’t wait to unwrap. Divine intervention? Cosmic coincidence? Random chance?
It was the woman and the mystery he longed for. Glam Vamp exposed everything with shameless flourish. Nothing wrong with that. It just wasn’t what Cain had expected or what he sought.
Glam Vamp trotted along the stage like a prancing peacock, singing with a potent voice that left nothing to the imagination. It was blunt and brutal, a kick in the groin, a hit on the head, a knife in the chest. This seductress was an assassin of the night, ever ready to hold your heart in her hand, only to squeeze the life out of it and leave you bloodied and bruised on the floor, broken and rejected and useless. A piece of trash discarded.
Cain frowned. He was aware women wore masks, one for each man they knew. It was in their nature to always keep a secret and hold back a piece of themselves, never willing to yield all of their true being to another. Again, absolutely nothing wrong with that. In fact, it seemed like a sound approach to any given situation and person.
But this creature strutting onstage was a different kind of animal from the graceful black swan Cain had encountered earlier. A stalking tigress, she could very well possess opposing facets, like flip sides of a coin, her personality splintered between a reserved lady and a lewd vixen.
But in his soul Cain knew that wasn’t the case here. There was only one answer to the discrepancy so obvious to him.
This woman, Glam Vamp, wasn’t the Camille Astor he’d met.
Chapter Four
“MRS. Astor, I presume?” Cain asked.
Camille started at the sound as she approached her room backstage. Cain stepped out of the shadows of the hallway and closed the gap between them. She smiled and sighed in relief—had she been expecting someone worse?—and waved him into her starlet’s boudoir, vanity and dressers all messy with piles of underwear, other garments, makeup, brushes, and such. The dressing room was also significantly smaller than Cain had expected.
“Mr. Noble.” Nimbly she took a seat in front of a vanity so adorned with glued-on bling it glittered like starry skies. “What do you think of the club?” She began to clean her face of makeup with a moist swab of cotton.
So she pretended to be acquainted with Cain, who knew better. He decided to play along.
“Classier than I surmised ahead of time.” He inched closer to get a good vantage point on her features. She didn’t even seem to notice him. “Saw your performance.”
She grinned lopsidedly, a lewd look for her. “I’m aware. I saw you in the audience. Did you enjoy the show?”
“Which one? This one or the earlier one in my office?” Cain snapped his fingers as if graced with an epiphany. “Oh, wait. That’s right. How would you even know about that—since it wasn’t you?”
Camille’s smile never faded. She didn’t flinch or blink. “I’m pleased you believe so, Mr. Noble. I am an excellent actress, on and off the stage.” She glanced at him via the mirror. “Shall we go through our discussions, word for word? Perhaps revisit the search of the house? Maybe go into details about my marriage, which I left rather vague at our last encounter?”
Both dumbfounded and irritated, Cain was at a loss. This Camille seemed to have all the information concerning his meeting with the other Camille. Could Cain have been mistaken? Had he simply concluded that because he’d been attracted to her lady-in-black but not her vamp-in-red persona she had to be two different women?
Cain refused to accept the possibility he’d made such a grievous error in judgment. He wasn’t born yesterday. He saw people’s multiple facets every day and understood them all.
“If you wish to search the club for the missing statuette, Mr. Noble, I’m afraid I cannot help you there. You’ll have to ask permission from Mr. Woolrich.”
Camille brushed her black hair in long strokes before using bobby pins to secure a new, more casual hairdo. Without makeup, her beauty appeared transformed. The lack of long fake lashes, rosy cheeks, and red lipstick didn’t detract from her natural attractiveness, however. If there were two women, their features bore a remarkable resemblance. The same proud forehead, high cheekbones, and full lips. Twins? Body doubles? Doppelgängers?
The only difference Cain noted was that this time her skin seemed tanner and her eyes darker green. But that could have been an illusion created by the dim lighting.
“I’d appreciate further insight into your marital arrangement with Mr. Astor,” Cain said, hoping to keep her talking long enough to reveal more of her secrets.
Camille shrugged as she stood and headed toward a tall metal locker decorated with silk veils and colorful bling stickers of crowns, tiaras, and jeweled necklaces. She undressed without a care in the world, ignoring the stranger in her room. Cain turned around, suspecting her tactic was a deliberate diversion. If he couldn’t see her, he couldn’t assess if she was lying or not.
Much to Cain’s surprise, Camille sighed in exasperation. “That is such a boring topic and done to death…. Fine. Sheridan has unusual tastes. Sometimes they vastly differ from mine. Other times I slap him around with my girl power, if you get my drift.”
Vagueness seemed to be a skill she wasn’t gifted with. That puzzled Cain, who’d noticed and appreciated the subtlety of the Camille from before. He grew more certain than ever that he was facing a different woman, someone who never insinuated but bluntly announced.
