Shimmy for Me: A Novella (California Belly Dance Romance Series Book 1)

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Shimmy for Me: A Novella (California Belly Dance Romance Series Book 1) Page 3

by Cameron, DeAnna


  Once she got out from beneath all these business costs, there was no end to the possibilities. She just needed a little more time to catch up with the bills. And she needed this job to do it.

  “You know, I went to that belly dance show in Hollywood last night,” Melanie said. “It turns out it was a benefit. A dancer from Silver Lake was in a car accident, and she needs help paying her hospital bills.”

  “That’s awful,” Abby said and silently chastised herself for wallowing. No matter how bad her money problems were, they were still just money problems. Melanie was trying to remind her of that. “Is it someone we know?”

  “I don’t think you know her, but that’s not my point. I was thinking you should consider holding a benefit for the studio. If people would help a dancer get back on her feet, why not a whole studio?”

  “I appreciate the idea. It’s probably a good one. But I don’t know the first thing about holding a benefit. The rules, the laws. I’m sure there’s a ton of red tape. I wish I had the time to look into it. I just don’t.”

  “You’re right,” Melanie said. “It was a stupid idea.”

  Abby reached out for her friend’s arm. “It wasn’t a stupid idea. At all. I know you’re trying to help me. It’s just taking everything I have to tread water right now.”

  “There’s always my other idea,” Melanie suggested.

  Abby recognized that mischievous look. She shook her head. “No way. Absolutely, no way.”

  “Oh, c’mon. Do you know how much those dancers make? As much as you make here in a whole week. And what’s the harm?”

  “It makes belly dancing look like a joke. People think it’s just like sending a stripper.”

  “Bellygram dancers are not strippers. Well, most of them. Of course, you’re going to have bad seeds out there doing whatever they want, but we could do it with style. We could make it classy.”

  It wasn’t the first time Melanie had suggested the side business as a way to boost revenue at the studio. Abby was open to a lot of suggestions, but this one—no way. This is where she drew the line. “If it came to that, I think I’d rather lose the studio.”

  Melanie shrugged. “All right. You’re the boss.”

  Abby tugged her elbow. “I appreciate it, though. I know you’re trying to help.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Melanie said when she pulled away.

  “The only thing I can do, I guess. I’m going to take that assistant job. What do you think he’s going to do when I walk in and say, ‘Hi, remember me? I’m the one whose nipples you were sucking last night.’ ”

  Melanie’s mouth dropped open. “Oh God, don’t say that. If he’s anything like his father, he probably doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. You’ll knock him on his country-club ass.”

  Abby’s chest seized. She could feel the world pulling away from her again, tugging at everything she held dear. No, if she was going to lose everything, it wouldn’t be because she just gave up. What she needed was a plan, and little by little one was beginning to form. “What if I don’t say anything?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Abby wasn’t sure exactly. She pinched her lower lip and began to pace, her kitten heels clicking against the tiled floor. “I was in my costume, right? Full makeup, hair braided and wrapped.”

  “Okay?”

  “Except for the performance in the restaurant, he only saw me in the dark. Outside, then his car, then the hotel room.” It was all replaying in her mind, every sensuous moment, and every one in the dark.

  “You made him do it in the dark?” Melanie half scoffed, half chuckled.

  Abby’s lips spread into a slow, relieved smile. “You bet I did. So, how in the world could he think of the belly dancer he sexed last night when he gets a look at this.” She turned to the restroom’s full-length mirror and posed, relishing every inch of her pale-pink-cardigan, gray-wool-skirt, plain-Jane glory.

  “That’s a good point,” Melanie said. “But just to be sure”—she tapped the sink—“wash your face. Without makeup—I mean, no liner, no lipstick, no blush, nothing—he’ll never see a resemblance. I don’t know if I’d recognize you.”

  The idea made sense. Abby smiled a suddenly hopeful and altogether wicked smile. “So, I can just act like nothing happened. Like we’re complete strangers. I never even told him my real name.”

  “Damn,” Melanie said. “This really could work. And from what I hear, he’s kind of a playboy anyway. He’s been traveling like crazy for years, working at different Collier Media papers. He spent a year in Odessa, a year in Billings. Geez, I don’t know how many places. He’s basically been a really big fish in a lot of really small ponds, and he’s never been lonely. If you know what I mean.”

  “Great.” It was, wasn’t it? A one-night stand, that’s what she wanted. No complications. It just felt odd to be wishing the guy she’d just slept with had already forgotten her. She yanked off the elastic hair band holding back her ponytail and shook out her hair, bringing it down alongside her cheeks. She pulled a comb from her purse, wet it and worked out the bend. It was still a little noticeable. She turned to Melanie. “What do you think?”

  “Honestly? You look like a dork.”

  She pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, wiped off her lipstick, blush, and eye shadow, then pinched her cheeks to make them splotchy and red. “Do I look like Zenina?”

  Melanie pulled back and shook her head. “Not even a little.”

  | 7

  Derek paced in front of his father’s desk. “A little warning would have been nice.”

