Sleeping with Beauty (14 page)

R
oll your hips, darling. Roll. Don’t jerk them about.”

“I’m just trying to stay upright!” Lucy clenched her jaw in growing exasperation as she took another tottering step forward. “I don’t know how you do this.”

“An undying desire to be taller was a great motivator,” Vivian told her.

“I’m already a giraffe,” Lucy said. “I know what you told me, about claiming my height. But I can claim my height with two-inch heels and still tower over almost everybody.”

Vivian crossed the room to stand closer to the mock runway in the Glass Slipper modeling room. “Darling, in this case it’s not about how tall you are. There is something very empowering about stalking into a room in come-do-me heels. Two inches doesn’t say ‘Come do me.’” She smiled. “It says why bother. Four inches, on the other hand, will grab the attention of every man in the room. That was my other motivation. And it was worth every blister.”

Lucy tried to fold her arms, but even that motion had her wobbling dangerously. Arms pinwheeling, she bent at the waist and tried desperately to keep from pitching off the raised dais. “No one is going to want to ‘come do me’ no matter how tall my heels are,” she said, breathing easier as the panic receded. If she stood completely and perfectly still, she might survive this. Might. “I already tower over most men. Adding inches is only going to make me more intimidating.”
Or provide endless entertainment when I fly headlong into the closest table.

“How tall is Jason Prescott?”

“‘Jason’?” Lucy was surprised by the question. Surprised Vivian even recalled his name. They hadn’t so much as talked about her final exam, aka the reunion, since beginning her swan lessons in earnest two days ago.

“Yes, Jason. I presume he’s taller than you, am I correct?”

“Why would you presume—”

“Women’s intuition,” she cut in. “Now, tell me truthfully, even in four-inch heels, he’ll still be taller than you. Am I right?”

Lucy flashed back to her endless fantasizing leading up to the prom, about how amazing it would feel to be in Jason’s arms. For all her klutziness, she hadn’t been afraid of stepping onto the dance floor with him. She’d been certain that from the moment he first touched her, she’d find her inner balance. Jason was bigger, stronger, with enough confidence to guide both of them. She’d only have to follow his lead, and she’d become the princess of the ball, her inner Sleeping Beauty awakened by her prince.

There was a little clutch in her chest as she recalled how her fantasy scenario had played out. “Yes,” she said quietly. “He’s taller than me. Even in heels.”

“You have to go into this as his equal,” Vivian said, her tone quite serious. “There can’t be even a whiff of inferiority in your mind. You don’t just want him to notice you. You want to
command
his attention. You want him to be unable to do anything else
but
look at you.”

Lucy looked up and their gazes caught, held. Vivian understood. It was clear, right there in her eyes, that she was completely aware of what Lucy was up against. Without having to relive every detail, share every humiliation, Vivian still got it. Her fairy godmother, after all. She didn’t preach about why this was all a big mistake, like Jana and Grady had, how she was setting herself up for failure. No, Vivian believed Lucy could do this. But more than that, she understood why she had to do it. It wasn’t about Jason, or even the reunion.

It was about Lucy.

“Yes,” Lucy said, feeling a thread of defiance begin to build inside her. As she continued to stare at Vivian, who so clearly believed in her, the feeling grew. A life-affirming breath filled her lungs and she stood a little straighter. Not too much; she didn’t want to lose her big moment by falling flat on her ass. “Yes,” she said, stronger this time. “Yes, I do!” When Vivian nodded, pride shining in her eyes, Lucy grinned. “I want to blow his freaking mind!”

“That’s my girl,” Vivian crowed. “So come on. Let’s do this!”

Her victorious moment wavered. Badly. As did she at the thought of actually moving. It was one thing to imagine herself striding—no, sashaying—into the reunion hall, dragging every eye toward her like a magnet. But to get that, she had to take that first step. Quite literally, as it turned out. And while on the inside she was Lucy Harper, femme fatale, in reality, she was still Lucy Harper, hopeless klutz.

