Private Dancer

by Suzanne Forster

  “Why y-yes, it ... is.”

  Bev hesitated, suddenly aware of her subject’s discomfiture. Arthur Blankenship, the alleged lady-killer, was blushing furiously. He even had a slight nervous hesitation in his speech. She was almost sorry she’d disturbed him. Beyond that, she had the craziest impulse to pat his hand and tell him that everything would be all right.

  “Oh, this is wonderful,” she said, returning the book to him. “I know so few people who appreciate the romantic poets. I wonder if we might, well, I mean, if you’d ever like to discuss iambic pentameter or anything.”

  He nodded and indicated the chair next to his. Bev sank down, immensely relieved that he was following her lead. “I don’t know if you’d consider loaning me the book when you’re finished,” she continued, aware of his brown eyes blinking behind the spectacles. They were enormous, and rather soulful. “I would guard it with my life.”

  “Please,” he said, pushing the book toward her.

  “Oh, thank you! Are you sure?” Bev had a tendency to talk when she was nervous, which she was at that moment. She launched into a monologue that quickly threatened to exhaust her modest knowledge of the romantic poets. Fortunately, Arthur made a gallant effort to save her as she began to run out of material. He was knowledgeable about both Shelley and Byron, their work and their legends, and the more he talked, the more he seemed to warm up to the subject. He actually smiled at her several times without blushing, and his speech was less halting.

  “You know, you look a little like Mary Shelley,” he said, contemplating Bev’s features. “Of course, she didn’t have your extr-extraordinary gray eyes.”

  “Why, thank you.” Bev was truly flattered. Though she couldn’t summon a mental image of Mary Shelley’s looks, she knew the woman was considered beautiful in her time.

  “Would you like some- something?” Arthur asked, waving for service. “Coffee? A croissant?”

  “Oh, no—” But it was too late. A waiter was already on his way over to them. And this particular waiter happened to be wearing a yellow calypso shirt and a familiar glower.

  “Please bring this inordinately lovely creature whatever she’d like,” Arthur said without the slightest hesitation. He smiled up at Sam Nichols, seemingly undaunted by their waiter’s looming presence.

  Bev was not undaunted. Sam didn’t look as though the night had improved his opinion of her tactics. His smoldering blue gaze moved over her, nearly setting fire to her eyelashes. She brought a hand to her breasts, covering herself protectively.

  “What would the inordinately lovely creature like?” Sam asked, an eyebrow arching.

  “Coffee,” Bev said quickly.

  “No Caribbean Kickers today?”

  “Just coffee.”

  “Cream? Sugar?” Sam pretended to be jotting something on his tablet. “A bib for the lady’s chest?”

  Bev shot him a warning glance.

  Arthur pursed his lips, apparently contemplating Sam’s menu of questions. “I think we’d both like a bib, wouldn’t we?” He smiled at Bev. “Are they cruise souvenirs or something?”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “If it’s a souvenir you want—”

  “Just coffee.” Bev breathed an inner sigh of relief as Sam snapped his head in a military nod and left without any further discourse. However, it did strike her as odd that Arthur seemed to be so interested in Sam’s departure.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Strangely enough, he reminds me of someone too.”

  Bev felt a moment of alarm. A con man and an ex-cop? It wasn’t impossible that he and Sam had crossed paths. “Really?” she said. “Who?”

  Arthur pursed his lips contemplatively. “Byron, I think.”

  “Lord Byron?” Bev tapped the novel. “This Byron?”

  “Umm ... yes. Although the poet was much shorter, of course, and had a noticeable limp. But then, our friend has a limp too, doesn’t he?”

  Arthur nodded in Sam’s direction, and Bev spun around to look. There was a slight catch in his stride, probably because of the shooting, Bev thought. Or maybe he really had hurt himself last night.

  “Dark and melancholy, given to rages, Byron was,” Arthur went on conversationally. “You know, he was supposed to have had an affair with Mary Shelley. It’s all in the book.”

  Bev found herself tapping the novel again. “This book?” She was beginning to sound like a parrot.

