I entered as the fires came alive with a whoosh, transforming the room into a medieval chamber. The female artist stood in the corner, serenading the patrons with her rhapsody.
Snapping my fingers in time to the music, I breathed in and out when the singer did, as if my breath came from her lungs. The songs below were never fast, always slow, intimate, made to last. I would draw it out, like the hesitation before the first and last anticipated kiss.
Brando’s warning was still fresh in my ear—don’t you dare touch any of them.
No, but I had other plans.
You will remember me?
I found him first. His gaze swayed with the movement of my body. When he finally made it to my eyes, I nodded and he nodded.Message received.
Usually at this point during the performance, I made it to the stage lined by mirrors. Not this time.
Brando stopped when I turned to him halfway to the stage. His face became impassive, trying to read the intent on mine.
I closed my eyes to the room, to everyone but him. The need wasn’t just out of my cleverness, either. Something had happened to me earlier, in the main club. Flashbacks of Greece started to creep from behind curtains, peeking out every so often, scaring me. Add in the bathroom scene with Nemours and the fear that Brando would snap and do something irrevocable, not even conscious that he had, and I was close to collapsing from the strain.
I needed to be close to my husband, to touch him. Luckily, doing this was also part of my plan.
Eyes averted, I tilted my head to the side, fanning my lashes, until our eyes met once again. I mouthed the words to the song. Running my hands up my sides, I slid them over my breasts, to my neck, up to my lips. Then I did something that caused the crowd to gasp. I touched him. All over. I used him as my very own dance prop. His eyes were serious as he watched me, but his grin was there, not even hidden by the mask.
Putting my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, I lowered back slowly as he steadied me, undulating to and fro, before going completely over, hands to the floor, and flipped over.
A searing pain shot through my stomach like a hot knife cutting through buttery flesh. The intensity of it made me freeze in place. My jaw tightened, sweat bubbled atop my lip, and I felt clammy all over. And weak.
Brando ran a hand over my lower back, the look in his eyes frantic. My hand came up, trembling, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had to move. The crowd started to become restless.
Winking at Brando, I moved away.
Three distinct groups formed the underground crowd—the vampires, the American businessmen, and the Russians. I found the vampires in the crowd, some of them itching to come closer, fangs out, hisses loud enough to be mistaken for a pit of snakes. Further down the line were the American businessmen. They were drinking nonstop. The smell of licorice and other spirits seemed to waft from them and hover underneath my nose, clinging to my clothes and hair.
Moving closer to two of them, I narrowed my eyes. One set of eyes narrowed back. The other man was too caught up in my groove to be bothered by a pesky thing like recognition. Brando went to pull me back, to put distance between us, but he stilled when he noticed them too.
Creeping closer to the one who had noticed me, I put my mouth to his ear. “Hello, Daddy,” I said. “Enjoying the show?”
A second later, I fell to my knees, the contents of my stomach spilling along the floor in a nasty rush.
* * *
After I gave the all clear, Brando stood, bringing me with him, keeping me tight to his chest.
Confusion ensued after that. The inhabitants of the exclusive underground club were ushered out—even my father and Travis—but the Russians refused to be moved. After I gave the all clear, Brando stood, bringing me with him, hanging in his arms, tight to his chest.
An argument between Nemours and the Italians became heated. Even Lothario was affronted by some of the things Nemours sprouted from his mouth. I was thankful that Brando had the bare minimum of French.
“No, no, no,” I said, raising a finger. “The contract did not state that I couldn’t touch.”
“You soiled my club! You made them see a woman instead of the enchanted dancer!”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t assaulted her, she would not be having stomach trouble now,” Uncle Tito said, his entire body trembling.
“You ruined me!” Nemours shouted like a madman, ignoring Uncle Tito’s remark. He went to charge me. I turned my face into Brando’s chest, but when I heard Nemours whimper, curiosity got the best of me and I peeked.
The Russian. Nemours’s wrist was in his hand, and he was twisting. The Italians had all gone for Nemours, but he was closer. He shouted a sharp command. Nemours looked at me. They all did.
“He wants a word,” I said. “With me.”
The sound that went off in Brando’s chest made me flinch. He was tired of dangerous men wanting a word with his wife.
