by Enslaved
He’s shy, she thought, followed by, How delicious. After two solid weeks of being ogled by brutes and occasionally pawed by the bolder ones, the prospect of having to coax a man onstage with her was strangely titillating. Watching the mortified flush spread over his high-boned cheeks, she felt a jet of warmth shoot between her thighs and was startled by it. Though her act was overtly sexual, when performing she was very much detached from her body. More often than not, she felt as though she’d left her physical self entirely, as though she were the puppet master pulling the strings behind the scene of a Punch and Judy show, only instead of Punch, the puppet she manipulated was called Delilah. The byplay and banter she kept up with the males in the audience was entirely for show. The allure of her act rested on her ability to convince every man in the room she must be mad for him, but the truth was she never once felt the slightest sexual stirring while onstage—until now.
Heart drumming and palms perspiring, Gavin watched Daisy sashay down the steps, the spotlight following her as she headed straight for him. As much as he wanted to see her, becoming part of her act hadn’t been any part of his plan.
She drew up at their table. “Bonsoir, gents. Do any of you lads know French? It’s the language of love, after all.” Even though she addressed the trio as a group, Gavin didn’t miss how her eyes never left his face. God, Daisy.
Rourke volunteered Gavin to speak any language she fancied and gamely suggested they commence with Latin. Faces wreathed in grins, he and Hadrian shifted to the side to make room.
Daisy flung her slender arms out to the side and announced to the audience, “I think our handsome friend must be shy. Are you shy, sweetheart?” Gaze locked on Gavin’s, she leaned over the table, sending cleavage spilling out the top of her gown, and ran her tongue along the seam of her lips, a slow, deliberate slide that had the heat pooling in his groin. Straightening, she called out to the other tables, “Come on, fellows, this fine young gentleman wants for encouragement. Let’s give it to him, shall we?”
A wave of boos and hisses rolled over the room. From the back, someone called out “Pisser” and another more benign voice added, “Lucky bloke,” but for the most part Gavin was too caught up in his beautiful tormentor to pay them much heed.
Wrenching his gaze away from her, he pleaded with his friends. “You go, Patrick. You fancy being front and center more than I.”
“Not a chance.” Rourke reached across and slapped him on the back. “It’s your night. It won’t kill you to have a bit of fun for once.”
Mortified, Gavin swung around to Hadrian. “Harry?”
Hadrian shook his head and then gave him a thumbs-up. “Can’t, mate. Callie would have my cock on a platter if she ever found out and even if she didn’t, I’ve had more than my share of show girls in my bachelor days. Pretend you’re in court before the judge and jury, if that helps you. Whatever it takes, go to!”
Gavin started to answer he didn’t care to “go to,” but instead found himself swallowing a mouthful of feathers. Standing behind his chair, Delilah ran practiced palms over his shoulders and down his shirtfront, stopping barely above the waistband of his trousers. Fingers pointed downward, she brought her mouth over his ear. “Either be a sport and come on stage with me or have me finish out my act here. What’s it to be, chéri?”
The threat levered Gavin to his feet. Face burning, he submitted to her winding the boa about his neck and then using its tail as a leash to lead him onstage. He mounted the platform amidst raucous applause just as two burly stagehands set down a gilded chair sideways in the spotlight.
“Take a load off, love,” she said, shoving both hands against his chest. Falling back into the seat he caught a whiff of the cool, clean scent of peppermint on her breath, her favorite sweet from all those years ago.
Like Delilah seducing Samson or Salome dancing for Herod, she circled him, her swaying movements matching the tempo of the music, her every teasing gesture designed to arouse. Standing in front of him, she slowly peeled off her elbow-high opera gloves finger by finger, the left hand with her teeth, a slow, seductive striptease. Gavin sucked in his breath, hoping his erection wasn’t visible to the audience as it must be to her.
She bent over him, grabbing the back of his chair with both hands. Her breasts were a hairsbreadth from his mouth, her green foxfire gaze a burn he felt like a brand on his flesh. In the subdued lighting, her skin, very white and slightly damp, glowed like pearls.
