Dance: Dance of the Seven Veils

by Cris Anson

“Years. His wife used to drop a lot of money at the gallery. Of course, that was before I owned it. Then when he joined Quick, Bowers, I hung the two oils in his office. The man has excellent taste in art.”

  Lyssa heard nothing after his wife. Robert Savidge was married? Oh God, how could she have done what she’d done with a married man? And Kat didn’t even know about the quickie in his office. To say nothing of the threebie in the executive washroom. Her face flamed.

  “Oooooh, talk to me, Lyssa! You’re remembering something absolutely delish!”

  “Married?” It came out no more than a croak.

  “Lyss, half the people at the club are married. They get their kicks by fucking in public, or by swapping spouses, by watching, or by who knows what.”

  “But I would never have done anything if I’d known he was—”

  “Hello, Earth to Lyssa, the fireman and the cowboy who made the Lyssa sandwich? Both of those guys had their wives watching while they rubbed your bacon.”

  Lyssa dropped her head into her hands. “I’m so sorry…”

  “No need to be sorry, dear heart. Word is both of the wives were pleased with the fallout.”

  “Fallout?” The word came out timid, muffled, through Lyssa’s palms.

  “Yeah. Mo told me her hubby hadn’t been so horny in months after you turned him on. And Stacey, well, Stacey was ready to jump you herself after watching Eric with you. Eric was the fireman in the yellow slicker.” Kat chuckled. “She had no complaints by the end of the night, either.”

  For a moment Lyssa sat, elbows on knees, bowed head in her hands, absorbing the implications. Those men and their wives had thought she was a turn-on. Two couples had reaped the benefit of what they had perceived as her sexuality. Add Andrea to the head count and she was coming to the conclusion that it had been George, not her, whose sexual needle was stuck on empty.

  Then she remembered. Robert Savidge’s wife. Her head jerked up. “You said Savidge is married? Was his wife there? How did she react?”

  Kat laughed as she poured more wine into her glass. “Did I say that? Yeah, he was married, once upon a time. They’ve been divorced, oh, must be six or seven years by now.”

  Lyssa’s shoulders sagged in relief. She, who had been so hurt when George had violated their marriage vows, wouldn’t be responsible for perpetrating the same kind of hurt on another unsuspecting spouse.

  She took a small sip of wine. “You said he never participated before?”

  “Honey, it’s a wonder you didn’t bleed from all the daggers you got when he went down on you. He’s gorgeous, rich, smart, and tantalizingly aloof. Every female member—and some of the males—had tried to get him to put out.”

  “But why would he come to these, uh, affairs if he didn’t participate?”

  “Don’t forget the venue. His father’s house. Robert felt obligated to be like a majordomo. You know. Making sure everyone had fun, was comfortable with what was happening to them, that things didn’t get out of hand. If someone was being whipped, say, he had to decide whether they wanted to be whipped. That’s what makes this such a great club. Everyone can explore whatever proclivities they discover they have and still feel safe.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I just knew you were right for him.”

  The beginnings of a smile curved Lyssa’s mouth upward. “So you played cupid and invited me to see what would happen?”

  “Something like that.” Kat’s expression looked like a smug cat that had just licked a bowl of cream empty.

  “What about his administrative assistant?”

  “Andrea? She and her husband are members, too. You saw them in action. Remember the woman who tied the Indian’s hands to the table and tortured him with a feather from her own headdress?”

  Lyssa didn’t want to ask, but it just tripped out of her mouth. “Does she, uh, do anything with her boss?”

  “I’m sure there’s some priming of the pump, but she’s totally over the moon about her hubby, if you’re worried. Most of the members ‘help’—” Kat made quotations with her fingers, “—each other on occasion. Sometimes two hands just aren’t enough.” She gave Lyssa a penetrating look. “Why? Did something happen that I should know about?”

  A ringing phone interrupted them. With no little relief at not having to answer that particular question about Andrea and her boss, Lyssa reached into the canvas bag at her feet and rummaged around its contents. She pulled the gadget out and checked the readout. “Ick. That’s George. He doesn’t have my cell phone number. He must have called my home. I call-forwarded in case Michelle tries to reach me.” She sighed. “I guess I have to talk to him sooner or later. Do you mind?”

