Something Wild (22 page)

Duane again wove his fingers around her waist until they spread over her stomach. He ground his hips against her, looking for the right fit, then whispered. “How does that feel?”

Flaccid
. She managed to smile. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

“Good, now follow my movements.”

The music began. The double spotlights were on them as Duane forced her hips to move with his, compelled her to thrust, grind, thrust, grind.

Hate and anger welled up inside her. He was compelling her to do something she didn’t want, to prove a point—that he could bend her to his will.

And she was letting him—only because the final outcome was the only thing important to her.

At last it was over. At last she moved back in line with the other women.

Duane did his drill-sergeant stroll again, but this stroll was different.

Decision time had arrived.

“
You
.” Duane pointed to the woman next to Charity. “Thanks, but no thanks.

He skipped over Charity as he went down the row and narrowed the competition. Six women remained when he stopped in front of Charity and gave her the once over, a smug smirk on his face. He was determined to stretch the agony out to the very last moment.

“You. You. You. You.” He pointed to four of the six women. “It shouldn’t take me more than a few days to make a decision. If you don’t get a call in a week—start looking for another show.”

Duane was as polite and businesslike as ever!

It was down to Charity and one other woman.

Duane dismissed most of his assistants. He had all the lights dimmed. Still Charity and the other woman stood in place, until Duane graced them with his presence. He stood in front of them, a contemplative finger held against his lips.

Charity smiled, the most beguiling smile she could muster. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing what a miserable, low-down bag of scum she thought he was.

Duane’s gaze flickered back and forth between Charity and the woman next to her. At last his grin and his pointed finger lit on the blonde. “
You
.”

Charity’s shoulders slumped in utter defeat, wondering uncharacteristically why she continued to chase this dream when it had become such a nightmare.

Crushed or not, Charity smiled at the dancer beside her—the last of the five finalists—seeing the excitement in her eyes, the knowledge that she had a chance, that her own star was within reach.

Charity spun on her stilettos and headed for her backpack. Duane was through humiliating her. He was through stringing her along.

“Where the hell are you going?” Duane called after her.

“Home,” she said over her shoulder, flashing Duane her best I-despise-you smile. “Unless you’d like to torture me a little more.” There, she’d said it. She’d burned a far-reaching bridge in this town.

“Not so fast, Ms. Wilde.”

Duane patted the other woman on the cheek. “Better luck next time, hon.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed, and exhaustion and a sudden reversal of fortune made her burst into tears as she ran across the stage, grabbed her bag, and disappeared into the wings.

There were only two of them on stage now, and Duane glared at her. Charity thought she’d burned a bridge. Of course, a few months back, when she’d busted Duane’s nose, she was sure she’d dropped a bomb on that bridge, that it would never be rebuilt. But she was here, at Duane’s bidding.

As confident as that suddenly made her feel, she knew full well that in this town confidence could be squashed in a heartbeat.

“You want this job?” Duane asked.

“More than anything.”

“I haven’t forgotten the broken nose.”

He was looking for an apology, but she refused to give in to that. “I’ll give you another one, too, if you ever touch me the way you did that night.”

Duane laughed, swept his cane up from the floor, and walked toward the wings. “Don’t count on getting a call,” he said, not bothering to look at her. “But if you’re going to get one, it’ll come within the week.”

He was gone, and she needed to breathe. She wanted fresh air. She wanted out of this place. And she wanted to shout out her excitement. She wanted to leap into Mike’s arms and ...

Mike
? Oh, God, where was he?

She grabbed her bag and rushed down the stairs, reaching the rows and rows of auditorium seating. The lights were out. All was dark. Silent.

And Mike was gone.

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“YOU LOOKING FOR ME?”

Mike couldn’t miss the flash of relief or the moment of delight in Charity’s face when she heard his voice. She spun around, her long ponytail flying about her, her mouth quirking into a joyous smile when he stepped out of the far, dark corner of the auditorium where he’d been standing. Waiting. Watching.

Suddenly she dropped her bag and ran toward him, launching herself into his arms, wrapping her long legs around his waist, her slender arms about his neck. “This is the best I’ve ever done, Mike. The absolute best.” She squeezed him tightly, planting impulsive kisses on his nose, his eyes, his brows. “I’ve got a chance this time, a real chance to make it.”

“So I heard.”

Making it for Charity meant losing for Mike, but even though he didn’t feel a hundredth of her joy, he held her close, and took advantage of any time he could have with her—good, bad, indifferent. He liked the feel of her legs wrapped about him, his hands clasped about her thighs to keep her right where she was. Her kisses weren’t half bad, either, although he wished one would settle on his mouth.

Suddenly she clapped her hands to his cheeks and frowned into his eyes. “I suppose this is a bit forward of me, isn’t it?”

