by Lisa Edward
“Does anyone look familiar?” Tiff asked, peering over my shoulder.
I nodded. “Yes, a few of them. I met them at the gala the other night. That lady there with the blond hair in the sparkly top.” I pointed in the general direction. “That’s Janice Durbridge. I spoke to her for ages the other night; she’s really lovely and her daughter dances so she’s keen to get involved.”
“Well, let’s hope she has deep pockets, because I hear the ship may sink if we can’t rustle up some funding.”
My blood boiled, and it took all my might to bite my tongue and not blurt out what I knew about Pierre and his money laundering. But I needed to be smart. I needed to confront him, not blab to the world and have the show shut down before we’d had the chance to perform on opening night.
Mikhail was on next for his solo, and Tiffany, Becca and I watched from the wings with varying degrees of disinterest etched on our faces.
“God, he’s crap, isn’t he?” Becca said on a sigh. “He’ll be the death of this production with all his pouncing around. Who’d ever believe he’d just returned from war? He looks like he’d run and hide under the bed.”
My laughter spluttered out, and Mikhail shot me a death stare from the stage.
“No sense of humor, that’s his problem,” Tiff whispered from behind her hand.
They were right, though. Baxter had said it from day one that Mikhail wasn’t leading man material. At first I’d thought it may have been a petty jealousy that Mikhail had been cast and Bax had given up dancing, but he’d been right. After watching my leading man for a short time, I had to agree. Finding out now that everyone else held the same opinion made me realize that Pierre and James must know it, too. Pierre was a trained dancer of many years—he must surely be able to see what we all could, and it sickened me. If he was stealing money and knew our leading man was hopeless then he most certainly wasn’t there for the love of dance. The production needed to be just good enough for donations to keep rolling in, but not good enough to have a long-running stint. Mikhail was the key. Hire a strong cast but with one weak link in an integral role and When the Ship Comes In would be forever known as a production that almost made it.
At the end of the show, we all gathered on stage to take our final bows and to meet the investors. Janice greeted me with a warm hug, beaming from ear to ear and complimenting me on my performance.
“You were spectacular, Jasmine. I had no idea how breathtaking you are.”
I couldn’t help the nervous giggle. I would never get used to the praise, no matter how much I loved hearing it. A warm, firm hand wrapped around my waist, and I leaned into Baxter’s side.
“Janice, this is my boyfriend, Baxter. Bax, this is Janice, the lady I told you about.” I had already told them both about each other, so long, formal introductions weren’t necessary.
Janice smiled. “Jasmine told me you’re a dancer too, Baxter.”
Bax smiled and nodded but gave nothing away.
“Tell me, what do you think of Mikhail?” She paused, studying Bax’s expression. “As a professional dancer, of course, you must have some critique.”
Bax stumbled over his words before being diplomatic. “He’s a very experienced dancer. I’m sure he’ll do a great job by the time the show opens.”
Janice chuckled. “But he’s not doing a great job now, is he?”
Bax shifted uncomfortably. We both knew how he felt about Mikhail, but this was someone who was deciding whether or not to donate a great deal of money, and I knew Bax didn’t want to blow it for me.
Janice leaned in. “He let the whole show down.” Her gaze darted toward Pierre who was busy schmoozing an elderly pair I hadn’t yet met. “I’m no professional, but I know what I like, and I don’t like him.” She smiled, her eyes softening. “If it wasn’t for Jasmine being so talented and so lovely, I’d walk away, but even so, there’s only so much money I can donate to a production I don’t believe will go the distance.”
Bax and I nodded in unison. I needed to act fast if there was any chance of saving the show.
Pierre seemed to be in a good mood, whistling softly to himself in the little manager’s office as he counted the money on the checks he had been passed. His good mood was about to disintegrate.
“I think it went well. Do you agree, Pierre?” I asked, quietly walking up behind him.
He jumped at the sound of my voice, and I sniggered to myself. He’d probably been working out how much he could skim off the top to go toward a luxury holiday and hadn’t heard me enter.
“Yes, my little dove, you did very well. You all did.”
“So is there enough money now to cover the production?”
“Oui, yes, there is.”
“And enough for costumes and props.”
He nodded. “Yes, yes.”
“Is there enough to pay the dancers’ salaries, and the orchestra, and production team?”
He stopped what he was doing. “You don’t need to worry about that, mon cherie; you just need to focus on your performance.”
“Oh, but I do worry, Pierre. Because once you transfer at least half to your Swiss bank account, I’m really worried that we won’t get paid.”
He spun around, his mouth twisted, his eyes full of rage. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I bleed for this production. I give my heart and soul.”
“No, you don’t. You may give your time and your expertise, but what you have taken far outweighs any of that.”
His head cocked to one side. “You have no proof of anything you are saying. I will have you thrown out of this production. You will never work again with such slanderous accusations.”
“But I have proof, Pierre.” I stepped forward. He took a step back, bumping the back of his legs into the seat behind him. “I have evidence of what you’ve been up to. Cold. Hard. Proof.” With every word I had taken another step forward until I was mere inches away.
“So go to the police, little girl. You will close the show. You will disgrace yourself.”