Turning her face to the side, she called out, “I think he likes it, gents. What about you?”
The crowd roared its approval and Gavin more than suspected his wasn’t the only hard-on in the room. Coins fell upon the stage floor like hail, one striking Gavin in the outer thigh. Delilah smoothed her hand over the smarting spot and cooed, “Poor baby,” loud enough for the audience to hear. The next thing he knew she was in his lap, or rather straddling it, a leg on either side of his chair. Hands braced atop his shoulders, she wiggled her bottom, her sultry smile telling him she was feeling every brick hard inch of him.
All at once, her eyes flashed open and her jaw dropped, taking her smile with it. “Gavin?”
He nodded. His mouth felt too dry for speaking but he managed to mouth the words, “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”
In that moment, he forgot he was on stage, forgot he was a respected barrister in a compromising, some might say humiliating position, a collar of feathers about his neck and a boner tenting his trousers. Feeling as though his blood had turned to molten lava, he threw back his head and fitted his hands to her hips and let her dance in his lap in time to the music.
She pulled back, and he fancied the sudden hitch to her breathing and the trembling of her thighs wasn’t part of the act. Now that she saw him for who he was, she was feeling it, too, something so bold and powerful and altogether erotic that surely simple lust must pale in comparison.
The music built to crescendo. Her eyes found his. Looking apologetic if not precisely shame-faced, she whispered, “It’s the finale. I’m … I’m sorry.”
Before he could ask what she was sorry for, she arched back, and he found himself eye-level with her splayed thighs, a sliver of moist pink flesh peeking out of the slit in her silky black drawers. Suddenly she flipped over, somehow managing to execute the somersault without kicking him in the face. Bounding to her feet, she turned to the audience. In one smooth motion, she reached down and pulled the drawstring of her bloomers. The garment felt away in two halves, revealing the scanty black lace thong beneath.
To a man, the crowd surged to its feet. More money fell upon the stage, crumpled pound notes this time amidst catcalls and wolf whistles and thunderous applause. Playing to the applause, she strutted up and down the stage, stopping periodically to bend over and pick up the money, a device to show off her exquisitely tight, milk white bottom.
Hands full, she pranced back to the piano and dropped the heap of collected coins atop. “Our volunteer has been a proper sport. He deserves something sweet, doesn’t he, Ralphie?”
The pianist obliged with a violent nod. “Aye, Miss Du Lac, seems he ought to get somethin’ for ‘is trouble.”
Daisy winked, a broad gesture meant to be seen all the way to the back of the room and strolled back over to Gavin, still seated in the chair. She settled her hands on his shoulders and looked long and deep into his eyes. “Fancy a sweet, love?”
Gav, have you brought me your sweets again this time?
Gavin opened his mouth to answer that no reward was required but before he could, she grabbed him by the shirt collar and crushed her mouth to his. Drowning in a sea of peppermint and applause, Gavin shot up from the chair, wrapped his arms about her slender waist, and lifted her off the ground.
Off into the distance, a male voice yelled out, “That’s the way, mate. Give her a good rogering.”
The crude remark returned Gavin to reality. He wrenched his mouth away from Daisy’s and looked past her to a sea of salivating faces. All at once he remembered where he
was and, more importantly, who he was.
“Enough!” He stripped off his evening jacket and threw it about Daisy’s shoulders. Staring into her startled eyes, he said, “This is for your own good,” and swung her up into his arms.
“Put me down, you bleeding idiot.”
Feet flailing and palms pushing against her captor’s solid chest, Daisy could scarcely wrap her mind about what had just happened. Victim or volunteer, Gavin had turned the tables on her. He’d seized control of the audience, her audience, as well as her physical body, and now her shoulders and torso were locked within the vise of his hard-muscled chest and solid chaining arms.
“Not on your life.” Dodging her pummeling, he rushed across the stage with her.
“It may well be my life. If you don’t let me finish, we both may be torn to bits.”
