Tease. Suzanne Forster

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СКАЧАТЬ and the scratch she’d felt on her palm, but she had no time to reason things through. The Marquis’ voice boomed in the massive room. Tess was startled to see him just a few feet away from her and looking exactly as he had, black hair slicked back from his severely handsome features. What struck her as different was his voice. It sounded as if it was coming from speakers instead of his body.

      “Good evening, my lovelies,” the Marquis said, bowing as he addressed the strange crowd. “The last live performance of the evening begins in five minutes. Please take your seats in the Exhibition Hall immediately. The red seats are electrified with a random charge of varying wattage, for your viewing pleasure.”

      His lovelies began to file through large open arches that led to an auditorium. Tess caught a glimpse of massive chandeliers and gilded box seats and miles of crimson velvet.

      “Are you up for a live performance?” Danny asked.

      “Of what?”

      “Your guess.” He shrugged. “We can always leave…I think.”

      “Sometimes having options is worse than not having them.” She sighed, exasperated. “What the hell. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what-if, as I’m sure I would in this case.”

      They waited until the motley crew had taken their seats before entering the auditorium. A hush had fallen over the room that made Tess feel as if she were at Lincoln Center, anticipating a performance by the Ballets Russes.

      Danny found seats in a row near the back, which Tess eyed suspiciously and then refused. It was too dark to see what color they were, and she didn’t need another shock right now, thanks. Instead, she planted herself in the aisle and watched the curtain rise, wondering what in God’s name she was going to see next.

       Chapter Six

      The curtain opened to an empty stage and a magenta spotlight, circling to find its target. Finally, the light enveloped a young woman, her head bowed, her body turned away from the audience in an attempt to conceal her emotional distress. She wore a slip dress that clung to the taut curves of her dancer’s body.

      Beautiful, Tess thought. There was inexpressible beauty in every restrained line of her being.

      Soft music swelled to fill the auditorium. Tess recognized the passionate strains as a theme from Straus’s Don Juan, an opera about a man incapable of love yet driven to search for it in the arms of woman after woman.

      The music soared, announcing a male dancer in a matador’s jacket and tuxedo pants. He was as straight and proud as a military officer, yet limber, willowy. His body language said he’d come to make a plea. He seemed to be asking for forgiveness, but the woman waved him off.

      When he persisted, she savagely pushed him away.

      The music soared to another crescendo as he disappeared into the darkness. The young woman turned to the audience, her head lifting, fiery and defiant. Tears poured down her cheeks.

      Tess hadn’t understood much of what she’d seen so far in this club, but she understood this performance. The woman had been betrayed, and she was lashing out, rejecting the man and the pain he’d caused her. She might have wanted to forgive him, but there was a part of her that couldn’t forgive anymore. She’d been hurt too much.

      Tess had never lashed out. She’d dropped out. The coward’s way, she realized now. Her wounds had scarred over and were taking up space that could have gone to something else, like having a life that was more than work, 24/7. Never once had she passionately retaliated or defended herself or her feelings.

      But the sadness she felt had no chance against her talent for denial. Grand acts of defiance were for the stage, the movies, she told herself. Life was not an idealistic drama. It was getting through.

      At least no one could say she hadn’t gone after the brass ring. She’d tried it all, everything from one-night stands to long-term engagements—and come away each time confused and disillusioned. Men had hurt her in little ways. They’d hurt her in big ways. And she had let it happen. She’d even gone back. Eventually, she’d seen the pattern. It was needing things that men couldn’t give that had gotten her into trouble. That’s when the lightbulb had gone on. Needing was her problem.

      The hot magenta beam followed the young woman to the other side of the stage where a second man waited, slender and stealthy in his fedora and single-breasted pinstriped suit. With a cold smile, he approached her. And for some reason, she didn’t resist him. He tipped her chin high and stared into her eyes until she stopped crying.

      She seemed not even to breathe.

      With slow precision, he kissed her. His lips brushed, danced. He waited, then drew back to look at her. What did he have here? A wounded bird or an irresistibly clever tease? His tongue flicked the curves of her unyielding mouth. But she didn’t respond, even when he lowered the strap of her dress and bared her breast.

      His hand cupped her flesh.

      Her eyelids quivered and closed. She had slipped back into the pattern. This was her fate, and she was helpless to change it.

      Tess understood. She understood too much.

      The first male dancer—the matador—sprang from the darkness. He pulled the other man away and yanked off his fedora. Long dark hair tumbled free, waves as beautiful and silky as a girl’s. The two men struggled, but the matador was clearly stronger. He ripped open the other man’s jacket, revealing breasts as round and firm as ripening fruit.

      Tess was startled. A male impostor?

      The matador laughed uproariously, kissed the impostor and flung her away. She tumbled to the ground, where she coiled like a snake and spat at him, daring him to come near. The young woman stepped in, as if to protect the impostor. Her fierce expression warned the man off. She would defend even her enemies against him. He had cut her that deeply.

      The matador came straight for her, and the dance began. A tango, the eternal struggle for sexual power. She ripped open his jacket, and buttons flew, exposing pectoral muscles that were very much a man’s.

      She cracked his face with her hand. Cymbals clashed, and the music took on a Latin beat, brooding and sensual. He stepped back, confused, hot with frustration. He circled her, moving in rhythm with the music, seducing her with burning looks. If he’d been an animal, his fangs would have been bared.

      He came around her from behind. With a snap of his wrist, he broke the other strap of her dress. The slip floated to her waist, hanging on her hips. Magenta fire lit her shivering breasts. They were the only flesh that moved on her rigid body. Her arms were pressed to her sides, her fingers curled into knots.

      Tess watched from the aisle, increasingly aware of Danny who stood next to her. He’d turned his body slightly, perhaps not even consciously, until the curve of his hip pressed against hers. She glanced at him, not surprised that he was fixated, too. He was watching the ménage à trois with a mixture of fascination, undisguised curiosity and something that might have been male lust. His jaw was taut, his mouth parted, poised as if he was imagining himself in the matador’s place.

      Tess probably shouldn’t have expected anything else, given what was going on. But it hit her wrong. Men, she thought. They’re all dogs, even when they’re women posing as men. She averted her eyes, refusing to watch any more of the performance. СКАЧАТЬ