  Arthur was thoroughly enjoying himself by the time Sam returned with the coffee. Recounting the scandalous details of Byron’s love life had brought color to his pale cheeks and a devilish twinkle to his brown eyes. “Women couldn’t resist him, lucky dog,” he said, leaning over to Bev conspiratorially. “They called him the demon lover.”

  “Demon lover?” Bev’s voice was more animated than she’d intended. Apparently Arthur had infected her with his avid enthusiasm. “Really? He must have been—”

  “Kinkier than a pretzel,” Sam muttered, setting Bev’s cup of coffee in front of her.

  “Look who’s talking.” Bev breathed the words and laughed brightly as she reached over to touch Arthur’s hand, hoping to distract him from their waiter’s surliness.

  Arthur’s smile was pure bliss.

  “Anything else?” Sam bit out.

  “Some privacy?” Bev murmured.

  Sam didn’t budge. And finally Bev was forced to look up at him. “Cream,” she said instantly, blanching under his dark scrutiny. “Could I have more cream?”

  “By all means,” Arthur chimed in. His expression was rapt and eager, as though no other woman on the deck existed but Bev. “More cream for the beautiful lady.”

  There was nearly an unfortunate accident when Sam returned with the cream. In fact, if Bev hadn’t been on her toes, the cream pitcher would have landed in Arthur’s lap. “Look out!” she cried, jumping up as Sam’s tray tipped and the pitcher began to slide. She caught the edge of the tray and righted it, but not before some of the cream had slopped over.

  “Look what you’ve done.” She fired an accusing glance at Sam as Arthur fumbled with his napkin, trying to clean up the stains on his pants.

  “The boat must have rolled,” Sam said, borrowing Bev’s excuse of the night before. “And by the way, ma’am, you have a phone call. Would you like to take it at the table? Or should I bring the phone to your cabin where you can talk privately?”

  Bev spotted his ploy immediately. There was no phone call. He wanted to get her alone so he could read her the riot act. “I’ll take it at the table,” she said.

  “No! No, my dear,” Arthur insisted. “I have to go and change anyway. Please, take the call in your room.” He nodded for her to go. “Perhaps we can meet for lunch? Or dinner?”

  “How about lunch and dinner?” Bev barely got the words out before Sam had pulled back her chair. She rose abruptly, teetering as she made a grab for Arthur’s novel. “The Promenade Deck?” she said, tossing Arthur a hurried smile as Sam led her away. “Half an hour?”

  “What’s this all about?” Bev said under her breath as Sam hustled her down the stairway to their cabin. She was trying her best to keep up with him, tuck the book into her tote bag, and avoid taking a header down the stairs, all at the same time.

  “We need to talk about standard operating procedure.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my S.O.P.”

  Sam twisted the key, shouldered open the door to their cabin, pulled Bev inside, and shut the door behind them. “The first rule of detective work,” he said, grinding out each word, “is don’t ever let it get personal.”

  Bev tossed her bag on the bed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re getting emotionally involved. You like that jerk. I can see it in your eyes. The way you smile at him, the way you laugh and ... blush, or whatever flaky things women do. Hell, Bev, you’re acting like a dizzy teenager on a first date. And so is he!”

  “Well, isn’t that the point? I’m supposed to lure him into a rela
tionship and—”

  Sam cut her off in exasperation. “Have you forgotten who Arthur Blankenship is? He’s a rip-off artist, a swindler!” He raked a hand through his dark hair and glanced up at the ceiling as though looking for divine guidance. “I don’t get it. What do you see in that dork anyway?”

  “Wait a minute.” Bev was beginning to get the picture. This wasn’t about her S.O.P. She gaped at Sam for a moment, and then a smile broke. “Are you—oh, I don’t believe this! Are you actually jealous of Arthur? Of that sweet little man?”

  “Sweet little man? Listen to you. You’re proving my point, babe. You’re defending a con man.” He hesitated, squinting at her suspiciously. “What do you mean ... jealous?”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Hell, no! Get serious! That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” He turned away from her and slapped a hand against the wall above his head, as though he needed to support himself, the idea was so ridiculous. “Jealous of that Nerf ball? That’ll be a wet day in the desert.” He pushed away from the wall abruptly. “I’ve got to get back to work. I can’t deal with this.”