  “No, not at all. I’ll get dinner set up.”

  As Kat discreetly moved into the house, Lyssa pressed the Open button.

  “What do you mean, calling my house like a harpy and scaring the hell out of SueAnn?”

  “And hello to you, too, George.”

  “I’m not kidding, Lyssa. What are you trying to do?”

  “Who’s SueAnn?”

  “MariBeth’s sister. And stop trying to change the subject. Why are you threatening me?”

  Lyssa gritted her teeth. “I did no such thing. I merely had an emergency regarding your daughter and I needed to talk to you urgently.”

  “Well, I’m here. Talk.”

  Take a deep breath, Lyssa. Don’t let him get to you. She put all the scorn she could into her voice. “The emergency was last Monday. For your information, today is Saturday. I couldn’t wait a whole week for you to condescend to call back. I handled it myself.”

  “Come on, get real. You? Handled an emergency? How did you do that, by calling the fire department?” His chuckle grated on Lyssa’s ears.

  “I refuse to let you rile me.”

  “What was this big emergency, anyway?”

  “I don’t have time to talk. I’m at Kat’s and we’re having a party. I’ll get back to you some time next week.” She disconnected the call and tossed the phone back into her bag.

  “Bravo!” Kat stood at the patio door, a large earthenware bowl in her hands.

  “I can’t believe I ever thought I loved that jerk. Do you need help?”

  “No, just sit. I’ve got everything under control.” Somewhere inside the house, the phone rang. Kat rolled her eyes. “If it’s that asshole—” She turned and went back in, taking the bowl with her. “I’ll fix that little peckerhead.”

  Lyssa could hear her friend’s raised voice in the kitchen. It had to be George, judging from Kat’s scathing comments. Tension coiled a tight knot in her gut. He was even worse now than when they were going through the divorce. She strode to the pool and dove in. The warm water caressed her, soothed her. She did a butterfly stroke to the deep end, then turned onto her back and floated, arms out, eyes closed, trying to purge herself of negative thoughts. She would not let him rule her emotions.

  Water splashed over her face. Lyssa sputtered, opened her eyes. Kat had jumped into the pool like a cannonball. She surfaced, spat water then let out a howl of laughter. “I fixed his skinny ass. I told him you were having a torrid affair with a billionaire.”

  “Kat, you didn’t!” In spite of her lingering doubts that George would believe her friend, Lyssa laughed. Then her demeanor sobered. “I suppose his lawyer will tell him what we did. But I’ll still have to talk to him myself. He can rake me over the coals, but I won’t let him do this to Michelle.”

  Kat stroked her way to the shallow end of the pool. “Come on, let’s tackle that lamb stew.” She scrambled up the three steps and, unhooking her bra-top and tossing it on a chaise, reached for a towel.

  Lyssa followed her out of the water, laughing as she realized one of her straps had slipped down her shoulder from the force of Kat’s cannonball entry, baring one breast to the warmth of the setting sun. She shrugged the remaining strap down the other shoulder and stood, arms outstretched as if to encompass the world, face raised to the deepening
sky. A gentle breeze sent goose bumps skittering across her damp flesh. “I am the goddess of the setting sun,” she intoned. “I command my subjects to toss all their offal at George Markham.”

  “I kneel at your feet, Goddess of the Setting Sun.”

  Lyssa’s head snapped around. Robert Savidge strode toward her, wearing tan linen slacks and a sky-blue knitted polo shirt. With long fingers he encircled her outstretched wrists and brought them together as he knelt before her. The action brought her breasts to more fullness, enhancing her cleavage and thrusting the nipples out to him. She could feel her face flaming to have her friend see her in her backyard, in full daylight, her nearly naked body shimmering with drops of water in the presence of the fully clothed man who had turned her into a purely sexual being. Against her will, her nipples tightened and heat curled in her lower belly, spreading to the center of exquisite sensation that he already knew so well.