“Not from my point of view.”

She struggled, but not like she really meant it. More like she was in no hurry to leave his embrace.

“I’m awfully heavy,” she said, insincerely struggling once again.

He kept his hands clasped around her thighs, immensely enjoying the feel of her warm and supple flesh in his palms. “You’re just right.”

She smiled coyly. “Maybe I should get down?”

“I think you should stay.”

He backed her against the wall so she couldn’t pull away, then slanted his mouth over hers, doing what he’d wanted to do for months. She tasted like mints. Sweet, oh so sweet, and when he traced his tongue along the edges of her lips he savored the salt of her perspiration, her passion, her drive.

“Mike?” she whispered against his mouth.

He didn’t want to talk, he just wanted to kiss, so he ignored her.

“Mike?” He nearly swallowed her word, then pulled back and looked at her lips, at her frowning eyes.

“There’s someone watching us.”

He twisted around, still holding Charity close.

“If you don’t mind,” a bearded guy with a wide dust mop said, “I’ve gotta clean this friggin‘ place and lock up.”

Mike let a struggling Charity slip down his body, but he didn’t let go of her fingers as he dragged her toward her backpack, swept it up in his other hand, and beat a hasty retreat out of the auditorium.

“Where to?” he asked, after letting Charity into the passenger side of the car and climbing behind the wheel.

“Home for a hot bath and a glass of wine.”

He started the engine, his fingers tightening around the key as he attempted to stifle the image of Charity in her tub, bubbles bobbing over her breasts, popping against the hardened tips of her nipples.

What man wouldn’t see those visions after watching her dance for hours?

Shoving the car into drive, he pulled into traffic and rolled down the window to suck in a breath of fresh air, something, anything to throttle his need to follow her into her apartment, to strip off that speck of leotard she was wearing, not to mention his own clothes, and climb into the tub with her.

“Is everything okay?” Charity asked.

His eyes darted toward her, toward a body, a face, a passion that tempted and tortured him, then concentrated on the road again. “No, why?”

“Your knuckles are white, as if you’re ready to break the steering wheel in two.”

He loosened his hold, even rested his left forearm on the window opening. “I’m not used to sitting all day. Guess I’m a little tense.”

“Auditions are always long. I told you you’d be bored.”

“I wasn’t bored.”

Charity reached across the car and put her hand on his thigh. His own hand clenched the steering wheel.

“Did you like the dancing?”

“Yeah.” He’d liked everything about Charity’s dancing, her slow, sensual moves, her sexual bumps and grinds, the splits she did, her legs spread wide, her thighs ...

“Did it bother you when Duane—”

“I wanted to put my fist through his face. I wanted to yank you off that stage and—” He let out some of his frustration with a deep, long, pent-up sigh. “I wanted to do a lot of things, none of which were right, and all of which would have made you angry, so I moved to the back, to the dark, where you wouldn’t see me.” He glanced at her quickly, and worked up some sort of a smile. “Contrary to what you said earlier, I didn’t want to sabotage your chances.”

“Thank you.”

Again he gripped the wheel with both hands. “So, what do you think your chances are?”

“Good. Bad. It all depends on what Duane’s looking for. Today he might want someone with black hair, tomorrow he could want a blonde. It doesn’t always come down to who’s the best dancer, it comes down to who he wants or doesn’t want. Sometimes it’s best to forget about it, or at least shove it to the back of your mind until the call comes—or you hear through the grapevine that someone else got the job.”

She seemed so matter of fact, so resigned to this life. He could never put up with the uncertainty, the wondering from day to day where life was going to take you. In his own life there was his ministry and his faith, two constants that brought him peace and fulfillment. And then there was the ranch. A snowstorm could wipe you out, or knock you on your butt for a year or two, but for the most part, you knew you’d get up in the morning and ride the range, mend fences, brand cattle, and at night fall into bed exhausted. You knew who your friends were, you knew your boss, and you stuck by each other through thick and thin.

There was none of that here, but the uncertainty, the insecurity of it all hadn’t knocked Charity on her butt; it had made her strong. Determined.

“I admire your guts,” he said, adding to himself that he could use her pluck back at the ranch.

“Maybe I’m foolish. Maybe I want to reach the top too much.”

“You know what you want and you don’t let anything”—
or anyone
—“stand in your way.”

She didn’t comment, she merely squeezed his leg, and silence settled between them as he headed for her apartment.

The way her hand rested on his leg, the way she’d kissed him, flung herself into his arms, made him wonder if she might—someday—let him come between her and that star she wanted.

But what would happen then? What did he want from her? What could he give her?

His nightmares hadn’t gone away nor had his guilt. Charity hadn’t replaced those things in his mind, not as he’d hoped. She’d simply become an all-consuming passion that he didn’t know how to deal with.

