by Price, Sarah
A man nodded at Alejandro and opened a door for them, the music suddenly filling the air. Alejandro led Amanda through the door and onto a small dance floor that was already crowded with people.
“Oh help!” she muttered, knowing that he could not hear her.
Once they were out on the floor, he spun around and faced her. One eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth lifted as he started to sway to the Cuban beat. Immediately, he began to dance, his feet moving in perfect rhythm to the music. Feeling lost, she watched him for a minute and then recognized the dance as the cha-cha. I know this, she thought. He reached for her hand and began to guide her with the simple dance steps: forward, back, cha cha cha. As her comfort level increased, he began to smile and proceeded to guide her through even more advanced steps. He did not speak—for it would have been impossible to hear him over the loud, pulsating music. Instead, he used pressure points: his hand on her back, his fingers on her palms, his thigh pressed gently against hers.
As Amanda became more comfortable with the rhythm, she relaxed and just followed his lead. She even laughed when he spun her around and pulled her into his arms, her back pressed against his chest and her face near his shoulder. Alejandro tilted his head down and peered at her. The music stopped, and she looked up into his sparkling blue eyes.
“Ah, there you are,” he teased softly. “My Princesa.”
Yes, she thought. Here I am, in your arms . . . the only place I want to be.
“I think Stedman must be doing a good job, no? You danced quite well.” He released her by spinning her away from him, although he still held her hand. “Now you just need to integrate some of those moves into a pattern for the stage. You’ll do quite nicely, Amanda.” He bowed to her and kissed the back of her hand. “Another dance before we return to our table, sí?” As if on cue, the music began again, but this time, the DJ was playing one of Viper’s songs.
The other people cleared the floor and cheered, clapping their hands and moving their hips in time to the music. Alejandro laughed and waved at the DJ.
“Let’s go!” He swung Amanda around again and began moving his hips and feet in one fluid motion that reminded her more of poetry than of dancing. Amanda watched him for a few long seconds, mesmerized by his ability to not just dance by himself but to visibly enjoy it. When he turned and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her to him so that they were pressed against each other, she had no recourse but to mirror his movements. Before she knew it, they were dancing the mambo. While her own moves felt stilted and forced, Alejandro moved as if the dance was second nature to him.
At first he’d pull her into a closed position and then fling her out into an open position, his feet never once stopping their perfectly timed rhythmic movement. The crowd cheered when Alejandro broke into a dance solo, his feet moving so fast that Amanda couldn’t keep up. She found herself laughing and taking two steps backward so that she didn’t get in his way.
When the song finally ended, several people approached him, the men clapping him on the back and a few women enjoying a warm, sweaty hug. Amanda watched all of this, trying to understand exactly what the point of bringing her downstairs to the dance floor had been. It was when Alejandro posed with several women—his smile lighting up his face and his expression the same one he wore in all of the photos for which she’d seen him pose—that she realized this, too, had been orchestrated.
They returned to the table. Alejandro was barely out of breath from his dance, although sweat glistened on his forehead. Once they were seated, he used his napkin to dab at it. “Fun, sí?”
“I get it,” Amanda admitted.
He looked up in surprise. “¿Sí?”
How could she not? He hadn’t told her what was important; he had shown her. Viper, the international sensation, could not put his wife onstage, where thousands of cameras would be taking videos and photographs of her, if she was just going to stand there with no idea of how to enhance his entertainment value. The fans wanted to see Amanda, but they were there for Alejandro. By learning how to dance and entertain his fans, she increased his brand image and that was the name of the game.
“Ja,” she replied, sounding more confident than she felt. “I’ll keep working with Stedman.”
“Good girl.” From his reaction, she could tell that Alejandro had never once doubted that she would give in to his wish. However, he had opted not only to count on her submission but also to show her how important it was for her to honor his request and work with Stedman. Amanda now saw that if she wanted to truly be helpful and supportive of Alejandro’s career, she needed to develop skills for dealing with the fans and presenting herself onstage. It was all part of the package.
“But,” she added, lifting her water glass and taking a small sip, “that doesn’t mean I’ll like it!”
He laughed at her sassy remark and leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “I’d imagine it no other way,” he whispered.
Unaware that he was interrupting an important moment, the server approached the table and carefully set two plates in front of them. “Compliments of the house,” he said. “The chef prepared a special appetizer for you: foie gras au torchon, prepared using the old French recipe.”
“Wonderful!” Alejandro dipped his head as if bowing. “My regards to the chef.”
The served nodded and backed away from the table, leaving them alone once again.
“How very special!” he said as he placed a portion of the sliced foie gras onto a piece of toast. She watched him as he tasted it. No sooner did he bite into the toast than he shut his eyes and gave a soft moan. “¡Ay, mi madre!”
“It’s good, then?”
He nodded his head and opened his eyes, a look of ecstasy on his face. “A little taste of heaven. Try it, sí?”
Hesitantly, she touched it with her fork. “What is it again?”