This once she wasn’t exaggerating. Out in the audience, mayhem erupted. Looking back over the shelf of his broad shoulder, she saw tables toppling onto their sides, chairs crashing into walls and mirrors, and patrons fleeing to the exit doors or staying on to engage in bare knuckles brawling. Several angry men tried storming the stage, their bull-necked leader vowing to tear apart the spoilsport limb by limb. Fortunately Gavin’s friends were made of sterner stuff than typical London toffs. Leaping up from their seats by the steps, they used their fists to forestall the onslaught.
Daisy whipped her head back around just as a burly stage hand stepped into their path. Fists cocked, he said, “Put ‘er down.”
Jaw set, Gavin shook his head. “Step aside.”
The hand came at them but Gavin deftly blocked the blow and then planted a smacking punch dead center of the man’s bulbous nose. The heavier man dropped back, blood spurting.
Gavin reached out his bloodied hand and tugged the stage curtain aside. Ducking through, he twisted his head around to look at her. “Which way?”
Her dressing room was by far the safest spot. “Go to the left and then down the hall. The first door on your right—the one with the star,” she added, succumbing to an absurd burst of pride. “But set me down first.”
He hesitated and then set her down. She grabbed his hand and hurried him down the musty corridor.
The back of the house was a barebones affair, a dingy warren of narrow, poorly lit corridors. Gas and water pipes ran along the low, stained ceilings and the bare floors were gritty with filth. They drew up to the door of Daisy’s dressing room, footfalls pounding behind them. Heart racing, she reached for the knob and pulled, remembering too late how the warped door stuck. The last time she tried opening it, she’d wrenched her shoulder. “Oh, bugger.”
The footfalls were closing in, almost upon them. “Stand aside.” Gavin reached around her, yanked open the door, and shoved her in ahead of him.
Inside the small room, she threw the bolt, and they fell back against the peeling plasterwork. For the next few seconds, they stood side by side, their rapid-fire breaths the only sound.
Turning his head to look at her, Gavin said, “That was quite a performance.” His cynical tone told her he hadn’t meant it as a compliment.
Determined not to be cowed—she didn’t need his approval, not after all these years—she lifted her chin and said, “Thank you.”
She ran her gaze over him searching for similarities to the boy she’d known as well as marking the differences in the man he’d become. He wore his hair shorter than before, but it was still the same thick mass of blue-black waves albeit with a few threads of early gray at the temples. His face was leaner than she remembered it being, his eyes the same intense celestial blue that had always made her think of springtime skies. His mouth seemed thinner or at least less inclined to smiling than she remembered and his nose stood out as more prominent, slightly hawkish, and a bit arrogant even. A few faint lines had found their way into his high forehead and about the corners of his eyes. The ghosts of past cares, she surmised, for he couldn’t be more than thirty, if that.
My God, what a beautiful man he’s become.
He’d lost her boa in their mad backstage dash. Sweat streamed the sides of his face and plastered his white shirt to a torso that looked to be both lean and well-muscled. And, dear Lord, how tall he’d gotten. Even though she wore high heeled slippers, the top of her head came only to his shoulders. Accustomed to standing at eye-level with Frenchmen, being in such proximity to a man she was forced to look up to, and not any man but Gavin, the hero of her childhood, the love of her young life, had her feeling vulnerable and weak-kneed and altogether out of her element.
The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, showing he hadn’t entirely forgotten how to smile. “Through thick and thin, indeed.”
Hearing the snippet of their old childhood oath brought her closer to crying than she’d been in years. Her heart’s desire landed in her lap only fifteen years too late—cruel, cruel fate. “Gavin, what are you doing here?”
He lifted dark brows. “I thought to ask you the same question.” A droplet of sweat splashed the side of his sinewy neck, and she had the absurd notion of catching it on the tip of her tongue.
Pounding fists descended upon the outer door, the rumbling and raised voices calling them back to the present problem. “Miss Du Lac, are you all right? Shall I call for the constable?”
Daisy recognized the voice of the prop man, Danny. She didn’t really know him, but he seemed a decent fellow and he sounded more concerned than hostile. She turned to the door and called back, “That won’t be necessary, Danny. I had a little misunderstanding with a mate of mine, but it’s all straightened out now.”