  For several seconds after he’d left, Bev simply stood there, staring at the door, puzzled and secretly pleased. He was threatened by Arthur, even if he wouldn’t admit it. But what did that mean? she wondered. Did it mean that he had feelings for her beyond the obvious sexual attraction? Or was it simply territorial instincts? Laughter bubbled so spontaneously, she couldn’t control it. Sam Nichols was adorable when he was jealous.

  The door swung open again, and Bev jumped backward.

  Sam stood on the threshold, staring at her for several seconds. Without a word he stripped off the calypso shirt and strode across the room as though he was going to change his clothes. He yanked his duffel bag out of the closet and turned back to Bev, the confusion in his eyes completely sincere. “I don’t get it, okay? I just don’t get it. What is it about Arthur Blankenship that turns you on?”

  A pulse ticked hotly in Bev’s throat. “What makes you think he turns me on?”

  “Does he?”

  She gave herself a moment to think about it, and to recover her composure. “Well, yes, in a way,” she admitted. “There is something sweet about him, and I think most women find that appealing in a man. He’s not afraid to be vulnerable, to show his tender side. You’d probably call that wimpy, but I think it’s brave.” She gave Sam a meaningful look, and hoped he got the point.

  He got it, all right, but he didn’t seem to like it. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, sarcasm evident in his low tone, “but I thought women liked their men strong. I thought a woman liked it when a man knew what he wanted ... especially if what he wanted was her.”

  There was such intensity in his voice that Bev’s heart began to pound erratically. “Of course women want strong men,” she agreed, “but it isn’t an either/or situation. A man should be in touch with his strength and his vulnerability. I think a woman wants a man who can talk to her, a man who can—”

  The closet door slammed shut, cutting her off. Sam released the latch slowly and turned to her. “A man who can do what?” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Make her feel like a woman?” He caught Bev’s gaze and held it. “You’re the expert on what women want. What about you? What do you want?”

  He walked toward her, and Bev felt as though the room were closing in around her as he neared. The scar drew at his mouth, pulling sensually at his lower lip. His eyes had gone dark, and they were beautiful with their flashes of anger and desire. He was a thrilling man, a frighteningly powerful man. But there was another quality hidden in his features that pinned Bev like a butterfly to the mat. It was a shadow of something she might have read as hunger in a more accessible man. Did he have longings? Did he need something from her that went beyond sex?

  His hand flashed up, reaching out for her. And then he checked himself. “What do you want from a man?”

  His hesitation took Bev by storm. He’d obviously wanted to touch her, to pull her into his arms and kiss her, or ravish her, or something—but he hadn’t. He’d held back, and the thought of him harnessing all that turbulent energy made her feel strange inside, breathless.

  “I don’t know,” she said, suddenly remembering his question. She truly didn’t know at that moment. Her head was spinning, her thoughts jumbled.

  He unclenched his hand and reached for her again, slowly. Bev closed her eyes, expecting force. Instead, he touched her eyebrow, just at the sensitive ridge where it arched and feathered out.

  “Yes, you do, Lace.” He explored her face with the pad of his thumb, following the crest of her brow, arcing over her cheekbone and into the hollow that curved toward her lips. “You know everything you need to know.” It was the lightest, most arresting sensation Bev had ever felt. It tingled her skin and set her mind on fire. It made her anticipate the moment when the lightness would give way to something deep and raw and passionate.

  What did she want from a man? She wanted safe passage from Sam Nichols at that moment. She didn’t dare let herself think about anything else she might want from him, or they’d never get out of the cabin. “No ... I don’t,” she insisted, turning away, pretending to straighten her dress. Her heart was beating so heavily, it hurt.

  “Then maybe I can help you out.”

  Bev didn’t want his help, and she certainly didn’t want to hear what he had to say, but his pause forced her to wait, to listen.

