Kitabı oku: «The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection», sayfa 14
But the feeling of dismay grew stronger with each step she took towards the entrance. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and fought back the wave of negativity. She had to take this job. Her ex had finally sold the apartment—meaning she had to find a new place to live—and this job included on-site accommodation. It would leave her days free to pursue more auditions, and it was money that she desperately needed right now.
One of the men hanging out at the front of the bar leered at her as she hurried past, and Chantal wished she’d thrown on a pair of tracksuit pants over her dancing shorts. The sun was setting in the distance but the air was still heavy and warm. She ignored the wolf-whistling and continued on, head held high, into the bar.
The stench of cheap alcohol hit her first, forcing her stomach to dip and dive. A stage sat in the middle of a room and three men in all-black outfits fiddled with the sound equipment. Chantal looked around, surveying the sorry sight that was to be her home for the next month. The soles of her sneakers sucked with each step along the tattered, faded carpet—as if years of grime had left behind an adhesive layer. Though smoking had long been banned inside bars, a faint whiff of stale cigarette smoke still hung in the air. A small boot-sized hole had broken the plaster of one wall and a cracked light flickered overhead.
Delightful.
She approached the bar, mustering a smile as she tried to catch the attention of the older man drying wineglasses and hanging them in a rack above his head. ‘Excuse me, I’m here—’
‘Dancers go upstairs,’ he said, without even looking up from his work.
‘Thanks,’ she muttered, turning on her heel and making her way towards the stairs at the end of the bar.
Upstairs can’t possibly be any worse than downstairs. Perhaps the downstairs was for bands only? Maybe the dancers’ section would be a little more… hygienic?
Chantal trod up the last few steps, trying her utmost to be positive. But upstairs wasn’t any better.
‘Oh, crap.’
The stage in the middle of the room sported a large silver pole. The stage itself was round with seats encircling it; a faded red curtain hung at the back, parted only where the dancers would enter and exit from. It was a bloody strip club!
‘Chantal?’
A voice caught her attention. She contemplated lying for a second, but the recognition on the guy’s face told her he knew exactly who she was.
‘Hi.’
‘I’ve got your room key, but I don’t have time to show you where it is now.’ He looked her up and down, the heavy lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. ‘Just head out back and get ready with the other girls.’
‘Uh… I think there’s been some kind of mistake. I’m not a stripper.’
‘Sure you’re not, darlin’,’ he said with a raspy chuckle. ‘I get it—you’re an artist. Most of the girls say they’re paying their way through university, but whatever floats your boat.’
‘I’m serious. I don’t take my clothes off.’ She shook her head, fighting the rising pressure in her chest.
‘And we’re not technically a strip club. Think of it more as… burlesque.’ He thrust the room key into her hand. ‘You’ll fit right in.’
Chantal bit down on her lip. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought.
But, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself, her gut pleaded with her to leave.
‘I really don’t think this is going to work,’ she said, holding the key out to him.
‘You really should have thought of that before sending back our contract with your signature on it.’ His eyes hardened, thin lips pressing into a harsh line. ‘But I can have our lawyer settle this, if you still think this isn’t going to work.’
The thinly veiled threat made Chantal’s heartbeat kick up a notch. There was no way she could afford a lawyer if they decided to take her to court. How could she have made such a colossal mistake?
Her head pounded, signalling a migraine that would no doubt materialise at some point. What kind of club had a lawyer on call, anyway? The dangerous kind… the kind that has enough work for a lawyer.
‘Fine.’ She dropped her hand by her side and forced away the desire to slap the club owner across his smarmy, wrinkled face.
She was a big girl—she could handle this. Besides, she’d had her fair share of promo girl gigs whilst trying out for dance schools the first time. She’d strutted around in tiny shorts to sell energy drinks and race-car merchandise on more than one occasion. This wouldn’t be so different… would it?
Sighing, she made her way to the change room where the other dancers were getting ready. She still had that funny, niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right… and it wasn’t just that she’d somehow landed herself in a strip club.
She concentrated for a moment, analysing the feeling. It had grown stronger since her audition—an incessant tugging of her senses that wouldn’t abate. She unpacked her make-up and plucked a face wipe from her bag. Smoothing the cloth over her face, she thought back to the director. He’d looked so familiar, and he hadn’t seemed to be able to look her in the eye.
A memory crashed into her with such force she stopped in her tracks, hand in midair. An old photo, taken a few years before she’d first started dating Derek—that was where she’d seen his face before. He was a friend of her ex-husband’s, and that couldn’t be a coincidence.
