“Under two conditions do we continue with this night,” he said, knowing me well enough to know that I would insist the show went on. “One. Before you play Romeo in pool, and give him double split ends, you change the dress. Two. After Romeo loses and I send everyone home, you play me. In the dress.”
“You’ve piqued my interest. Do go on.”
“Here are the stakes. You miss a pocket, and one item of clothing gets tossed—for you, shoes and jewelry count. Except for your wedding rings. Same rule applies to me. Whoever is naked by the end, or has the least clothes on, takes all.”
“That is?”
“Lady’s choice.”
“All right,” I breathed out. It took me less than a second. “Control in our bedroom.”
“You have my word,” he said.
“The stakes are high forme.” I grinned. “Are you feeling lucky tonight, Mr. Fausti?”
He winked at me. “Yeah, because I always win.”
Chapter Fourteen
Brando
Scarlett hadn’t made a decision about her career. After what happened in Las Vegas, she was ready to get out of the country, to find her escape through dance.
I was sick and tired of the games, but her last performance of the season in Paris was special. It brought back her first performance there—a time even old age wouldn’t be able to steal from me.
Paris had always held both good and bad memories for us.
She had her first performance as prima ballerina there.
I came back for her after my stint in the Coast Guard, as I had always planned.
She danced for Nemours and changed the course of our lives.
I asked her to marry me under a bridge along the Seine, even though she still claimed that asking was a stretch.
Then I almost lost it all and damned myself. She still had me despite my faults, though—she even invited my demons along.
All of this happened in one place, a place that seemed to harbor history and let you borrow it while in town.
And now, after her last performance of the season at the Palais Garnier, a new memory had been created. I couldn’t help but feel as though the music in the box had ceased to play, the lid closed for good.
Which brought me back to my original point.
She hadn’t spoken of a decision in terms of her career, but something told me she had made it after the performance at the Palais Garnier. She had danced for so long, and sometimes the strain was so hard on her, I wished I could wrap my hands around it and kill it. On the other hand, I could also see relief when she clung to the part of herself that had never left her and never would.
I harbored a beast for her, but I had made a vow to her years ago, from the beginning, that the one area of her I life I wouldn’t interfere with was her career. Words were not even enough to describe her talent, and stopping that was a sin I would never be saved from.
Part of it was selfish. I loved to watch her dance. She could move me to grin, to be turned on, to cry, and to feel a pride so hot that my heart felt like it had burst into flames. It was almost impossible to move a man like me. She could. Time and time again.
My thoughts seemed to come full circle, bringing me back to real time, and with a jolt close to the ones I felt when I saw her on the television, or up in Times Square, or on a billboard in Los Angeles, I realized that she was a woman. The girl was still inside, but she was not inclined to show herself often.
In the bathroom of her parents’ Paris apartment, in the heart of the 7th arrondissement, Scarlett shook out her hair after curling the long strands. It was so long that the waves fell well beyond her breasts. It was thick and dark auburn, glints of red catching the unnatural light, reminding me of rubies.
A cream-colored sweater hugged her frame, outlining her breasts and small waist, and tight black jeans clung to her perfect legs like a second skin. A pair of leopard-print heels waited on the floor next to her. She’d set them out for later, but until then, she was comfortable in a pair of fuzzy slippers.
I had promised her a day full of loafing around Paris—museums, shopping, a romantic dinner, and to cap it off, once the sun went down, the Eiffel Tower.
She paused with a wand in her hand, right before she applied it to her lashes. She gave me a sideways glance. “What’s wrong?”