“Maybe we should start with short heels and work our way up?” Lucy suggested with a hopeful, upbeat smile. No more whining. She could do this. Would do this. Just, maybe, at a wee bit slower pace. “This might be too big a step for me. No pun intended. It’s just, I could hurt someone with these things.” Herself, mostly. But still. She could hardly be a femme fatale if she was on crutches, now, could she?

Vivian’s smile was steady. “I know we’re pushing things here, but you have to trust me. I was right about the Brazilian, was I not?”

Lucy had to admit she’d been somewhat surprised after her foray with Sadistic Susie. She might not feel exactly ripe, but there was something to be said for the feel of silk against smooth, bare skin. It was quite sensuous, in an almost naughty kind of way. And she rather liked it. Not enough to ever do that again, mind you, but she would enjoy it while it lasted.

“With every step, I want you to imagine you’re as smooth as that silk you’re wearing,” Vivian said, as if reading her mind. Of course, Vivian knew firsthand what Lucy was wearing beneath her lone remaining pair of khaki trousers.

After her pampering session, Lucy had arrived back at her room to find several tissue-lined boxes, each layered with some of the most exquisite lingerie she’d ever seen. Far too fantastic for her budget, to be sure. She couldn’t even afford Victoria’s Secret, much less Dior. Oh, but each piece had felt incredible to the touch. She’d had to indulge herself at least that much. Just the memory of how that silk and satin had felt slipping through her fingers made her shiver a little. And okay, maybe she’d rubbed it on her skin. Just for a moment.

Then Vivian had shown up and explained they were her little gift. No matter how strenuously Lucy objected to accepting anything so lavish, Vivian would have none of it. And secretly Lucy was thrilled she had pushed the issue. Anything that decadent . . . well, she could only imagine how they were going to feel on her body. Her Brazilian-waxed body.

She’d tried them on almost immediately after Vivian had left her for the evening. Deciding to preserve the fantasy that she was centerfold material—because that’s how they made her feel, especially the padded bra—she hadn’t dared to look in the mirror. But everything had fit. Perfectly.

She’d even been tempted to wear a set to bed. Just because. Never in her life had she felt so . . . feminine. Between the facial, the manicure, pedicure . . . and yes, the wax job, she felt beautiful and pampered. Pretty.

This morning it had felt criminal putting on her regular old pants and blouse. But they were all she had at the moment. Her luggage had mysteriously disappeared. She’d yet to have a talk with Vivian about that, but she planned to. Just as soon as she got down off this runway without killing herself. And if she felt like a fraud in silk, the come-do-me pumps she’d received along with her in-room breakfast this morning made her feel even more the pretender.

“You know what? I have an idea,” Vivian said, tapping her glossy red talon of a fingernail against her chin. She turned and motioned to the man sitting behind the bank of electronic equipment. “Mr. DeMay, can you give us a few moments? Thank you, David, darling.”

“Not a problem,” he said with an easy smile. “Just buzz me when you’re ready.”

“If only all men were that easy,” Vivian told him, smiling shamelessly.

David the Video Tech (and temporary DJ) was apparently used to such banter. He grinned, tipped his chin, then slid obediently from his perch and stepped out of the small auditorium-style room.

Lucy sighed in relief. She’d been given a reprieve from strutting her stuff on the catwalk. The very idea of watching a tape of herself—she shuddered inwardly. There was no music David could have played that would have helped, either. Not only was she high-heel impaired, she had no sense of rhythm whatsoever. This white girl definitely could not dance.

Hopefully she could talk Vivian out of this little idea completely. Besides, she didn’t need come-do-me heels to feel more confident. There were plenty of other fixer-upper projects they could do to her. For example, they hadn’t even touched her hair or makeup yet.

“Shimmy down here,” Vivian instructed.

“I beg your pardon?”

Vivian smiled. “I mean, sit down and slide off the runway.”

Thank God.

