Taking the Stage: Soulgirls, Book 2 (3 page)

Her hands flexed, the muscles in her arms jerked in response. He tightened his grip. Amazons didn’t surrender. If he allowed her even an ounce of freedom, she would strike. Anthony held her firm, refusing to yield the advantage. The scent of her fed his burning desire to stroke his tongue against her flesh, to taste the sweet and the tart.

If she wants submission, she’ll damn well give it first.

Roseâtre’s hips bumped his and he growled, a low sound vibrating out of his throat. He longed to see her face, to see the expression in those hazel eyes.
Was that an invitation?

The press of cold steel to the back of his neck and Nalini’s lazy growl told him the truth.

It was a distraction.

“Let her go, or I’ll take your head off.” The masculine warning was reinforced with the bite of steel into the soft juncture at the base of Anthony’s skull.

Reluctantly, Anthony obeyed, releasing Roseâtre’s throat but keeping his head still lest the blade penetrate his spine and sever it. Such a brutal injury could take years to heal, if it ever did.

“Nalini.” Anthony spoke the words in a gentle command, knowing the cat would back him up.

“…is smart enough to see the gun pointing at her and isn’t moving. Remember that when I allow you to stand, Mr. diNapoli. Now get off Roseâtre.”

Anthony’s biceps flexed. He waited for the blade’s pressure to ease before lifting his head to see Roseâtre’s sexy little mouth pinched into a smirk. She had the upper hand.

For now.

He rose carefully, aware of the blade and shifted away. He held out a hand to Roseâtre and to his utter surprise, she took it, allowing him to pull her to feet. She moved away from him, creating a gulf between them before the blade dropped from the back of his head. A sheath peeked up from the back seam of her leotard. That explained where she’d hid the slender spike. Glancing to his right, Anthony frowned.

The man gazing at him was of slender build with salt-and-pepper hair and almost kind eyes. He also held a wicked little Beretta in his hand and it was indeed pointed at Nalini.

“Do we understand each other, Mr. diNapoli?” The low threat hung in the syllables of the question. The man was curiously lacking in social scents.

No scent of soap. No scent of cologne. It was unnerving. It also explained the stealth of his approach. Intrigue warred with irritation, but the gun was a danger he couldn’t ignore.

“We do.” Anthony bowed his head slightly and the man paid him a similar favor. “And you are?”

The gun lowered and Nalini yawned, clearly no worse for wear from the potential threat.

“Thank you, Stan.” Roseâtre clued him in to the stranger’s identity.

“You’re welcome. I’ll return to my seat now if the two of you can behave.” Surprisingly, Stan gave Roseâtre a look of mild censure. “Heidi has been disappointed at how slowly this is going. You need to get over this inhibition.”

“It’s not my fault tall, blond and studly attacked me.”

Studly.
Anthony smiled. He could work with that.

“Of course it isn’t and I didn’t see you draw a weapon on him first. Make this work, Roseâtre.” The man picked up the weapon in question and exited the stage with a gentle leap. Anthony’s gaze followed him until the shadows of the audience tables swallowed him up. Just how long had this
Stan
been watching their rehearsals? He’d been told the dancers had a guardian who looked after them, who traveled with them when they left the theatre, but he’d never met or seen him until now.

“Ugh.” The pure frustration in the syllable nudged him. He swung his gaze back to Roseâtre.

“What’s the problem now, princess?”

“You drooled on me.”

Laughter purred through him.

“Shall we have a truce then?”

“A truce?” Skepticism knitted her brows.

“Yes, a peace accord. An agreement to work together toward a mutual goal without eviscerating each other?”

“So I don’t poke you and you don’t poke me?”

Oh, no. There will be poking.

“How about I promise not to bite?” Anthony stretched, aware of her gaze roaming over him, and too much of a cat not to preen at the attention. Silver spike and wrestling match aside, he wanted to play out this game between them.

“Hmm, so I don’t poke you and you don’t bite me?”

He grinned slowly. This truce had benefits worth exploring. “Yes, but please feel free to bite me anytime you want me to poke you.”

Chapter Three

Heidi has been disappointed at how slowly this is going. You need to get over this inhibition.

Stan’s warning echoed in Roseâtre’s mind for two days. Every time the blond god demanded she wrap her body around one of his tigers, she’d forced away her repugnance. The silky stroke of fur rolling over powerful muscles served as a potent reminder of the inherent danger present in the animals she was supposed to
make love
to on the stage.

Make love.

Talk about getting in bed with your enemies.
Her mother would be furious. But then her mother had no idea where Roseâtre had gone. She could have called her…in the beginning. But she didn’t. This was her failure to protect, so it was hers to correct. Calling her for help now would be admitting defeat.

The sun descended below the horizon in the world beyond the casino, rousing Roseâtre from the gray hours of repose enforced upon all the showgirls as a part of their contract with the casino. For many, it was the curse of having no soul.

For Roseâtre, the lease she’d submitted to in order to stay with Cerveau enforced it. A contract her shield-sister was unaware of, and would remain so for the term of their servitude. Cerveau hadn’t been herself in all the years of their services. Some part of her disappeared that day, she never questioned Roseâtre’s decisions or argued about her presence.

A quick shower, change of clothing, and Roseâtre made her way through the dark underground from the dancers’ quarters to the long flight of concrete steps leading up to the Midnight Mystery Lounge’s stage. Every night for six nights, she’d been forced to endure
extra
rehearsals. Three to four hours of time spent solely in the company of Anthony and his damned cats.

Lickable abs or not, the man was as infuriating as his cats.
But only because you want to mount him on that stage and slide all over his gorgeous body.
The primitive need to mate was as ancient as the world, an option not easily explored. Before Heidi assigned her to this purgatory, she could at least pretend to enjoy the casino and resort beyond their dark little theatre…but she may as well be marooned with the man and his
cats
for all that she got to see of it anymore.