“Oh, I don’t want to close the show. If anything, I want to improve it.”
He squinted. “What are you talking about?”
“You are going to cast Baxter in the production.”
“No. No way.” He shook his head hard to emphasize the point.
“Oh yes, you will. And not because I know what you’ve been up to, but because he’s an outstanding dancer and this show needs him.”
Pierre scoffed. “Very well.” He flapped his hand in the air dismissively. “He can understudy the part of the soldiers and learn the first routine of Act II.”
I knew straight away what he was doing—trying to appease me while never giving Bax a chance to set foot on stage.
“There are already five understudies for the soldier role. Half of the cast would have to be unable to perform for Baxter to ever have a chance.”
“What do you want?” he growled through gritted teeth.
“He can understudy for Mikhail. He’s strong and powerful with real stage presence. He can leap higher and pirouette faster than any of the male dancers you have in the cast.”
“Mikhail already has an understudy. Would you have me fire Robert for your boyfriend?”
He had a point—that wouldn’t be fair on Robert, who was a nice enough guy. Terrible dancer but nice guy, nonetheless.
“He could co-understudy. He already knows the part; he helps me practice.”
“Impossible.”
I pulled the printouts from my bag and slapped them into Pierre’s chest. “Yes. I have three-point-seven million reasons for you to say yes.”
Snatching the documents from my hand, he glanced over them then screwed them up into a ball before tossing them to the ground.
“I have other copies, you know. You can keep those. Give them to your tax accountant.”
His shoulders were squared, proud and bold as always, but his eyes showed a glimmer of fear. “What exactly are your terms?”
“F
irstly, you will stop syphoning money from this production. Secondly, you will make Baxter the co-understudy.” He opened his mouth to object. I held up my finger in warning. “He knows every routine and can dance circles around Mikhail. If and when the time comes that you really do care about this production and decide that Mikhail isn’t a strong enough dancer, Baxter will be there, ready and waiting.”
He slumped into the seat behind him. “All right, all right. You win.”
“And …” I leaned down so my face was at his level. “You will keep your hands and your threats to yourself. If I see you even looking at a girl in the cast or crew with an expression that I find disagreeable, I will have you locked up and the key thrown into the Hudson River.”
THE BUZZING of the alarm woke me from a crazy dream where Jaz had blackmailed Pierre into giving me a role in When the Ship Comes In. The sun was yet to come up, the fire long burned out. With just a yellow glow from the streetlamps shining through the window, I reached for the snooze button before tucking my arm back under the quilt and around the warm body that was snuggled at my side. Jaz could sleep through an earthquake, monsoon, and hurricane all at the same time, and as she lay with her head in the crook of my neck, the events of the last evening came flooding back.
It hadn’t been a dream. Somehow, Jaz had managed to beat Pierre at his own game and give me my big break at the same time. I knew it was only as co-understudy, and unless Mikhail fell ill or was deemed unfit to perform, I’d never set foot on the boards and feel the spotlight on my face, but it was a start.
When Jaz had told me of her plans, I’d had mixed feelings about it. Was this the only way I could get a part in a production? To have my girlfriend play an underhanded game? But I hoped Jaz was right and that once they saw me dance, they would be thankful that I was there. It wasn’t how I had imagined my big break coming. I had always wanted to audition and win a part through my skill as a dancer, but that hadn’t happened, so I had to take my shot any way I could get it. My only real concern had been for the Giancolis, and leaving them short staffed, but they knew that I had moved to New York to dance and I was sure they would be happy for me to finally be doing what I loved.
Squeezing Jaz into my side, I nuzzled her hair. “Thank you, Jazzy-girl,” I whispered.
She mumbled something incoherent, and I chuckled silently as she patted my chest gently, still half-asleep.
“We need to get up, Jaz. It’s a big day today—my first as a dancer and not a spectator.”
Her head lifted from my shoulder, just enough so she could see the clock through bleary eyes. “Still got half an hour,” she grumbled. A firm hand slid from my chest to my abdomen. “We still have half an hour,” she said more clearly. “What should we do to fill in the time?”
Soft lips followed the hand that had travelled from chest to abdomen and was now reaching lower. I loved that mouth, all the things it could do and the feeling it could invoke in me, from desire to lust to sheer joy with just the tilt of her lips into a smile. And now, as her lips traced the trail down from my navel, I closed my eyes and rested my hand gently on her head. With one swipe of her wet tongue up the length of my shaft, I was like putty in her hands. Her hot mouth closed over my glans, and a shudder ran through my body. Through half-closed eyes, I watched the quilt bob up and down in time with her movements underneath, her hand and mouth in sync.
With a flick of her free hand, the quilt was off her head and I could see as she lavishly traced my length once more with her slick, wet tongue. Through messy hair, her gaze lifted to meet mine, a sexy half-smile wrapped around my dick as she hummed and watched as my back arched and I sucked in a harsh breath.
She knew every button of mine and how to push it, and went to work bringing me to the edge, then backing off right at the point when I was ready to explode. When I couldn’t take any more teasing, I fisted her hair tighter and she instantly sped up, her hot mouth taking in as much of me as it could. With every flick of her tongue, I took another step toward the brink, that point of no return.