  Randall Collier slid back in his leather chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “It was a board decision, yesterday afternoon. You should have attended. You may be publisher, but you’re also a board member. Don’t forget that. Still, I would have discussed it with you last night, if you had come home.”

  Home? That sprawling mansion overlooking the Corona del Mar shoreline hadn’t felt like home since he’d finished college six years ago and set off for the Pocatello Times, the first stop in his father’s idea of an apprenticeship. Since then, Derek hadn’t spent more than a handful of nights in that place, and now that he was back in Orange County for good, he knew he couldn’t take up residence there again. Especially after yesterday’s illuminating discussion with his father about the future of the Herald and the rest of the Collier Media Group. As soon as Derek had left their lunch chat at Morton’s, he had stopped by the Newport Beach resort and booked a villa.

  “You didn’t really expect me to move back into my old room, did you?” The staff had removed the car posters and baseball memorabilia he had surrounded himself with in his teens and replaced them with more tasteful furnishings, but they couldn’t rid it of the memories. “It’s time I find a place of my own.”

  “Whatever you prefer. So long as you intend to see this business through.”

  “If you mean, so long as I intend to show up every day and pretend everything is fine, well, I guess you’ve left me no other choice.”

  Randall Collier leaned forward and frowned. “You’re making too much of this. It isn’t so bad. The departments have been given their numbers. They’re already trimming expenses. Your job will be easy.”

  Derek stopped in front of the wall of windows looking out over a corner of Santa Ana and on to Costa Mesa, Newport Beach, and a shadow of Catalina Island on the horizon. “Right, easy.” And temporary.

  A soft knock at the door stopped him.

  “Yes, Mildred?” Randall said.

  The door opened and a small, birdlike woman with a tight black bun poked in her head. “Your three o’clock has arrived, sir.”

  Derek turned back from the window. “Mildred, please tell me there is some way to persuade you to reconsider? How will I survive without you?”

  She dipped her head. “Don’t be silly. You’ll be fine. It’s my time. I’ve worked for your father for so many years, you know. We have our little way of doing things. You kids to
day have your computers and your smartphones, and who knows what else.” She batted the air as if shooing all that technology away. “You need someone who understands it all. Someone who can really help you. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the village in Sicily where my mother was born. If I don’t go now, I may never have a chance.”

  Derek walked up to her, took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “You know you’ve broken my heart, Mildred. I thought I would finally have you all to myself.”

  The woman pulled back and slapped him on the chest. “Derek Collier, you are a scoundrel.” There was a smile on her lips.

  “All right. If you won’t have me, let’s see who’s going to be stuck with me.”

  A moment later, Mildred showed in a woman who looked more like an underage sorority girl than the overqualified MBA student that brown-noser Deffner had promised him. Maybe it was just as well. He wanted an assistant who was smart, but not too smart. If he was going to do this, he needed someone who followed directions and didn’t ask a lot of questions.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Anderson,” Randall Collier said, rising from his desk and coming around to greet the young woman, who was standing in the center of the room with her hands clasped in front of her like a child summoned to the principal’s office. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  She lowered herself to the edge of one of the leather chairs.

  “This is my son, Derek,” Randall Collier said as Derek came around to greet her.

  She took his hand politely, but hardly met his glance.

  “Pleasure,” he said.

  She mumbled something unintelligible.

  Was she nervous? Probably. But who could tell with that dark curtain of hair obscuring her face? Otherwise she wasn’t bad-looking. Petite and thin, a little shapeless for his taste. Not like that belly dancer. Now that woman had curves. And when she had wrapped her legs around him…

  “You’ve been working in a temporary position in Carl Deffner’s department, is that right?” Randall Collier offered, trying to fill in the silence.

  For the hundredth time that day, Derek pushed the belly dancer from his mind. It was almost annoying, the way she kept popping into his thoughts. He had needed the distraction last night, and she had served her purpose. But now he needed to focus.

  Even if this mousy accounting clerk had to be the subject of that focus.

  “We understand you’ve made great strides with the new accounting software and getting our old information integrated. Deffner says we’re a month ahead of schedule, thanks in large part to you.”

  She nodded.

  Father was trying so damned hard to get this girl out of her shell, but she just sat there, hunched in her chair, raising her glance from the floor for a split second at a time.

  “I’ve enjoyed the work,” she said at last.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Unfortunately, since the project has entered its final stages, Deffner says he no longer requires the extra help.”

  So that was the tack the old man was going to take. Dangle the threat of unemployment. Derek stifled a laugh. Was it really any surprise this company was in the pitiful shape it was in?

  Derek watched Miss Anderson. Her expression gave away nothing. She was as calm and expressionless as Derek hoped he was himself.

  Perhaps he had misjudged her. Maybe she wasn’t scared. Maybe she was cautious. A shrewd observer. A listener. Someone like him.

  “Is that why you called me up here, Mr. Collier?” she said matter-of-factly.

  “A woman who gets down to business,” Randall Collier said. “I like that.”

  Derek liked it, too.

  “We believe in taking care of our own around here,” the older Collier continued. “We want you to know we appreciate your hard work and dedication.”