Except, tottering on her tiptoes as she was, she wasn’t entirely sure how to go about sitting down without keeling off the runway entirely. She tried leaning forward and bending her knees, thinking she’d kneel first, then sit. But that sent her pitching forward instead. With a little squeal, she swung her arms and stutter-stepped forward again, managing, just barely, to stop before she came to the end of the runway. “Um, how exactly—”

“One step forward, then kneel on the rear leg.”

That proved to be too many moving parts. The end result was Lucy stuck in a half split. “Vivian!”

“Bend your knees! Put your hands down to break your fall.”

“‘Fall’?”
But it was too late. Over she went. “Aeeiii!”

“Dear Lord!”

Sprawled in a tangle of khaki and death spikes, one leg and one arm dangling off the runway, Lucy had time to appreciate just how fast Vivian could move in her own come-do-me heels. Thoughts of Carrie Bradshaw flashed through her mind. Fashion roadkill, indeed.

“I’m sorry,” she told her, as Vivian carefully unhooked Lucy’s heel from where it was wedged into the side trim of the runway, then rolled her to her back. “I really am a hopeless case,” she said morosely. “You can be honest with me. I won’t hold it against you, or Glass Slipper, I swear.”

“Now, now,” Vivian admonished. “Where is that fire and determination I saw moments ago?”

“It left the building with Mr. DeMay.”

“Come on, now.” With a little grunt, she helped Lucy to sit up, then edged her off the chest-high platform until her toes touched the carpeted floor.

Terra firma. Finally.
Lucy wobbled as she put her full weight on her feet, and clung to the edge of the runway for balance. “Would you mind helping me take these off?”

“‘Off’?” Vivian chuckled. “Oh no, we’re not done here. I simply thought that you’d get the hang of it faster if you could practice a bit while using the edge here for balance.”

Lucy’s heart sank. “Maybe we should—”

“No more ‘maybes,’” Vivian said sternly. “Now, turn sideways. Grip with one hand, and hold your other arm out like so.” She moved behind her and pulled—okay, tugged—one hand free, moving it away from Lucy’s body. “Loosen up a bit. You’re arms are stiff like a robot. Concentrate on relaxing; don’t think about your feet, or the heels.”

Concentrate. Lucy took a steadying breath, wobbled slightly, then finally centered her weight over her feet. She focused first on relaxing her right arm, the one Vivian had propped out to her side. Next she tried to lessen her white-knuckled grip on the runway trim.

“Okay, as before, I want you to find a focal point in the distance, out in front of you. The
EXIT
sign, or the door to the hall.”

“Okay.”

“Now, pretend you are walking on your tippy toes.”

“I am walking on my tippy toes,” Lucy reminded her. “If these heels were any higher, I’d be en pointe.”

Vivian ignored her. “Firm up your thighs.” She tapped Lucy on the outer flank of one leg. “Tighten your butt.” A little tap to her fanny. “A small arch in your back, shoulders square, chest forward.”

It was a lot to think about all at once.

“Now, one step. Just one. Looking at the door.”

Breathing in, breathing out. Relaxed arm, tight butt, firm thighs. Chin up, boobs out front. She took a step. Tripped on the carpet.

Vivian’s grip on Lucy’s free arm tightened immediately. “It’s okay. Square up. Try again.”

Lucy clamped down on her jaw. It just couldn’t be that hard. She was all but using a walker, for God’s sake. “One step,” she murmured.

“Good girl.”

Step. Carpet snag. Trip. Another Vivian save.

“Pick up your foot,” Vivian instructed calmly. “Don’t drag the heel.”

Wobble. Wobble even more. Claw at runway to keep from going down. Feel Vivian’s nails in the skin.

“Not like a prancing stallion,” Vivian said, sounding a tiny bit winded.

Lucy didn’t dare so much as a glance toward Vivian. Her gaze was fixed, glazed almost, on the exit door. Oh, if she could just get that far. Then she could run. Run for the hills. As motivation went, it was better than nothing.

Step. Freeze. No wobble. No wobble!

She swung her gaze to Vivian . . . and promptly went down.