Rage surged through her. Her hands trembling, she sorted through her make-up for foundation. That smarmy, good-for-nothing ex-husband of hers had put her name forward for this skanky bar. He probably found the idea hilarious.
If I ever come across that spiteful SOB again I’m going to kill him!
An hour and a half later Chantal prepared to go on stage. She looked at herself in the mirror, hoping to hell that it was the fluorescent lighting which made her look white as a ghost and just as sickly. But the alarming contrast against her dark eye make-up and glossed lips would look great under the stage lighting. She’d seem alluring, mysterious.
Not that any of the patrons of such a bar would be interested in ‘mysterious’. No, she assumed it was a ‘more is more’ kind of place.
She sighed, smoothing her hair out of her face and adding a touch of hairspray to the front so it didn’t fall into her eyes. The other dancers seemed friendly, and there were actually two burlesque performers—though they didn’t look as if they danced on the mainstream circuit. When she’d asked if all the dancers stripped down she’d received a wink and an unexpected view of the older lady’s ‘pasties’.
Well, she wouldn’t be taking off her clothes—though her outfit wasn’t exactly covering much of her body anyway. She looked down at the top which wrapped around her bust and rib cage in thick black strips, and at the matching shorts that barely came down to her thighs. She might as well have been naked for how exposed she felt.
It wasn’t normal for her to be so filled with nerves before going onstage. But butterflies warmed her stomach and her every breath was more ragged than the last. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and shut her eyes, concentrating on relaxing her breathing. After a few attempts her heart rate slowed, and the air was coming more easily into her lungs.
Her act would be different—and she wouldn’t be dancing for the audience… she would be dancing for herself. Taking a deep breath, she hovered at the entrance to the stage, waiting for the dancer before her to finish.
It was now or never.
CHAPTER TWO
‘ARE YOU SURE we’re in the right place?’ Brodie looked around the run-down bar and shook his head. ‘She can’t be dancing here.’
‘I double-checked the address,’ Willa said, her dark brows pinched into a frown. ‘This is definitely it.’
‘Looks like there’s an upstairs section to this place.’ Kate pointed to a set of stairs on the other side of the room.
A single guy sat in the middle of the stage, playing old country-and-western hits, his voice not quite up to par. The bottom half of the bar was crowded and Brodie stayed close to the girls, given a few of the patrons were looking at them a little too closely for his liking. The group wove through the crowd until they reached the staircase at the back of the room, filing one by one up to the next level.
The music changed from the twangy country-and-western songs to a more sensual bass-heavy grind. The crowd—all men—encircled the stage and were enthusiastically cheering on a blonde dancer performing on a pole. She wore little more than a glittering turquoise bikini and her feet were balanced precariously on the highest pair of heels Brodie had ever seen.
‘We must be in the wrong place.’ Brodie rubbed his fingers to his temple, forcing down the worry bubbling in his chest.
Willa shrugged, looking as confused as he felt.
Chantal was a magnificent dancer—he’d often sneaked away from his duties at the Weeping Reef resort when he’d known she’d be using her time off to practise. She had innate skill and passion when she danced, no matter if it was in a studio or on the resort’s packed dance floor. He couldn’t understand why on earth she would be wasting her talent performing at some dingy dive bar.
The blonde left the stage to a roar of approval from the crowd and the music faded from one song to the next. His eyes were riveted to the space between the red curtains at the back of the stage. Heart in his throat, he willed the next dancer to be anyone else in the world other than Chantal. But the second a figure emerged from the darkness he knew it was her. He felt her before his eyes confirmed it.
No one else had a pair of legs like hers—so long and lean and mouth-wateringly flexible. She took her time coming to the front of the stage, her hips swinging in time to the music. Each step forward revealed a little more as she approached the spotlight. Long dark hair tumbled in messy waves around her shoulders, swishing as she moved. The ends were lightened from too much sun and her limbs were bronzed, without a tan line in sight.
Her eyes seemed to focus on nothing, and the dark make-up made her look like every dirty, sexy, disturbing fantasy he’d ever had. A jolt of arousal shot through him, burning and making his skin prickle with awareness.
He was in a dream—that had to be it. It was the only plausible explanation for how he’d ended up in this hellish alternative universe where he was forced to watch his deepest fantasy come to life right in front of him. He’d never been able to keep his mind off Chantal at the resort, but now she was here, the ultimate temptation, and he had to watch a hundred other men ogle her as though she were a piece of meat offered up for their dining pleasure.
His fists balled by his sides as he fought the urge to rush up onto the stage and carry her away. She wasn’t his responsibility, and the more distance he kept the better. He’d learnt that lesson already.
