I switch legs and stretch again.
I’m not naïve. It’s scary out there. I’ve seen plenty of stories on the news. Young women go missing without a trace all the time. My mother warned me about creeps and opportunists from the time I could understand that there was real danger in being female, pretty, and rich. I rolled my eyes at her warnings when I was a teenager, of course. But now that I’m a little older and in a precarious position, everything she said comes back to me. I know I need to be careful.
Even if I need a rich husband in a hurry, I need one that’s vetted and won’t toss me overboard off his yacht when it’s time to cash in on a younger model. Damn it, this is why what Nate Windemere is proposing might be the safer option. Safer. Shaking my head at myself, I put both feet on the ground and step away from the barre, grab it with my right hand and bend over my arm.
He’s dangerous in his own way. The warning signals rolled off him as clearly as the unmistakable aura of generational family money. He’s not someone you should underestimate.
Everyone has heard of the Windemeres. The guy is a born and bred blueblood, and his kind is different from the children of the more-recently wealthy. Those nouveau riche types are easy to recognize because their flashiness and grandeur are always in your face—the most expensive cars, the over-the-top jewelry, the designer logos from head to toe. Old money, on the other hand, is more laid-back and sophisticated, understated even. Like Nate, with his subtle, woodsy cologne and his perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Everything about him was refined, restrained, aloof. Undeniably attractive.
Which is why it was so difficult to clear my mind last night. Every time I went over the meeting in my head, it would morph into a different naughty sex scene. In one, he demanded that I take off his silk tie and shove it down the front of my panties, then stroke myself with it before giving it back. Then he inhaled the fabric right in front of me. In another?—
I make a disgusted sound, banishing the memories, but I can’t really blame myself for fantasizing about him. I’ve simply never met a man like Nate Windemere. A man who would fit in as easily in an exclusive New York night club as he would sipping iced tea on the sprawling porch of a New England beach house. And he was so direct when he made me his offer, cool and calm and confident as his eyes locked onto mine. I’d instantly gone weak in the knees. He wasn’t smug or demanding orpretentious. If he had been, I would have walked right out of his office.
It’s not every day you get propositioned in a gentlemanly sort of way, but the answer is still… Well, it’s no. Ithasto be no.
The terms aren’t tenable, after all. He wants me to move onto his property and be a kept woman, like some kind of pet, so I can wait around for him to summon me for my sex training. It’s just so ridiculous and insulting! Of all the things he could have offered me, that’s really the best he could come up with?
Unless there really wasn’t another viable option. As he said, I’m not valuable as a match to his clients anymore because my family’s money and reputation are both gone.
The door to the studio pushes open and I look over my shoulder to see a small figure dressed all in pink coming in. Her curly brown hair is pulled into a bun and looped with a silky pink scrunchie. Normally, little Miranda Day bursts through my doors talking a mile a minute about something or another. Not today. She’s subdued as she looks at me now but manages a tight smile as she rubs a fist beneath her nose.
“Hi, Ms. Barclay.”
“Hello Miranda.”
Looking behind her, I expect to see her dad, Stephen. He usually takes a seat in the parents’ corner near the outlets so he can plug in his laptop and work like he always does while his daughter is in class.
“Daddy can’t stay this time,” she says, noticing my gaze. “He told me to give you this, though.”
She pulls a check from her glittery pink mini backpack.Her lower lip quivers as she hands it to me. “He says I can’t come anymore, and this is my last lesson here.”
My shoulders slump, though her announcement doesn’t totally surprise me. Almost half of my students either quit coming or were moved to a different teacher once the news of my father’s crimes came out. It’s a miracle that the dance school owners have even allowed me to continue teaching here. Putting on my most reassuring smile, I rub Miranda’s shoulder lightly.
“Then we’ll have to make it the best class ever, won’t we?” I tell her.
She nods through her tears. I really am going to miss her.
Some of my other students start trickling in and she runs off to greet her friends. A handful of parents move to the waiting area behind the half wall while the kids change their shoes. Someone comments on the floor creaking and another loudly whispers that it’s damage from the roof that’s been leaking. It’s true. For all its pretty, bright decor and paint, the historic mid-nineteenth century building holding the dance school is slowly crumbling under its cheery façade.
The roof has had several slow leaks that contractors can’t properly patch without removing everything and putting on a completely new roof, which is a six-figure cost that’s way out of the school’s budget. Not only that, but the electrical needs to be redone to meet modern safety standards and the ancient plumbing is a nightmare all on its own. The historical society offered some grant money to repair the old building, but it barely touches the balance.
The owners have been talking about selling the schoolfor the past year to some real estate developer who no doubt will raze the whole thing down to dust and replace it with some glass-and-steel modern apartment building or something, but I’ve dreamed about buying the building, restoring it, and reopening with the addition of specialized classes for underprivileged and disabled children. I have an entire franchise in mind—dance schools all over the country offering instruction for every child, and the best, most inclusive recitals and competitions.
So much for that dream now.
But I did offer to help organize a posh fundraiser to help raise the additional repair money. At the time, I was still the rich girl with high-net-worth connections who loved to toss their money at worthy causes. Now, it might be a little harder to convince my old family acquaintances to offer free catering, or a weekend getaway at a fancy winery for the silent auction. But I’m still going to try my hardest. This job is all that I have left, and the school is my heart.
The kids all gather in a line to begin their warm-up. Talking them through each of the positions, I fall into the routine of up, down, stretch, up, down, stretch and my mind drifts into a chaotic pros and cons list for Windemere’s illicit offer.
He’ll train me up, get me auctioned off, and then my money problems will be solved. Just in time to pay for Nana’s next year of residency. That’s the biggest pro. It’s the end goal, isn’t? Not to mention that he’s going to be skilled in bed. I can’t pretend that’s not a perk.
My face grows warm and I feel a pang of embarrassment, as if my students can read my mind. It’s true, though.The guy is remarkably good looking, wealthy, and a smooth talker. I’m sure he has extensive experience pleasuring women. Plus, it wouldn’t be a hardship at all to see that face above me and find out what those hard lips of his feel like pressed to mine. How dark do those molasses eyes of his get when he’s full of lust and ready to fuc?—
“Ms. Barclay?”
Oh, God. A pair of pale green eyes stare up at me. Rashida has her legs crossed tightly while she bounces up and down. “I have to go to the potty.”
I can’t believe myself. I shouldn’t be giving Windemere’s proposition a ‘pros’ list at all.