But she was smiling, even as she sat in an undignified sprawl at Vivian’s feet. “I didn’t wobble,” she said proudly. “For a few seconds there, I had it!”

Vivian beamed. “Yes, yes you did. You’re on your way.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Vivian plucked out her phone and punched in a number. “Yes, David. We’re ready.”

Lucy gaped. “It was one step! I’m hardly ready for the runway.”

“No runway,” Vivian assured her. “But I have another idea. I was going to save this for later, but I think it’s time we leave the prescribed path behind us and just wing it.”

“‘Wing it’?” Lucy said warily, and quite within reason, she thought.

Vivian’s eyes twinkled and she buzzed David again. “Send me Arturo.”

Chapter
9
                                                                                                                                       

A
s it turned out, Arturo was a dance instructor.

“Isn’t this is a bit premature?” Lucy whispered to Vivian as she watched Arturo confer with David, presumably about the music selection. “I can hardly walk. Don’t you think dancing is somewhat beyond me at the moment?” Or ever.

Vivian turned, shielding Lucy from the two men, and took hold of both her elbows, drawing her complete attention. “We’ve discussed my thoughts on confidence and what it can get a woman, have we not?”

Yes,
Lucy thought. Apparently, being comfortable in your own skin was only a worthwhile endeavor if you could then share said skin with someone else. Preferably when the skin in question was naked.

Vivian touched her arm just then. “Arturo is wonderful; you’ll be in very good hands.” She arched one brow and shifted closer, lowering her voice. “Men who move like he does . . . well, you know what they say. We should all be so lucky.”

Lucy cast a sideways glance at Vivian, who was once again staring at Arturo, who bore a striking resemblance to a young Antonio Banderas, circa
Mambo Kings.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Vivian knew firsthand about getting lucky with Arturo.

Then he lifted his head, as if sensing their attention, and smiled congenially in their direction, lifting his hand to motion that he’d be with them momentarily. Panic set in the moment he broke eye contact.

“You want to feel comfortable in your own skin, darling. We have to change your inner rhythm. Once you find that, the rest will fall into place.” Vivian patted her arm. “Here is the expert!” she said brightly, as Arturo came to stand with them. “This is Lucy.”

“Who can’t dance,” Lucy said, by way of introduction.

Arturo’s smile widened as he extended his hand to Lucy.

He was roughly the same height as she was in the heels, and while somewhat slim of build, from what she could see via the black pants and white collared shirt, what he did have was all sinew and muscle.

“I have a few details to oversee,” Vivian told them. “I’ll check back in a little while.” She scooted away before Lucy had swallowed her panic. But not before Arturo could pull Vivian aside for a quick, murmured consultation.

“Of course,” Vivian agreed. “I should have thought of that myself. I’ll take care of it.” And with a wave and smile of encouragement in Lucy’s direction, she left the small auditorium.

Arturo took Lucy’s hand in his, and his palm all but engulfed hers.

“You should know,” she told Arturo, “that not only do I not have any discernible rhythm, I can’t walk in these heels. I’m liable to do permanent damage to your feet.” When he kept smiling, she added, “I’m not kidding. I’ve maimed before.”

His smile didn’t so much as flicker as his broad palms spanned her waist and lifted her, effortlessly, to the side of the runway. She was still gasping in surprise—okay, shock—at being lifted as if she weighed less than . . . well, far less than she actually did, when she then felt those hands caress her ankle. She barely stifled a soft moan.

“These will come off,” he informed her, his accent slight but distinct. He smiled up at her as he slid off first one heel, then the other. “For now.”

“Thank you,” she said, telling herself the tremulous note in her voice was merely the result of her abject appreciation for being freed from foot bondage. Not because the brush of his hands against the sensitive skin of her ankles made her think impure thoughts. Lusty, R-rated thoughts. Thoughts that she hadn’t been aware of in a very long time.

Just then the door to the auditorium opened and a Glass Slipper employee in a ubiquitous GS blazer—peach was the sherbet shade for today—hurried in carrying a plastic garment bag.

“Ms. Harper?” she queried, motioning Lucy to follow her.