A wolf-whistle erupted from the crowd, snatching Brodie’s attention away from his inner turmoil. Chantal had one hand on the pole, and though she wasn’t using it as a prop, the way her fingers slid up and down the silver length made the front of his pants tighten. He shut his eyes for a moment, willing the excitement to stop. He shouldn’t be feeling as if he wanted to steal her away and devour her whole… but he did.
When he dared to open his eyes he found himself looking straight into the endless depths of Chantal’s luminous olive-green gaze. Emotion flickered across her face and her mouth snapped shut as she continued to dance, her eyes locked straight onto him.
Was it his imagination or were her cheeks a little pinker than before? For a moment he let himself believe she danced only for him, each gentle curve of movement designed to bring him undone.
In that moment she was his.
Dancing barefoot, she moved about the stage as though she owned it. Her feet pointed and flexed, creating lines and artful movement. Her arms floated above her head, crossing at the wrists before opening out into a graceful arc. Brodie’s body hummed as though she played him with each step, with each look, each flick of her hair.
Her eyes remained on him. She seduced him. Broke apart every brick of resolve that he’d put in place until the wall crumbled around him like a house crushed by a tidal wave.
She capsized him. Bewitched him.
Her eyes glimmered under the spotlight, energy building with the climax of her performance. His body tensed and excitement wound tight within him. A coil of wanting, ready to be released at any moment. It was so wrong. He’d thought he’d moved on. Forgotten her. What a joke. He’d never get Chantal out of his head. Never.
The spell was broken as soon as her song finished. Her eyes locked on him for one final moment before she retreated behind the red curtain. The catcalls and cheering only made Brodie’s pulse increase and tension tighten in his limbs. She should not be dancing in a place like this. Wasn’t she supposed to be married? Where the hell was her husband and why wasn’t he protecting her?
‘That wasn’t quite what I expected,’ Willa said, looking from Amy to Brodie and back again. ‘I mean, she’s a gorgeous dancer—but this place is…’
‘Wrong.’ Brodie gritted his teeth together.
‘Don’t be so judgmental, you two.’ Amy folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m going to see if I can find out what time she finishes.’
She wandered off in the direction of the stage but Brodie hung back with the others. Scott and Kate were chatting and laughing amongst themselves; Willa and Jessica were discussing the outfit of the next performer. Brodie leant back against the wall and ran a hand through his hair. His heart thudded an erratic beat and he wasn’t sure if it was from the desire to protect Chantal or from the fact that her skimpy black outfit had worked his libido into overdrive.
No, it had to be concern over her safety. He had four little sisters, and the need to protect was ingrained in him as deep as his need to breathe. Sure he was attracted to Chantal—what red-blooded man wouldn’t be? But it was nothing more than that. It had never been more than that.
Somehow the lie was no more believable now than it had been eight years ago.
Chantal had thought it wasn’t possible for the night to get any worse. Dancing in front of a room full of people who wouldn’t know art if it hit them over the head was bad enough, and the catcalls and leering were the proverbial cherry. But then she’d spotted Brodie and a good chunk of the Weeping Reef gang. Her stomach had felt as if it had dropped straight through the stage floor.
She braced her hands at the edge of the make-up bench and looked at herself in the mirror. All she wanted was to wash off her make-up and lock herself away until humiliation lost its brutal edge… though it was possible that would take a while. The shock on his face had been enough to destroy whatever confidence she’d managed to build up. He’d looked at her with an unnerving combination of disbelief and hunger.
She was about to remove her false lashes when her name rang out amongst the backstage hustle and bustle. Amy bounded towards her, arms outstretched and shiny blond hair flying around her face.
‘You were fantastic!’ Amy threw her arms around Chantal and gave her a friendly squeeze.
‘Thanks.’ Chantal forced a smile, wishing for possibly the hundredth time since she’d met Amy that she could have even an ounce of her vivacious confidence. ‘It’s a small gig in between a few bigger things.’
She hoped the lie didn’t sound as hollow out in the open as it did in her head, but she couldn’t let go of the false image she’d constructed. If they knew how bad things were right now… She wouldn’t be able to handle the pity. Pity was the thing she detested most in life—possibly due to the fact that it had been doled out in epic proportions throughout her childhood.
The teachers had pitied her and her borrowed schoolbooks, the other mums and their suit-and-tie husbands had pitied the way she’d had to wear the same clothes week after week, and as for the students… pity from her peers had always stung the most.
‘No judgment here.’ Amy held up her hands. ‘You have to come for a drink with us, though. We’ve got everyone together… well, almost everyone.’
‘Oh, I would love to, but…’ Chantal’s smile wavered. ‘It’s been a long day and I’ve got an audition tomorrow.’