Who am I kidding? I’m not the one who sneaks out to play in the casino. That’s Kiki.

Her heels snapped noisily on the stairs. She’d have to take them off when she arrived at the stage. The bastard refused to let her wear them, particularly her silver-tipped Pradas.

A sigh tugged loose from her throat and she paused at the top of the stairs. The constant mental and emotional warfare they engaged in should leave her invigorated.

Not exhausted.

Not frustrated.

Not aching.

Closing her eyes, she placed her hand on the cool metal of the door handle. It was time to wrap the illusion of Roseâtre more firmly around herself. She needed to strengthen her mantle of leadership, the burden of authority and the attitude of command. She was the Princess Ruth Ann of Macedonia, princess royal of the House Alexiares, a descendant of Hera.

The
princess
was a warrior and could face any battle. Even that of the white tigers, the Amazons’ most ancient and mortal of enemies. So if she was to perform with them, she needed to be Roseâtre, not Ruth Ann.

It mattered little that she was about to debase herself, for a princess would do all that was necessary to ensure the safety and the sanctity of her people. Her people, which currently consisted only of Cerveau, deserved the royal sanctuary inherent to Roseâtre’s bloodline.

So she would debauch with the tigers. She would stretch sinuously across their backs, serve herself up as the submissive slave girl to be seduced. But she would ever be the princess. She would never sacrifice her personal pride.

The stage was dark, illuminated by one muddy light from the rafters. At the edge of the stage, she slid her feet out of the gold, glittering pumps Pandora left. It was the first time she’d worn Pandora’s prized gift. A gift that conferred not only the nymph’s leading role in the show, but the assumption of her burdens.

Roseâtre would not let her adopted Tribe down.

Barefoot, she padded across the silent stage. It was unusual not to find Anthony waiting for her, his arrestingly beautiful face twisted into a frown of disapproval. Censure and admonishment coupled in his words when he decried her lateness.

And she was late. Nearly fifteen minutes so.

Controlling her arrival time was all that was left to her. She would wrap her fingers through the reins of time and hold them tautly.

Where the hell is Anthony?

Her gaze skated over the stage. The silence hung in the air like a thick, heavy curtain in the unrelieved shadows around the spotlight.
Perhaps Anthony is tired of the games. Or better, maybe someone kicked his ass out of the Arcana Royale.

The pleasant thought was interrupted by a bump of regret, a curious twisting sensation in her belly.
Shame?

No.

Disappointment.

The honest, strange emotion curled through her, pins and needles of ice and heat. She’d dreaded seeing his smug arrogance. Yet she couldn’t wait to drink in the raw, primal beauty that made up his body.

The mass of contradiction knotted within her chest until her heart was left to thump in the uncomfortably small space that remained.

Where is he?

Hands on her hips, Roseâtre surveyed the stage. She saw no great tigers lounging. No flicker of movement betraying her tormentor’s location. She swallowed the urge to call out, to request his presence.

The lonely silence was punctured by the low, distant thump of a drum. A solitary cadence. A heartbeat of sound intoned against the backdrop of a throatier saxophone. The music of their show,
Seduction of a Maiden
.

Even the title sent shivers cascading down her spine. The storyline called for the tiger to stalk her in the darkness. A flicker of movement drew her to the side of the stage. In the darkness, a tail twitched.

Her heart thudded, a fist bumped against her ribs. The scent of moisture warned her of the misty vapor rolling onto the stage. The great tiger hunted in the primal mist, searching for the forbidden maiden, determined to make her its mate.

Unease spiked in her blood. The great, white tiger prowled from the darkness. The throbbing music thudded against her skin. The maiden was supposed to be innocent yet coy. Aware of her allure yet naive to the depraved desire that sent the tiger on the hunt.

Anthony must have taken a page from Stan’s book and planted himself in the darkened lounge to watch the show.

The tiger continued to wind through the mist, appearing and disappearing, his masculine threat enhanced by the fluidity of his movements.

And this cat was definitely a
he
.

Despite working with a female all week, the show demanded the presence of the male cat, the sheer size and masculinity vital to the performance.

Fine. If the bastard wanted to watch, let him watch.

Stretching her arms up to the ceiling, she was rewarded by a pour of misty, cool vapor. The sound of running water splashed against the backdrop of the pulsating music. The jungle waterfall, the sanctuary of the forbidden maiden, was the opening scene.

Roseâtre curled into the roll, bowing down to the imaginary pool and cupping it with her hands. She lifted her arms to pour the water over her head. Her palms turned to the faux sky of the stage rafters as she stretched.

The scene opened at dawn.

The time of awakening.

The half-forgotten sun a distant promise on the horizon. The muddy gray light tinged to red with hues of orange. The Chariot of Apollo beginning his lazy charge to claim the day, spearing the sanctity of Artemis’s milk-white light and chasing away the shadows of Phoebe’s blanket of stars, the mystical and wondrous world of intellect, for the animalistic needs of day.

Roseâtre rolled her hips, letting her muscles stretch by degrees and go lax. She was free of the burdens of leadership and the eyes of others. Free to revel in the state of a natural goddess.

The show called for nudity and she paused in her imagined water play to strip the black leotard from her shoulders, urging it down until it pooled at her feet.

A light kick sent it swishing away in the darkness.

Leaving her alone. Vulnerable. Innocent.

The cadence of the music shifted, a subtle increase to the drums. The deep, pounding bass alerting the audience that danger lurked all around the maiden, but Roseâtre embraced the part, playing her role and dancing into the misty vapor. Unaware. Untouched. Unprepared.