Arturo and his hands were there without her having to ask. She was whisked—truly, it was whisking—off the runway and set lightly on her feet. “You’re stronger than you look,” she told Arturo, realizing too late that she’d spoken out loud.

“I danced in the corps de ballet from the time I was twelve. You are but a feather.”

She was still blushing when Sherbet Blazer took her gently by the arm and steered her to a small set of stairs behind a curtain to the side of the runway. “You can change behind this.”

“‘Change’?”

The woman nodded with a ready smile as she handed Lucy the garment bag. “Just come back out when you’re ready and Arturo and David will take it from there.”

Lucy was efficiently shuffled behind the curtain and Sherbet Blazer was gone before she could ask any questions. “So,” she muttered, eyeing the garment bag, “this is what the whispering was about.” She unzipped it and found a body-hugging, long-sleeved black leotard and a wraparound skirt made of even filmier fabric.
Dance clothes. Of course. Except, no.

She started to flip the curtain aside and explain why she wasn’t going to wear that getup, but stopped herself. She looked over the outfit again. On a ballerina, the clingy, stretch fabric would look graceful and elegant, showcasing the flow and curve of the female body in its most beautiful form. On her skinny frame, the female form would more closely resemble a knobby giraffe stuffed in spandex.

“Is okay?” came Arturo’s voice, disconcertingly close to the other side of the curtain.

“I—I don’t know. It’s . . . not my style. Exactly.” Of course, that was why she was here, right? Because she had no style.

“In order to learn the rhythm of your body, you have to be able to feel it moving, arching, turning with you. For that,
mi amiga,
you must have something on that moves with you.” There was a pause. “Or nothing at all.”

She gulped. Was he teasing? Of course. Of course he was. Still . . . hmm . . .
Remember, Lucy, you’re paying them to teach you new things, so challenge yourself a little.
She let out a short, shuddering breath. “Okay. I—I’ll try it on.”

“That is wonderful. I will be here when you are ready.”

Checking to make sure the curtain was pulled tightly shut, Lucy quickly shed her blouse, then realized she was going to have to take off everything to put on the leotard.

The space between the curtain and the stairs was small, and her elbow caught in the draping as she bent over to slide her pants off. When she straightened, the curtain adhered to her arm with a crackle of static electricity. She tried to tug it off while hopping out of her pants, which were now down around her ankles, but quickly lost her balance and grabbed the first thing she could for support. Turns out the curtain wasn’t her best bet for gaining leverage.

With a muffled shriek, a half-naked Lucy and the twisted curtain crashed to the floor. Arturo really was nimble on his feet, thank God, and managed to leap clear to avoid being taken down himself.

“Ms. Harper? Are you okay?”

Define “okay,”
she wanted to ask. If “okay” meant once again being betrayed by the uncoordinated phenomenon that was her body, then yeah, she was peachy keen. She pasted on a determined smile. “I’m fine. Really. But, uh, would you and David mind giving me a moment or two of privacy?”

Arturo sent a concerned glance to David, and then another back to Lucy.

Did they think she was going to bolt if they turned their back on her for more than two seconds? She tried her best to look reassuring. “Seriously, I’m okay. I just need a minute or two to untangle and finish dressing.”

“If you are certain.” He still looked worried.

“I won’t say anything to Vivian, if that’s what concerns you. I swear.”

He looked affronted. “It’s not that—”

“Okay, okay. Just saying.” She waited a beat, and he didn’t move. Her leg was beginning to cramp and her pants were wrapped so tightly around her other ankle that she was pretty sure she’d lost blood flow to at least one of her feet. Or it could be the aftermath of the heels. Either way, she wasn’t going to budge an inch until they left.

Mercifully, David motioned for Arturo to step outside the auditorium door with him. “We will be right in the hall. Just call out.”

She nodded and would have given him a jaunty salute to prove how fine she was, except her hands were handcuffed in the leotard at the moment.