Her remarks about her relationship with her husband having BDSM elements weren’t understated either. Perhaps the Dom/sub play she’d alluded to entailed him as the submissive and her as the dominant. Nothing uncommon about that. Powerful men often appreciated being humiliated, especially by beautiful, experienced women—or ladies of the night.
Camille’s hints implied Sheridan’s vices were gambling and bondage. But could Cain trust her opinion of her husband? The two seemed hitherto to have lived separate lives with distinctly different interests.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Cain saw that Camille was naked from the waist up now. She glanced at him over her shoulder, a feigned
coyness to her fluttering eyes and an enticing smile on her full lips. Was she trying to seduce him?
“Does that excite you?” Camille murmured. “The idea of being tied up on a bed by me? Getting spanked or flogged? Having a high heel pressed tight against your chest… or balls?”
Hearing her describe her inclinations made Cain ornery, not horny. He wasn’t opposed to rough sex, but she didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. “I’m gay.”
Her smile faltered for a second. Quickly she schooled her expression back to politeness. “I see. All the good ones seem to be.”
Was it Cain’s imagination that Camille’s voice took on a note of bitterness? She whirled around again and resumed undressing, her flirtatious behavior dropped like clothes from her back. Her interest in him had been an act, then. Cain was unsurprised.
“What can you tell me about Woolrich?”
Camille shrugged. “Nothing. I don’t know him.”
“If that’s true, why did you imply that a search of the premises might produce the piece of art? Doesn’t that mean you’re suggesting Woolrich stole it and hid it here in the club?” When Camille didn’t reply, Cain switched tactics. “Unless you think it’s possible that your husband brought the statuette here to stash it in familiar surroundings.”
Camille scoffed. “Of course not. Sheridan is many things, but he’s incapable of keeping a secret from me. If he’d secreted the statuette here, I would have found it by now.”
That was a curious answer. Cain wondered if Camille even noticed how much she had given away with a few words. Sheridan and the statuette had both been missing for two days. Yet Camille’s reply implied a search for the priceless artifact had been ongoing for much longer.
Perhaps the Rodin artwork had in fact been stolen or mislaid long before Sheridan had disappeared? If so, why take Sheridan as well? Why abduct a man in the public limelight for ransom if one already possessed a valuable object worth a fortune?
Cain doubted for the umpteenth time the validity of the odd coincidence of both a man and an artifact going missing at once. It began to seem more likely that the two vanishing acts had not coincided but merely reported as a single event. To save time—or to hide the fact the statue had been lost first, the husband second?
None of this made any sense.
One thing was certain: Cain couldn’t compel Camille to tell the truth even though it was obvious she knew more than she was saying. Prying answers from her had to wait for another day.
“I’ll get back to you if and when I learn something.”
Cain left the dressing room before Camille could respond. He was on edge already, and her charms made him grit his teeth with frustration. If this woman wasn’t the client he had met earlier, then who was? And where could she be?
Fuming inwardly, Cain returned from the backstage area to the club floor.
An unseen presenter announced the main event. “Here at Iris, a delicious cross between the Ziegfeld Follies and Victoria’s Secret Angels, our very own lovelies sing and dance for your entertainment. You, our wonderful audience, are treated to a once-in-a-lifetime show of class and sex appeal, poise and erotica, beauties and beaus. And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for… Dark Lily.”
Curious in spite of his foul mood, Cain decided to hang around and see what the buzz was about. After all, this lady could have been Sheridan’s secret mistress. Best to check her out. Besides, typically Cain couldn’t afford high-end shows like this, so why not take advantage of the freebie? Leaning against the wall, he watched the performance.
Lights went off onstage. A single bright spotlight aimed directly at a lone old-fashioned microphone stand. The room fell quiet as if in awe. Cain could sense the anticipation building like an electric charge gathering in the atmosphere.
Since the background was so dark, the woman seemed to appear in the beam of light out of thin air. In pitch-black clothes, parts of her faded into the background. Only her face was visible with perfect clarity. Long curly black hair, eyes of emerald green, pale skin like the smoothest silk, a slender figure that begged to be dipped on the dance floor and bent beautifully in bed.
Cain gulped. Even before she started to sing, he knew. This was the woman he’d met.
Saxophone and brushed drums were the only instruments playing in the background.
She sang in a deep, dark voice that flowed about the room like midnight moans or thick syrup. Cain didn’t recognize the song. The lyrics, crooned in slow, true blues style, spoke of an evil gal who robbed you blind and gave you back nothing but misery.
Cain smirked. If that wasn’t a warning from a tempting, dangerous woman, nothing was.
He didn’t care. That voice wrapped around him and smothered him under a warm, velvety black blanket. Now if he only had this woman naked in his arms as well, Cain would never abandon that state of bliss.
