The Thorndyke Trilogy 2: Dancing at Midnight (11 page)

She fixed on one point. “I can’t take tips?”

“Clubs in Chicago can only make money from liquor or girls. Not both. It’s the licensing laws.”

No shoving dollars in G-strings? She couldn’t express how relieved that made her.

She already knew where he lived in the city, and it was a lot closer than her place. Now that she didn’t have a car, she had to rely on public transport. The L was good; it ran even in this shitty weather, but he was right. It would probably take longer than an hour to get into the city every day.

She could hardly start pirouetting on the L. She could just imagine the faces of the commuters if she started doing that. If she wanted this job, it seemed she didn’t have much choice.

She liked that idea, staying in his building. Probably liked it a bit too much. She’d have her independence. But this wouldn’t be something she’d just drift into. The job had a definite purpose, and she couldn’t deny she’d need his help to make the transition between ballet and burlesque.

Instead of looking on this as a comedown, as so many of her colleagues might, Kristen made herself a promise. She’d be the best fucking burlesque dancer she could be. The best in the world. Then she’d laugh at the ballet companies who’d turned her down time after time. The best revenge would be to prove them wrong. And from his actions today, she couldn’t ask for a better tutor than the man whose lap she was sitting in right now.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

* * * *

Once they’d showered and dressed, they went downstairs, Nathan’s hand touching the small of her back in an old-fashioned polite gesture Kristen loved. Matt was still there with the people he’d selected. The couple and two of the women had made it. The blonde sat to one side, disconsolately. If he’d failed her, why was she still here?

Matt answered that before Nathan asked him. “I told her you were looking for bar staff. Diana said she was interested.”

Diana perked up. “I can apply at the next auditions, maybe. And I can learn.”

Nathan nodded. “I like that attitude. Sure. You can take lessons in mixing the cocktails. Apart from that, the job is pretty straightforward.”

Diana’s smile didn’t waver, but Kristen wondered if she was dying a little bit inside. She’d been in that position, stuck with bar work instead of dancing. To her credit, the curvy blonde kept her chin up and thanked Nathan.

A long, low whistle drew her attention. Dalton approached them, his casual pants and button-down shirt doing nothing to hide his muscular form, though he didn’t have Nathan’s fluidity. Without Nathan, she’d consider him sexy, but Nathan took all the sexy and gave her more.

On the other hand, Diana sat up, making her breasts thrust forward against her skimpy top. Dalton noticed, letting his gaze linger over her, and he smiled.

He took Kristen’s hand and kissed it. “Nice to see you again.” He glanced at Nathan. “Nice to see you unbending a little too.”

“More than that,” said Nathan. “She’s coming to work here.”

“Wow, the great prima ballerina coming to Maskerade? Something—or someone—must have persuaded you really well.” He winked.

Her heart plummeted. She’d almost forgotten that stupid lie, but of course it would come back to bite her in the butt.

Even more when Matt said, “Wait.” He got up from his chair and strode across to their little group. “Did you say prima ballerina?”

“Well, not quite,” she said, for all the good that did. What was said couldn’t be unsaid, and Matt stared at her avidly, his gray eyes gleaming in his narrow face.

“Principal dancer, then,” Dalton allowed. Still too high for her. He grinned at Matt. “In Europe. She’s come home. I thought you were at the Chicago Ballet this morning?”

What could she do but go along with her pretense? Denying it would lose her so much face she wouldn’t keep the job. Did Nathan believe her? The pieces fell into place.

Of course he did. That was why he offered to dance with her, why he wanted her. He’d already told her that he couldn’t read what she didn’t want him to in her mind, and she’d buried her lie fucking deep.

“Oh,” she said airily, “it wasn’t what I wanted, the Chicago Ballet. They have the classics planned—
Sleeping Beauty, Giselle
, you know—and I’ve done them enough. I wanted a new challenge.”

“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.