As soon as she heard the door shut, she rolled to her back, looking, she was certain, like a hapless insect caught in a web. Only in this case, it was a web of her own making. Wiggling and thrashing, she fought her way out of her pants, managing to work up a light sweat as she finally kicked the twisted fabric off her feet. Damp skin would make pulling on the clingy leotard about as easy as getting into a wet suit that was already wet.

For a split second, staring at the demolition zone around her, then the mangled ball of spandex she now had to unknot and get into without further destruction of property or self . . . she felt the urge to cry. Just for a brief moment. Really hard.

Instead she sucked it up . . . and took it all out on the hapless leotard. By the time she had it untangled and on her body, it was stretched out to the point that it had lost its clinginess. Okay, so maybe the odd puckers and baggy spots had more to do with her bony body—so much for the wet-suit look.

She then dug the skirt out of the twisted heap of curtain and tied that around her waist, intensely grateful there were no mirrors around.

Heaving a disgusted sigh, she stepped away from the mess, only to feel the filmy skirt slide across her thighs for the first time. She stopped and let the mid-thigh-length skirt swish around her legs. Then stepped again.

Oh. Maybe Arturo has a point.
The leotard might not be body hugging, but she kind of liked how the wrapped skirt felt, all shifty and flowy around her body. She took one step, then another, lengthening her stride each time, just to feel the slippery fabric slide across her skin again. Then again. And again. And, hell, why not, once more after that, just for grins. A smile rose to Lucy’s lips, unbidden, and she suddenly felt like twirling.

“Ms. Harper?” Arturo’s voice floated through the door. “Are you ready?”

“I’m dressed,” she called out. It was the best she could commit to.

David took his place behind the music and video equipment, and Arturo beckoned her to come join him in the relatively open space between the runway and David’s setup.

Concentrate on the swish,
she told herself as she walked, barefooted, thank God, to Arturo.

He beamed enthusiastically and lifted his hands to her. “Come now. We will learn to move with the salsa beat.”

Salsa? I don’t even eat salsa, much less dance to it.
“Don’t you need, you know, rhythm for that?”

“You will find your rhythm,
mi amiga,
don’t fear. And Latin music is best for this. Now turn so you face away from me.”

That she could do. The less she had to actually look at anyone while she humiliated herself, the better.

“Now,” he said, so close to her ear it made her jump a little, “I want you to take a deep breath.”

She did. And maybe it felt a little good when the leotard pulled against her skin as she did. Just a little.

“Now release.”

She did, maybe too heavily.

“Again,” he instructed.

He was standing so close—well inside her personal space, and she had to remind herself that Arturo was a professional, an instructor. So what if he’d teased her about dancing naked. She quickly pushed that from her mind. She needed all her wits about her if she was going to even attempt doing this.

“Breathe in,” Arturo reminded her.

She did.

“Now, when you breathe out, I want you to do so slowly. I want you to feel your breath and your tension ease from your body as you release.” She could feel his body just behind hers and began to grow twitchy at the sensations it roused in her. And maybe a little dizzy. Or perhaps she was hyperventilating from all the heavy breathing.

“Breathe out,” he instructed.

Oh. Right.

“Slowly.”

He drew the word out. His deep voice and that accent made him sound almost hypnotic.

Just give yourself over to the feeling,
she told herself.
Don’t think, just feel.

“Now,” he said, his voice softer, quieter, just behind her ear, “we will have some music.”

She shivered, just a little. He was so close. And that voice.

Then a slow, throbbing beat pulsed from the speakers, making her start. His hands immediately closed around her hips, making her gasp and jerk forward.

For a sickening moment, she thought they were both going down. But for a man with a slim build, he really was quite strong. He righted her rather easily, in fact.

I am a feather.

The music continued.

“Another breath,” he coaxed.

She slid air into her lungs, fighting to let the tension go once again. It was harder than it seemed. His hands were still on her hips. And she was . . . feeling things.

“Okay,” he said, after she sighed, barely keeping it from turning into a moan. “Now, let the tension slide from your lower back.” To help her, he pressed his thumbs there.