A deeper, disgruntled voice called out, “Make it up with lover boy on your own time, Delilah.” Damn, it was the music hall chairman, Sid Seymour, who was also owner of the club. “The front of the house is at sixes and sevens, and I count myself lucky the police commissioner is a mate of mine; otherwise we’d be shut down for disturbing the peace. And mind, any replacements or repairs are coming out of your wages.”
Bugger! Daisy chewed on her bottom lip, mentally calculating the damages. Just one of those gaudy, gilded wall mirrors must cost a small fortune—a small fortune to her. At least he wasn’t sacking her. That was something, she supposed. Still, at this rate she’d be doing the can-can until she was eighty just to pay it all off. Even if the situation turned out not to be quite that dire, docked wages meant the month would be an especially lean one not only for her but for the dear ones she’d left behind in Paris.
Gavin opened his mouth to answer but Daisy laid a finger over his lips and shook her head, motioning him to silence. Directing her voice to the door, she said, “Sod off, Sid. You’ve made a mint on me these past two weeks, and don’t think I don’t know it. For the pittance you’re paying me, I might as well sing for my supper at the Grecian Saloon.”
The Grecian on City Road was more of a variety saloon than a supper club, according to her promoter, but it drew a good crowd and for the same money she’d only have to do one show an evening, not two.
The threat hit home. “Come out, and we’ll talk about it.”
Not about to open the door and give Gavin up to the professional bullies she knew Sid would have waiting, she put him off. “Tomorrow, Sid. If you want to see me back here for the matinee performance, I’ll need to go home and put up my feet.”
She waited until their fading footfalls confirmed they’d turned the corner, and then she swung about to Gavin. Stabbing a finger in his face, she said, “I hope you’re happy. I only have another two weeks to finish out my contract here, and thanks to you I’ll be lucky to break even. More likely, I’ll end up in debt.”
For the first time since he carried her offstage, Gavin looked less than sure of himself. “I have every intention of compensating the club for any damages incurred.”
Good intentions—whoever had said the road to hell was paved with them must be a wise person—make that wise woman, indeed. Daisy had long ago given up on the promises of men. You couldn’t feed your family
on broken promises or broken dreams either, for that matter.
Needing to put some distance between them, she kicked off her shoes and crossed the narrow room to the metal dressing screen, a small luxury she’d brought with her from France. The folding screen had been a gift from her adoptive parents on her first opening night. Painted with daisies in honor of her name, it brightened the dingy room. Beyond that, it felt important to have something of the familiar about her when virtually everything else felt, if not exactly foreign, then part of a long ago dream.
She slipped behind the cover and shucked off Gavin’s evening jacket. Tossing it over the top, she said, “You never did say what brought you here tonight.”
Even with the coat off, his scent still clung to her, some combination of bay rum and leather and musk, utterly masculine and thoroughly delicious. Fingers clumsy, she started on the laces of her corset.
He followed her to the front of the screen. “Would you believe I had a fancy for ‘a song and a pint,’ as they say?”
She let out a low laugh. “No, I wouldn’t. If you’ll pardon my saying so, you don’t strike me as the music hall sort.”
Bits of shed feathers sticking to him and sweat soaking through his wrinkled shirt, still there was an air of aristocracy about him, a sense that no matter how dirty he got, he would always be clean.
“Shall I take that as a compliment?”
Their eyes met at the very moment her corset fell away. Breasts swinging free, she took a full, deep breath, her first since that morning. “Take it as you like.”
His gaze went to the tops of her bared shoulders, and she smiled to herself. Whether they were old friends reunited or strangers meeting for the first time, whether she was Daisy or Delilah, he wanted her badly. The pisser was that she wanted him, too. Taking advantage of the screen’s cover, she brushed her hands over her nipples, imagining his broad-backed hands there instead. Oh, this wasn’t fair, this wasn’t right. What a gamester God must be. The first man to truly rouse her was the very man she couldn’t ever trust herself to have. If only he might be a stranger instead of a former friend who’d hurt her so very badly.