She scrambled for an excuse—something that Amy wouldn’t question. There was no way she could go out there and face them—no way she could keep her head held high after what they’d seen. Heat crawled up her neck, squeezing the air from her throat. Not now, please don’t fall apart now.
‘Is your audition in Newcastle?’
‘No, Sydney. So I’ve got quite a long drive.’
Amy grinned and grabbed her hand, tugging her towards the door. ‘I’ve got the perfect solution then. Brodie got us here on his yacht, but he’s supposed to be docking at The Rocks. If your rehearsal is in the city it would be perfect. You won’t have to drive there, and Brodie can sail you back here after your audition.’
‘I really am tired.’ She shook her head and pulled her hand from Amy’s grasp.
‘You just need a drink or five.’ Amy winked. ‘Come on—it’ll be like old times.’
Chantal stole a glance at her reflection. She’d have to change. There was no way she’d go out there and stand in front of Brodie wearing mere scraps of Lycra. It’s not like he didn’t notice you dancing half-naked on that stage.
‘Just one drink,’ she said, sighing. ‘I need to be on good form tomorrow.’
‘Great.’ Amy bounced on the spot. ‘I’ll let you get changed. Meet us out the front in a few minutes?’
‘Sure.’
With Amy gone, Chantal could let the fake smile slide from her lips. Why the hell had she agreed to a drink with the old gang? She was supposed to be keeping her distance—at least until her life had started to match the image she’d presented online. No doubt they’d ask about her marriage: fail number one. They’d want to know about her career: fail number two. And she’d have to act as if it wasn’t awkward at all being around Scott and Brodie: fail number three.
Willa had told her that they’d recently repaired the rift she’d caused, but that didn’t make her any less squeamish about having the two of them in the same room as her.
She contemplated looking for a back exit to slip out of. Maybe if she disappeared they might get the hint that she wasn’t feeling social right now.
You can’t do that. These people are your friends… possibly your only friends.
Since her divorce her other acquaintances had been mysteriously absent. Perhaps being friends with Derek the talent agent was of more value to them than being friends with Chantal the out-of-work dancer.
She frowned at herself in the mirror, taking in the fake lashes and dark, sultry make-up. What a fraud. Sighing, she stripped out of her outfit and threw on her denim shorts, white tank top and sneakers from earlier. She didn’t have time to remove all of her make-up—that tedious task would have to wait for later.
Swinging her overnight bag over one shoulder, she decided against dumping it in her room first. If she found the comfort of a private room it would be unlikely she’d come back out. Suck it up, Chantal. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it!
Outside the crowd heaved, and she had to dodge the patrons who thought their ticket to the show meant they had a right to paw at her. This was not the dream she’d had in mind when she’d first stepped into a dance studio at the age of seven.
Her skin crawled. She wanted out of this damn filthy bar. Perhaps a potential lawsuit was worth the risk if it meant she never had to come back.
She was midthought when she spotted Brodie, standing alone by the stairs. Where had everyone else gone? Her blood pumped harder, fuelling her limbs with nervous energy.
As always, his presence unnerved her. His broad shoulders and muscular arms were barely contained in a fitted white T-shirt; his tanned skin beckoned to be touched. His shaggy blond hair sat slightly shorter than it had used to, though the ends were still sun-bleached and he wore it as though he’d spent the day windsurfing. Messy. Touchable.
But it was his eyes that always got her. Crystal green, like the colour of polished jade, they managed to seem scorching hot and ice-cold at the same time. When he looked at her it was easy to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.
‘The others have gone to the boat,’ he said, motioning for her to join him. ‘I didn’t want you to walk on your own.’
She followed him, watching the way his butt moved beneath a pair of well-worn jeans. He’d filled out since she’d seen him last—traded his boy’s body for one which was undeniably adult. She licked her lips, hating the attraction that flared in her and threatened to burn wild, like a fire out of control.
It was strange to be attracted to someone again. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time… possibly not since Weeping Reef. Her marriage hadn’t been about attraction—it had been about safety, security… Until that security had started to feel like walls crushing in on her.
They made their way out of the bar and into the cool night air. The breeze caught her sweat-dampened skin and caused goosebumps to ripple across her arms. She folded them tight, feeling vulnerable and exposed in the sudden quiet of the outdoors.
‘You didn’t have to wait,’ she said, falling into step with him.
Their steps echoed in the quiet night air, their strides perfectly matched.
He turned to her and shook his head. ‘Of course I did. I was worried you wouldn’t make it out of the bar on your own, let alone down the street.’
The disapproving tone in his voice made her stomach twist. The last thing she needed was another over-protective man in her life.
‘I can take care of myself.’