  “What—” Her voice came out an octave too high. She cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “I caught a whiff the most enticing, delicious scent…”

  She tried subtly, and futilely, to remove her hands from his firm grip. Not for the first time in Robert Savidge’s presence, she silently cursed her inability to stop a blush. “Y-yes, Kat’s lamb stew is to die for.”

  His soft laugh sent ripples of pleasure up her spine. “That’s not the scent that captured me, Goddess.” He leaned closer, his eyes level with her belly button. His warm breath puffed out in a soft cloud against her skin. “It’s somewhere around here…”

  “Don’t, please don’t.” Less subtly now, she pulled hard against his grip as she backed away a step.

  In a single swift motion, he stood up and swept his arms around her, pressing her wet body against his crisp clothing. His lips found and captured hers in a kiss that was unexpectedly gentle, almost nurturing. “I missed you,” he growled, his mouth brushing against her cheek.

  “Okay, folks, stop that fooling around before I get jealous. Dinner’s ready.”

  At Kat’s interruption, Savidge released her. Gratefully, Lyssa slipped her straps back up, leaning forward to settle her full breasts into the bra-cups. She fumbled with the hook in the center of the plunging Vee, but his hand on hers stayed her.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “I want to fantasize that something might pop out while we’re eating dinner.” His eyes bored into hers, promising to make his fantasies come true.

  The intensity of his gaze shot tingles to every inch of her skin. She broke the gaze first, lowering her eyes. Then let out a small cry of dismay. “Your shirt is all wet.”

  Devilish smile tilting one side of his mouth, he shrugged. “It’s cotton. The pants are linen. All natural. They’ll dry.” He pulled out a padded, wrought-iron chair for her at the round patio table and gestured for her to sit.

  “Where is she?” George Markham stalked around the side of the house and onto the patio. “There you are. How dare you hang up on me? You tell me my daughter has an emergency and then blithely say you’re at a party and can’t be bothered to discuss it?”

  Halted in the act of sitting down, Lyssa straightened her knees and spine, thrust out her chin. She scrutinized the man she’d been married to for nineteen years, noting the thinning brownish hair, the big ears, the slight paunch he tried to disguise by wearing a sport shirt over baggy shorts. “That emergency is old news, George. I told you, I took care of it.”

  “I demand to know what was so important that you had to upset my wife and disrupt my honeymoon. “

  “Your—” The breath whooshed out of Lyssa. She didn’t care, she really didn’t, whether he’d gotten married. It was just…what would Michelle think? He was her father. Would he just spring that bit of news on her the same insensitive way he’d just poleaxed Lyssa herself?

  “Robert Savidge,” she heard the taller, more elegant man beside her say. “Of Quick, Bowers & Savidge.” He extended his hand to George. “I’m the senior partner who handled Jack Bowers’ little problem that Mrs. Markham brought to my attention.”

  George looked at the outstretched hand as though it was a snake baring venom-tipped fangs. “What kind of problem could Jack Bowers have that concerns my ex?”

  “A little matter of tuition for your daughter.” Savidge lowered his hand.

  “Oh, they allow late matriculation all the time. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

  “She’s your daughter,” Lyssa said, striving hard to keep her temper from erupting. “And you’re responsible for her education. The divorce decree specifically states that you are to pay for her tuition in a timely manner.”

  George waved his hand in dismissal. “Timely means when I can sell my stocks without taking a bath.”

  “Timely,” Savidge inserted smoothly, “means on time. It means payment made prior to the deadline, which in this case was Tuesday last. You are in default of your divorce agreement and I am in the process of drawing up papers—”

  “You’re not my lawyer. Jack is.”

  Savidge continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “—papers that will inform you as to steps taken by Quick, Bowers & Savidge to minimize said default.”

  George narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, sir, that the law firm you retained as trustee of your daughter’s trust fund has a fiduciary obligation to the beneficiary of said trust fund as well as to the client. One advantage of a large law firm is that when one attorney is engaged in a lengthy trial, as Jack Bowers was this week, another attorney in said firm will step in to perform any and all necessary services on behalf of the client. As the senior partner covering Jack’s caseload, I have taken steps to mitigate the losses your daughter’s trust fund might suffer by your reneging on the terms of the divorce decree.”