“Keep going, Jaz,” I murmured. “That’s it.” I was seeing stars. Every muscle in my body tensed for a split second before my balls tightened and that hot release pumped through me.
She kissed her way back up and huddled in again, pulling the quilt under our chins. “Eight minutes to cuddle before we have to get up,” she said, casting a glance at the clock.
“What if I want to return the favor? Can we be late?”
She slapped my chest playfully. “Not on your first day. Besides, I wanted you to be relaxed when you walk into the theater as the newest member of the cast.”
A goofy grin spread over my face. I was finally dancing again, albeit as an understudy, but it was still doing what I loved, with the girl I loved more than anything in this world.
“People, people, gather around.” Pierre’s booming voice from the stage had everyone racing to see what the announcement was about.
I held back, but Jaz grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. I was part of the show now so anything Pierre had to say would concern me also.
“Please, take a seat.” He waited while we positioned ourselves around him on the floor. “I have some terrible news for you all.” As he spoke, he searched Jaz out, then held her gaze. Heat flushed her cheeks as he looked right through her. “We have fallen into financial difficulties.”
There was a murmur. Everyone had heard the rumors.
“A prominent financial backer has withdrawn their support for us, and we may not be able to open.” He stood silently, allowing the reality of what he’d just said to wash over us. “I know, I know. It is devastating.” He shook his head, his eyes downcast. He was such a hypocrite. If he returned the money he’d taken, we would have more than enough to continue. “But there is nothing I can do.” He held Jaz’s stare squarely. “Truly, nothing any of us can do to change the situation.”
There was more chatter among the group. Did we go home or continue rehearsals in case a miracle happened and the show did go on?
“There must be something?” someone called out.
“Another fundraiser, maybe?” Becca asked.
Pierre’s downturned face would have been comical if not for the severity of the situation. “The only way to save the show is to recast.”
My heart leapt. Was this his way of getting rid of Mikhail and casting me in the lead?
“I’m sorry, Jasmine.” He stepped closer toward us. “But we must do what is best for the production.”
My heart that had soared only moments ago plummeted to my stomach. The triumph in Pierre’s eyes was sickening and could mean only one thing—he was fighting back and had found a loophole. He had let her think she had the upper hand but he had turned the tables once more. To save the production, Jaz had to sacrifice her position. If she exposed Pierre, the show would close. If she didn’t leave, Pierre would take the money and the show would close.
“Sneaky fucking bastard,” I hissed under my breath.
“That’s bullshit,” Tiffany called out. “Jaz’s the strongest dancer here.”
The support from the other cast members was heartwarming as one after another voiced their objection to Pierre’s proposition.
“But what can I do?” he asked, hands to the side in surrender.
Standing, I took a step toward Pierre, my height and build dwarfing his lithe dancer’s frame. “Give us until the end of the week.” I had no plan and no clue how we would achieve this—all I knew was that this asshole wasn’t going to push Jaz out of the show. Looking around, I saw one by one the other dancers stand and walk toward me. We were united, and it gave me strength. “We’ll get the money … and I’ll make sure every cent is accounted for.”
Tiffany’s arm was around Jaz’s shoulder. “I’ll help. We all will.”
“And I know a great accountant who can take on the financial running of this production,” I added. “Just to make sure we’re not overspending in any one location … like Switzerland.”
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The other dancers laughed at my comment but Pierre didn’t. His eyes widened, and I gave him my best easy-going smile, assuring him that I knew all his little secrets.
“So, we have until the end of the week then.” I didn’t wait for a response; I trotted from the stage as other dancers who I’d only met in passing came to pat me on the back, keen to help.
Now that I’d volunteered to find the money, there was only one thing left to do. Come up with some way to raise a couple of million dollars by the end of the week. Should be easy enough.
The trip from Greenwich Village to Chelsea was only a short one, but the architecture changed with every minute that passed. Chelsea may have once had the eclectic charm of the Village, but parts had been developed to the point where the old and new lived side by side. Janice Durbridge’s gallery was one of many in Chelsea, and all my hopes were riding on her. She had said she was a fan of Jaz’s and to call her if there was anything we needed, but that didn’t mean she would be willing to part with her hard-earned cash. Having already said she had no confidence in Mikhail, we were now going to ask her to take a leap of faith.
Jaz’s heels echoed as we walked through the gallery, the white-tiled floor and white furnishings taking nothing away from the art that hung displayed on the walls.
She was into post-modernism; I would never have guessed. I would have picked her for a lover of Monet’s Impressionism style. But the red-painted canvas with splashes of black made me wonder how anyone who thought that was art could also love dance. The two were vastly different. Dance was all about heart and soul, invoking feelings and drawing you into the story. This art looked like a cat had walked across the canvas with paint on its paws. It left me cold and detached.
The clip-clop of heels made me turn around.
“Jasmine, Baxter, how wonderful to see you both.” Janice hugged and kissed us both on the cheek, her genuine warmth making me relax instantly. Behind her stood a young girl of maybe ten or twelve, her posture and elfish features leaving no doubt that this was her daughter, Ophelia.