  “You like it when a man comes on strong,” he said finally. “You like to be kissed until you’re dizzy, Lace. You want a caveman ... or at least you did yesterday.”

  She shook her head, warding him off. “That was yesterday. No!” she cried dazedly as his hand combed into her hair and brought her around to face him. “No, don’t do that again.”

  “Don’t do what?” Catching her under the arms, he picked her up and set her on the dresser top, gathering her close. His hipbones pressed into the side of her thigh and his hands were rough and thrilling. She could feel them burning through the cotton material of her sundress. “Don’t do this?” he said, running his hands up her midriff to just below her breasts. “Don’t touch you like this?”

  There was raw passion in his voice, raw passion in the way he curved his hand to her jaw and brought her face up to his. Before she could catch her breath, he’d grasped her arms and drawn her up to him, his mouth hot near hers. “Tender, huh? That’s the way you want it?”

  Something flared in his eyes, something beautiful. It was the very tenderness he spoke of, and it made him look like an angel of darkness. Bev waited for his mouth to come down on hers. She was already dizzy with the heat and the smell and the sight of him. He was so powerful in the way he took control, so sure of himself in everything he did that it overwhelmed her fragile grip on reality. He knew what he wanted, but she didn’t know anything except the sensations that streamed through her every time he touched her this way.

  His grip on her arms was bruising, but his mouth was soft as he touched it to a corner of her lips. “I can be tender, babe. I can be anything you want.”

  Some sweet emotion surged inside Bev at his husky avowal. She couldn’t put a name to the sudden poignancy that burned her throat and pressed down on her heart, but it drove her nearly crazy with the need to be close to him. “Then show me,” she said, her voice breaking. “Show me how tender you can be.”

  He sought her face with his hands, a hint of unsteadiness in his rigid fingers. He wanted to be gentle, she could feel it. But the ache was in him too. He was fighting a rage of desire.

  The next touch of his mouth was fever-sweet and searching. It pulled up a sensation from deep within her, a soft cry of longing. She needed to be in his arms. She needed him close, closer. “Wait,” she said, pressing her fingers to his lips. “Wait, please ...”

  She swung around to face him, letting her skirt hike up. “Remember how this worked?”

  His eyes said he couldn’t believe what she was doing. “
Yes, I remember.”

  “Tender,” she pleaded as he moved between her legs.

  His eyes flared again, beautifully, as he stared at her.

  He nudged open her aching legs with his powerful thighs, inching her skirt farther up, exposing flushed, vibrant skin. Her stomach muscles pulled tight when he came up against her.

  “Yes, I remember,” he said, dragging her closer, his hands on her hips.

  She wore only silk panties, and she felt every steel inch of him as he moved against her softness. She had never felt more vulnerable to a man in her life. Pleasure speared through her, impaling her as she allowed herself to imagine what he would do next, and the dizzying rapture it would bring her.

  She resisted his kiss for a second, just for the giddy pleasure of giving in. A sigh flowed through her like water as she opened to the melting warmth of his mouth, to the deep sword-thrust of his tongue. The kiss wasn’t tender, as he’d promised. It was harsh and sweet and hungry, but it thrilled her soul.

  His mouth moved over hers and she felt the scar that snaked down from his lower lip. She drew back, curious, needing to look at him, expecting to see the tenderness again. “I want to touch you,” she said impulsively, running her fingers along his lips. “You really are a beautiful man”—her voice went soft as she traced the jagged line—“in so many ways. Maybe you do have the soul of a poet, just as Arthur said.”

  It was the wrong thing to say to Sam Nichols. He drew back and caught her face in his hands, his thumbs working at the soft flesh of her cheeks. “Beautiful?” he repeated, his voice husky with disbelief. “Poet? What are you talking about? You’ve got me confused with somebody else.”

  “No! I just meant that you’re more than you seem. You’re—” She stopped, afraid she was making it worse.

  He searched her face as though she weren’t making any sense, as though her attempt to compliment him was somehow suspect. “I’m exactly what I seem. Maybe you need to get that straight. And what the hell does Arthur have to do with this?”