  “What losses?” George sputtered. “There wasn’t a thing in that decree—”

  “Legal fees in the event that Mrs. Markham sues the trust for nonperformance.”

  “You conniving little bitch!” George spun around to face Lyssa, who had been marveling, openmouthed, at the change in Robert Savidge from sexually proficient dilettante to razor-sharp lawyer. “You think you can pull one over on me?” He took a step toward her, his furious gaze raking her from her damp ponytail to the unhooked top of her swimsuit to her red-painted toenails.

  In spite of her resolve, Lyssa found herself backing up a step at his vituperative words.

  “You don’t get your way, you try to hit me in the wallet, is that it?”

  Lyssa forced herself to meet George’s disdainful stare. “I never really knew you,” she choked out. “This is your daughter we’re talking about.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s about you trying to get more money out of me, trying to destroy me because you didn’t manage to walk away from this disaster of a marriage with my Bentley and my portfolio and the shirt off my back.”

  “Destroy you? I just want to disassociate myself from you. And it would have worked if you hadn’t pulled this stunt against your own flesh and blood.” Lyssa squared her shoulders, plunked tightly closed fists on her hips, and took a deep breath. “If I never see you—”

  George’s gaze snapped down to her breasts. The breasts she’d left vulnerable to view by not hooking the clasp holding the top of her swimsuit in place. From her peripheral vision Lyssa noted that the swaths of nylon and spandex barely covered her nipples. Belatedly she realized that her hands-on-hips motion had only enhanced the ripe fullness of her breasts, jutting them up and forward, exposing them to view, the nipples tautening under the swish of the flimsy material.

  “You—you—whore!” George flicked his stare from her breasts to Savidge, then back again, as though he couldn’t keep away from the luscious view. “You seduced him into this. Jack Bowers would never have put me in such an untenable position.”

  In spite of her anger at her ex, Lyssa felt a laugh bubbling up from deep within, a loud, hearty belly laugh that left George looking nonplussed.


  “Oh, George, you should see your face,” she choked out when she regained her breath. “All through our marriage you made me feel as though I was frigid, that I was a fat cow, that no one, least of all you, would want me.” She pulled in another deep breath, heedless of the fact that the Lycra slid back to expose more of her skin, and chuckled. “And now you’re accusing me of using that same frigid, fat-cow body to seduce a man like Robert Savidge? A man that half the women in Philadelphia would give up their Rolls Royces for?”

  George scowled, then shrugged. “Some men like them plump.”

  That started Lyssa laughing again. “Yes, indeed. I found that out the other night when four, no, wait, I think maybe it was five, yes, five gentlemen propositioned me.”

  “Yeah, right.” George’s face darkened.

  “Let’s see if I remember this correctly.” She brought a closed hand up, unwinding a finger with each enumeration. “One was wearing a kilt, and you know Scotsmen don’t wear anything underneath them—I learned that for a fact that night. One wore a fireman’s slicker, unbuttoned, of course. Hmmm, he must have been a Scot, too, because he wasn’t wearing anything underneath except a hard…um,” she cleared her throat, “…never mind. There was also a pasha and a gladiator and…”

  “Don’t forget the Indian,” she heard Kat say behind her.

  “Mmmm, as if could I forget how his loincloth tented up as he lay helpless with his wrists bound to the table legs. Oh yes, and I noticed how the naked man handcuffed to a hook in the ceiling followed me with his eyes…”

  Her head bobbed as George grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “You’re just trying to get even,” he snarled. “Where did you suddenly get such an imagination? For years all you did was lay there like a lump when I fucked you and now you’re trying to convince me you’re a hot swinger?”

  Lyssa pointedly looked at his hands gripping her shoulders. “Don’t bruise the merchandise, bub. They’re waiting in line to run their lips down that smooth skin of mine and I don’t want it marred in any way.”

  He let go as if his fingers had suddenly been burned, and staggered back a step. “You’ve changed.”