“Foie gras au torchon.”
While the arrangement of the food on the plate presented a pretty picture, the fact that she couldn’t pronounce the name was a clue that this was something she normally would not eat. Copying Alejandro, she cut the foie gras with the side of her fork and placed some on a small piece of toast. “And what is it, exactly?” she asked as she lifted the food to her mouth and took a bite. “What an odd texture,” she commented.
“You like?” He didn’t wait for her to answer as he spread some more on his own piece of bread. “I’m surprised. Most people do not care for raw duck liver.”
She stared at him, the rest of the toast with foie gras still in her hand. “Did you say ‘raw duck liver’?”
“They soak it in milk for a day before deveining it. An absolute delicacy, no?”
Horrified, Amanda dropped the toast from her hand and shoved the plate away from her, causing her water glass to topple over. The sound of glass clinking against the plate caused several heads to turn. “Alejandro!” she exclaimed. “How could you?”
Alejandro remained motionless, his mouth agape as he stared at her.
Raw duck liver? She could think of nothing more disgusting. If he hadn’t reacted with such ecstasy to the dish, she would have thought he’d just played a trick on her. The taste in her mouth repulsed her so that she reached across his plate and grabbed his water glass, drinking as much from it as she could.
When she looked up, she saw that he still hadn’t moved. People at the tables closest to them, the ones without an obstructed view of the alcove, stared at her, too. The din of the room faded, and she suddenly realized that it was because of her.
She looked around the room without moving her head, her eyes wide and her cheeks warm. “Oh help,” she mumbled.
To her surprise, Alejandro tossed his head back and burst into laughter, the sound resonating throughout the quiet of the room. The people seated nearby began to titter along with him and offer her benevolent smiles; one of them gave her a thumbs-up. Clearly,
they had watched the entire scene unfold and, like Alejandro, found her reaction amusing.
Despite her embarrassment, Amanda composed herself and reached for her champagne glass. Casually, as if nothing had happened, she lifted it toward Alejandro and gave him a soft smile.
Alejandro shook his head, still chuckling as he reached for his glass, an amused expression on his face as he tilted his glass toward hers. “Here is to your brand image,” he quipped. “I knew you had it in you, mi amor.”
Chapter Seven
The bright lights shone down on Amanda, and she felt the intense heat of the high-wattage bulbs on her face. It felt as if her skin were baking under the intense blaze of illumination, especially with the light bouncing off the reflector umbrellas set up to keep her completely shadow-free in front of the white cloth backdrop.
As if the heat wasn’t bad enough, a small crowd of people also stared at her. Amanda felt more than self-conscious; she felt downright nervous and uncomfortable. She didn’t know who most of the people were or what purpose their presence served. In Viper’s world, every activity involved dozens of people, most of whom stood around and soaked in the energy of stardom without contributing, while just a few worked excessively, immune to the atmosphere of celebrity fame.
In the background, music blasted—every song one of Viper’s. She could barely concentrate on her own thoughts. The music was so loud, she could almost feel the floors shake in time with the bass. Some of the workers moved in rhythm to the music, their hips swaying and feet lifting as they danced in place. Others talked to each other, their voices raised and heads tipped close together so that they could hear each other over the blasting sound. And then there was the photographer who was now walking around Amanda, his knees bent and legs spread in a crab-like fashion as he snapped photos of her in a long, fast sequence.
“Come on, Amanda,” he said. There was an edge to his voice. “Let’s work this a bit more.”
If the photographer expected her to dance to the music, Amanda’s stiff posture and expressionless face told him otherwise. After three weeks of dance lessons, her body ached, and she didn’t really understand why she was there or what they wanted from her.
Just the previous evening, Alejandro had informed her about the photo shoot.
His announcement had taken her by surprise. “Whatever is it for?” she had asked, setting down her book. She had been lying in bed, reading a devotional book, when he arrived home around nine o’clock. He hadn’t looked tired, and she’d wondered if he was going out again. But when he changed into a pair of lightweight sweatpants and a sleeveless white undershirt, she realized that he was home for the night.
He’d crawled over the top of the bedding before throwing himself down beside her. Leaning his head on her shoulder, he peered at the book. “What is that?”
“A devotional,” she responded. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He reached out and took the book from her. That was the one thing she never saw him do: read for recreation. Business documents, e-mails, even articles on his tablet, but never books. And certainly not the Bible. Despite his profession of the Catholic faith in which he’d been raised, he showed little signs of living a life of spiritual devotion.
“You like this?” He handed the book back to her before raising his head and leaning his cheek on his palm, his elbow pressed against the mattress. With his other hand, he traced an imaginary line down her shoulder to her wrist. “I would think you’d prefer a nice romance novel.”
Amanda had shrugged. She had never been much of a reader. Alejandro had introduced her to that practice, which made his own lack of reading now even more curious. “Mayhaps the classics,” she admitted. “But it’s gut to focus on inspirational books and Scripture, too.”