  What a load of BS. Did his father really think the woman would believe that? It didn’t matter. His father wasn’t pausing for a reply.

  “As you must have heard in the auditorium this morning, I’ve decided it’s time to retire. I’m handing day-to-day operations over to Derek, and my secretary, Mildred, has decided it’s her time to leave as well. Which leaves Derek in need of some help. Doesn’t it, son?”

  This whole thing was becoming annoying. It was ridiculous, the way his father was treating this woman. This wasn’t 1960. Hell, no one even used the term “secretary” anymore.

  Apparently he wasn’t the only one losing patience, because Miss Anderson looked like she had had enough as well.

  “Are you offering me an executive assistant position?” she asked.

  Her direct question left his father speechless.

  “Yes,” Derek interjected. “We are. But there’s something you should know before we go further.”

  “Perhaps this isn’t the time,” Randall Collier said.

  “It’s the perfect time,” Derek countered, meeting his father’s glare squarely. He turned back to the young woman. “Let me spell it out,” he said. “This is a challenging time for the newspaper. I’m sure your clerical skills are adequate, and your business experience could be an exceptional benefit. But what I’m really looking for is someone I can trust. Can I trust you, Miss Anderson?”

  | 8

  Abby glanced up from the floor and made eye contact with Derek for the first time since entering the office. If she had been standing, the force of it would have knocked her on her ass. As it was, she swallowed hard and tried to forget how those wide, scrutinizing eyes had looked so warm and inviting in the moonlight. Here, in the harsh afternoon sunshine, she could see they were the cold gray-green of the ocean when it crashed and tumbled into a white froth against the shore.

  “Miss Anderson?”

  His frown betrayed his impatience, but he didn’t seem to recognize her.

  And she hardly recognized him. Where was the sweet, tender guy from the night before?

  Concentrate. “You can trust me, Mr. Collier.”

  Remember why you’re here. Remember the studio. Nothing else. Not the silvery moonlight glancing off his strong, smooth chest. Not the heat of his lips. The soft brush of his stubble or the touch of his…

  Stop!

  “Good,” he said. He stood and walked to the window, his gaze climbing the foothills in the distance. “Because I’m about to tell you something that cannot leave this room.”

  “Derek,” his father said sharply. He was on his feet, his fingers angry talons on his desk. “This isn’t wise.”

  “I think it is. If she is to be my only accomplice in this, she won’t be much use if she doesn’t understand the risk.”

  “There’s risk?” Abby asked.

  “Yes, Miss Anderson, there is risk,” Derek said. He paced from the window across the floor behind her, his hands clenched behind his back. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. About the cuts. Despite what my father presented this morning”—he shot a disgusted look at his father, who met it with stony silence—“the paper is experiencing unprecedented and unrelenting losses. Instead of making real changes, the family has been subsidizing operation costs.”

  “Even after last year’s layoffs?” she asked.

  “Those across-the-board layoffs probably made the situation worse,” Derek said.

  Again she caught a frigid glare directed at his father. “The family has been propping up the paper for months now, and it doesn’t look like the situation is going to improve any time soon. So, the Collier Media board members—my esteemed aunts and uncles who have grown used to a steady stream of profits—have decided it’s time to sell.”

  “Sell the paper?” she asked, stunned.

  “All twelve papers,” he answered. “And the radio stations. Everything.”

  Randall’s leather cushion exhaled as he slumped back. “Really, Derek,” he muttered, frustrated yet powerless.

  “But you’ve just been appointed publisher,” Abby said, struggling to process the revelation. “Why do that, if the paper’s about to be sold?”

  “Funny, I’ve
asked the same question myself,” Derek said. “It would seem my father and the rest of the board members believe the job requires someone with less attachment.”

  She could hear the sharp, prickly edges in his voice.

  But the clamoring within her nearly drowned him out. She blurted the words thrumming within her. “If the paper is sold, what’s going to happen to our jobs?” What’s going to happen to my job?

  He shrugged. “It depends. Several potential buyers have already expressed interest. Some, I imagine, would want to keep the company and all its parts intact. Others would probably break up the media group and resell the individual properties. As for the Herald, as long as it continues to publish, I believe most, if not all, of the staff would be retained. You and I, however, would not. Any buyer would naturally want to install a new publisher. Since I would be let go, it is a fair assumption that you, as my assistant, would be let go as well.” He turned back to his father, who was slumped and distraught, and looking much less like the executive titan he had appeared to be in the auditorium. “Do I have that right, Father?”

  The old man nodded.

  “So, that’s the bad news,” Derek said. “Here’s the good news: If you agree to accept the position as my assistant, you will receive the customary salary for such a position—which I assure you is a good deal more than your current wages—as well as a ten-thousand-dollar bonus upon termination, which we’ll call your severance package.”

  A raise and a ten-thousand-dollar bonus? She could finally catch up on the bills. She could pay them off and still have enough to launch the boutique and website. No more month-to-month. No more struggling.

  Derek cocked his head to the side. “What do you say?”

  Her answer was clear. “How soon can I start?”

  | 9

 

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