And yet nothing changed the fact that Cain was still very much gay. What black magic did this seductress have over him? Why was he so powerless to resist? Cain shook his head, unable to avert his gaze from the enigmatic figure onstage.
The dreamy, cajoling voice surrounded him, captivated him, drew him in like a lure. Cain couldn’t take his eyes off her. When the song ended the spotlight dimmed, and darkness swallowed her slim figure.
“That was ‘Evil Gal Blues,’” the enthusiastic speaker announced out of sight. “And now we have ‘Born Under a Bad Sign.’ Give it up for our very own Dark Lily.”
Cain had heard this one, originally sung by Albert King, with a faster pace. But Dark Lily took it down a notch to the questionable level of smoky bars and shady fantasies. When she sang of hard luck and trouble as her only companions, her voice cracked ever so slightly. Experience? Cain had to wonder. She changed the lyrics as she sang of her yearning to wine and men, not women.
Dark Lily’s performance sent quivers up and down Cain’s spine. Her emotional act revealed her as a tragic woman, down on her luck and mistreated by life and men. The interpretation left a lasting impression in Cain who longed to hold her and safeguard her from the world.
As she sang, her hips swayed gently, like a reed in the wind. He almost missed the motion.
A piece of black fabric flew high into the air. The audience hooted. Men and women stood to catch it. A young man hollered with victory while others clapped. He waved about a long glove that Dark Lily had removed unnoticed and thrown into the crowd.
So her performance did have a subtle striptease influence after all. Cain grinned. The song ended, and the audience cheered and applauded like mad. Dark Lily curtsied deep and bowed her head, hiding her face. She seemed poised in that posture, holding it like a statue.
Then the announcer called out with a purr, “And now your most requested number, folks, ‘I Just Want to Make Love to You.’”
The second those dark, seductive notes hit the air as she sang about not wanting her man to be a slave, Cain found himself wishing he were hers to command. A fever rose inside him, giving him a taste of how it might feel to be with her. When she declared that all she wanted was to make love, Cain’s fever reached its highest pitch. He trembled, hot in his coat, desperate to rip his clothes off and breathe her in like cool air or drink her in like fresh water.
There was no man onstage with her, so she made love to the microphone stand, her hands, one bared and one gloved, sliding up and down the metal bar in a way that undoubtedly sent frissons of pure pleasure and lust coursing through the veins of more than one spectator—Cain included.
The display appeared dirty and bold, in-your-face and striking. Yet her expression, faraway and dreamy, gave her performance a kind of discretion, creating an intimate bubble where she sang her love song to each and every person in the audience alone, as though they were special and singled out. It wasn’t overtly sexual; still, it hinted at delights behind the scenes.
By the time the song ended and her voice faded, the audience sat at the edges of their seats, hanging on her every word. Anticipation
had changed into a live current, charging the people in the room to her frequency. She dominated the club’s vastness like a supermassive black hole in space, sucking everything into her event horizon.
Impressed seemed like such an inadequate word to describe her allure, Cain thought.
“Here’s ‘Cruel Hearted Woman Blues,’” the speaker declared.
The hall fell silent. Cain must have heard the tune before because he could hum the notes. He even recalled a couple of sections of the lyrics—and he could immediately tell Dark Lily had taken the words and switched them around. Instead of a man singing about a woman who didn’t love him, she told a tale where she was the cruelhearted female protagonist who treated her man like a slave because she didn’t love him.
Why create such an image, Cain puzzled. Why portray a bad woman onstage? Tempting and teasing bad girls were different. This was an evocation of a woman whose tragedy could easily be predicted. The depiction seemed old-fashioned and borderline misogynistic, a woman whom men wanted but could not have and therefore hurt. Although, Cain seemed to recall, some versions of the song took the woman’s rejection with a kind of fatalistic resignation.
A single guitar and a piano accompanied Dark Lily’s performance now. She made frequent eye contact with individual members of her audience, her body rocking side to side, her knees bending, her butt sticking out, her hands caressing the microphone, her neck exposed.
It was a tantalizing act.
Cain stayed to watch her set from start to finish. Along the way she lost her other glove, a long sliver of the side of her dress, revealing her silk-stocking-covered leg, another slash across her belly, a third over the curve of the small of her back. Yet she never removed all her clothes. She ended her program virtually as clad as she had begun.
As she slipped into the darkness offstage, Cain followed like a lone wolf hunting its prey.
Chapter Five
AS Cain rounded the corner to the backstage hallway, he caught a glimpse of the Dark Lily and Honoré hugging in front of a dressing room door with a gold star, bussing each other’s cheeks and smiling like long-lost friends. They parted slowly, holding hands until their distance grew too wide and they were forced to let go.