He nodded as if thinking about something she’d said. After a few long moments, he had taken a deep breath. “I’m going downstairs to my office for a while,” he said. “Watch some television and relax.” Sliding toward the side of the bed, he’d sat up and stretched as he stood.
“Maybe there is a fútbol game on.”
“You still didn’t answer my question,” she’d said.
“Qué question?”
“About the photo shoot.”
He’d smiled in that mischievous way that was unique to Alejandro. And she’d known that, whatever the photo shoot was for, it was about business. “Because you are so beautiful, Princesa,” he had said as a simple explanation. “I want to share Mrs. Viper with the world . . . but only in photos.”
She had watched him leave, knowing that he had something planned for the photographs that would come out of this session. Perhaps she would find out the reason one day, but she had quickly realized that that would not happen anytime soon. Only when he wanted her to learn about the photo shoot’s purpose would he tell her, and not a minute sooner.
“Focus, Amanda!” The photographer interrupted her thoughts. “Lift your hair off your shoulder.” He crouched before her, his black camera aimed in her direction. He was constantly telling her things to do, ways to move, where to focus. She hated it. But she complied, placing her hand under her loose hair and sliding it upward so that the one side of her hair lifted away from her face. “Good girl.”
For hours, she had let them do everything they wanted to do: fix her hair, apply her makeup, and dress her in different outfits. Some of the clothing was familiar to her; she had already tried it on. Jeremy had designed the outfits for her to wear on tour. Other clothing, she did not recognize. But everything was well coordinated: each outfit had matching shoes and accessories.
Now, however, her patience was at an end, especially since she’d learned that they wanted her to pose for another two hours. All she wanted was to get away from these people and their false compliments. Whenever the photographer asked her to do something, to move a certain way, Amanda had tried to comply—at least in the beginning. But her willingness to participate had dwindled with each outfit change and hour that had passed.
Off to the side of the white backdrop and just beyond the glare of the bright lights, Dali stood watching. In her hands, she held a planner that Amanda knew contained a schedule, her schedule of events and appointments, for every day between now and when the Viper Tour left the United States and headed to South America. Earlier, during a coffee break—for everyone here lived off coffee, and not food, she had observed—Amanda had reviewed the schedule. To her dismay, every day was crammed with lists of places where she needed to make an appearance. And not one day included time with Alejandro. That realization had done little to improve her mood.
“This cannot be right,” Amanda had said, handing the schedule back to her personal assistant. She was disappointed with what she’d seen: a visit to a local Latino community school to read stories to children, a luncheon for foster children, interviews with four women’s magazines, a ribbon cutting at a new shopping center. The schedule was filled with an endless stream of appointments of that nature. The only thing that was missing was the one thing she longed for. “Not any time with Alejandro?”
Dali hadn’t even blinked.
“Dali, please.” Amanda hated that she sounded as if she were pleading with her assistant. “Tell me this is wrong.”
But Dali responded only with silence.
“And who are these people? Why would they want to see me?” She pointed at the list. “What’s a ribbon cutting?”
“A grand opening. You stand there and cut a ribbon while they take photos,” Dali explained drily. “And they want you in order to get to Viper.”
That had sounded ridiculous to Amanda. She understood what the marketing machine behind Viper was doing: making her the unspoken ambassador of the Latinos in Miami on behalf of her husband, Viper. Attending functions that helped those who were downtrodden or in need of assistance was not in itself a distasteful idea to Amanda. In fact, she remembered fondly her visit
with Alejandro to the children’s cancer hospital after a concert in Kansas City. The experience had moved Amanda. She’d hated seeing those sick children, lying in cold hospital beds during their treatment for cancer. When Alejandro had visited the cancer ward, Amanda had been touched by the children’s reactions. So she didn’t mind standing in for him at some of these types of events, thus freeing up his time to continue recording, practicing, and meeting with his team.
She was, however, mindful of the need to schedule time with her husband.
Dali crossed the room and motioned to someone. Because of the glaring lights, Amanda couldn’t see who it was.
“Turn to the left, Amanda,” the photographer shouted, still snapping photos.
Obediently, she did as instructed, despite her discomfort level, which was increasing by the minute.
Jeremy had picked out her outfits for the photo shoot, and, as usual, the dresses and evening gowns, all of which covered her legs, still revealed too much for Amanda’s taste. She hated the feeling of exposed skin on her shoulders and, even worse, the way that Jeremy designed her more formal clothing so that the backs draped down. Still, Alejandro had explained the purpose of this photo shoot: marketing. Since he had asked, she would not say no.
But to smile and pose? That was something Amanda simply could not do. Throughout her Amish childhood, she had been raised to believe that exposing herself to picture taking was an expression of vanity, something that was totally in opposition to the values of subservience to God and community—values anchored deep in her faith. Allowing someone to take her picture as a means of providing support to her husband, the man she had been taught to consider the head of her household, was already hard enough on her. But to smile and strike different poses while doing so? That was definitely crossing the line.