‘Your bravado is admirable, but pointless. Even the smallest guy in there would have at least a head on you.’
His face softened into a smile—he never had been the kind of guy who could stay in a bad mood for long.
‘Not to mention those skinny little chicken legs of yours.’
‘I do not have chicken legs.’ She gave him a shove and he barely broke stride, instead throwing his head back and laughing.
The bubble of anxiety in her chest dissolved. Brodie always had that effect on her. He was an irritating, lazy charmer, who talked his way through life, but he was fun. She often found herself smiling at him even when she wanted to be annoyed—much to her chagrin.
‘No, you don’t have chicken legs… not any more.’ He grinned, his perfect teeth flashing in the night. ‘You grew up.’
‘So did you,’ she said, but the words were lost as a motorcycle raced down the road.
They had eight years and a lot of issues between them. Issues, of course, was a code word for attraction. But issues sounded a little more benign and a little less like a prelude to something she would regret.
‘I thought your husband would be here to watch out for you.’ He was back to being stern again. ‘He should be keeping you safe.’
‘I think he’s keeping someone else safe these days.’ She sighed. Why did all guys think it was their job to be the protector? She’d been happy to see the back of her ex-husband and his stifling, control-freak ways.
‘So that means you’re single?’
She nodded. ‘Free as a bird and loving it.’
‘All the more reason to have someone look out for you.’
Chantal bit her down on her lip and kept her mouth shut. No sense in firing him up by debating her ability to look out for herself. She wasn’t stupid, her mother had made her take self-defence classes in high school, and she was quite sure she could hit a guy where it hurt most should the need arise.
They walked in silence for a moment, the thumping bass from the bar fading as they moved farther away. The yacht club glowed up ahead, with one large boat sticking out amongst a row of much smaller ones. She didn’t have to ask. Of course he had the biggest boat there.
‘Are you over-compensating?’ Chantal asked, using sarcasm to hide her nervousness at being so close to him… at being alone with him.
‘Huh?’
‘The boat.’ She pointed. ‘It’s rather… large.’
‘You know what they say about men with large boats.’ He grinned, his perfect teeth gleaming against the inky darkness.
She stifled a wicked smile. ‘They have large steering wheels?’
He threw his head back and laughed again, slinging an arm around her shoulder.
The sudden closeness of him unsettled her, but his presence was wonderfully intoxicating when he wasn’t waxing lyrical about her need for protection. He smelled exactly the same as she remembered: ocean spray and coconut. That scent had haunted her for months after she’d left Weeping Reef, and any time she smelled a hint of coconut it would thrust her right back onto that dance floor with him.
Her hip bumped against his with each step. The hard muscles of his arm pressed around her shoulder, making her insides curl and jump.
‘It’s not my personal boat. My company owns it.’
‘Your company?’ Chantal looked up, surprised.
Brodie was not the kind of guy to start a company; he’d never had an entrepreneurial bone in his body. In fact she distinctly remembered the time Scott had threatened to fire him for going over time on his windsurfing lessons because his students had been having so much fun. He had a generosity of spirit that didn’t exactly match bottom-line profits.
‘After I left Weeping Reef I bummed around for a while until I got work with a yacht charter company off the Sunshine Coast. It was a lot of fun. I got promoted, and eventually the owners offered me a stake in the company. I bought the controlling share about a year ago, when they were ready to retire.’
‘And now you run a yacht tour company?’
He nodded as their conversation was interrupted by a loud shriek as they strolled onto the marina. The girls had clearly got into the champagne and were dancing on deck, with an amused Scott watching from the sidelines. Willa waved down to her and motioned for them to join the party.
Chantal’s old doubts and fears crept back, their dark claws hooking into the parts of her not yet healed. She was not the person she claimed to be, and they would all know that now. They would know what a fraud she was.
Her breath caught in her throat, the familiar shallow breathing returning and forcing her heart rate up. She had a sudden desire to flee, to return to the dingy bar where she probably looked as if she belonged.
She didn’t fit in here. Not with these classy girls and their beautiful hair. Not with Brodie, who’d made a success of himself, and not with Scott, whom she’d betrayed.
She sucked in a deep breath, her feet rooted to the ground. Panic clutched at her chest, clawing up her neck and closing its cold hands around her windpipe. She couldn’t do it.
‘Chantal?’ Brodie looked down at her, his hand at the small of her back, pushing gently.
She bit down on her lip, shame seeping through her every limb until they were so heavy she couldn’t move. Why did you come? You’re only setting yourself up to be laughed at. You’re a failure.
‘Come on.’ Brodie grabbed her hand and tugged her forward. ‘We don’t want to get left behind.’