It was selfish of him to pursue her when bringing her into his life could cause her pain, but he knew with certainty that he couldn’t go on without her, not when he craved her the way he did.

But how could he ask her to give up something she loved? That was another question that had been with him for weeks. The only answer he could come up with was not asking her at all.

It all went back to the way she’d once told him she’d gentle the wild horses. She’d be patient. She’d give them the chance to know her without prodding. She’d take it slow and easy—not trying to break their spirit, just giving them enough freedom that they’d do anything she wanted, without having to ask.

That’s what he intended to do with Charity. In the beginning her wildness nagged at him. He thought she needed taming. Now he realized he didn’t want her spirit broken. It wasn’t gentleness that he wanted from Charity—he’d had that before. No, he wanted her passion. He wanted her fire.

Pulling into the parking lot of her apartment complex, he climbed out and opened the door for her. She smiled, pleased, maybe shocked at the gesture.

“You’re going to come in, aren’t you?” she asked, leaning against the rental car.

He looked for a quick excuse, something to keep him away from her bathtub, from bubbles, from seeing her nude. “I’ve got a sermon to write.”

“For this coming Sunday? That’s just a couple of days away.” She looked worried that he would be leaving soon. Another positive sign that coming here hadn’t been a mistake.

“I’m faxing it to John Atkinson. He’s going to fill in while I’m gone.”

She reached out and brushed a speck of lint, or something equally unimportant, off of his sweater. “I never got to hear you preach.”

“Maybe next time you’re in Wyoming.”

“Are you a hell-fire-and-brimstone kind of guy?”

He shook his head, took a step closer so she could find more lint to stroke off of his chest, and slid a hand around her back, resting his palm against warm, bare skin.

“My style’s more laid-back,” he said. “More do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Her eyes flickered upward. “I think I’d like your style.” She smiled softly, then tilted her face and lightly kissed his lips.

Do unto others
... He wove his fingers into her hair and kept her face tilted upward, kept her mouth against his, then parted her lips gently with his tongue, tasting her again, filling her, filling himself with the sweet sensations.

She breathed deeply, her breasts rising and falling, hard nipples brushing over his sweater, against his heaving chest, burning his skin.

He was one step away from taking her to her bathtub. One step from breaking a moral code he’d always lived by.

Tearing his mouth from hers, from the sweetness he wanted to delve and devour, from temptation he needed to resist, he took a deep breath and thought about getting far away—fast. Instead he pressed his cheek against hers, because he couldn’t get enough. “I liked watching you dance,” he whispered against her ear. “I never knew a woman could move in so many ways.”

“Years of practice,” she whispered back.

“It’s a God-given talent, Charity. Something you’ve been blessed with.” And then, out of the goodness of his foolish heart, he added, “It’s a talent you should never give up.”

She pulled back and looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll have to someday. Like you said when I left Wyoming, I won’t always be young. I won’t always have a sleek, hard body.”

He cradled her face in his hands. “You’ll always be you. That’s all any man should want.”

“Most men want more.”

“I want more, too, but I won’t take it unless it’s offered.”

She leaned close, feathering soft kisses over his mouth. “What do you want?”

“I want you to dance for me. Just for me.”

“I’ve never given any man his own private dance.”

He tore his mouth from the tantalizing taste of her, from her warm breath teasing his skin, and stared into the depths of hazel eyes. “Then someday, when you’re ready, maybe you’ll let me be the first... and the last.”

He captured one more of her sighs against his mouth, one more taste of her wet, warm lips, and pushed away, walked to the far side of the car and opened his door. “I’ll see you later.”

She looked a little dazed. “When?”

“Soon.”

He climbed into the car, slammed the door, and started the engine, avoiding any more questions, any more temptation except her hesitant wave, and the sweet, smoothly curved and very bare derriere that swayed as she walked away from him.

He put the car in drive and struck off for the hotel.

And an icy shower.

Charity sat atop the black baby grand, her legs crossed, belting out “The Lady Is a Tramp” for a drunk with a stinky stogie gripped between his teeth. He’d dropped a hundred-dollar bill in the oversized brandy snifter beside her. For that kind of tip, she and the piano player would give him the million-dollar version of the song, complete with coquettish winks, a shimmy or two, maybe even a glossy, red-lipped kiss on the top of his balding head.

This wasn’t what she wanted to do for a living, but a good night could put food on the table, keep a roof over her head, and pay for ballet and voice lessons for a couple of weeks.

Jobs like this were a godsend when she wasn’t in a show.

The Torch was extra smoky tonight, not all that great for her lungs or the freshness of her scarlet-sequined gown. She’d have to wash her hair before going to bed and air the form-fitting sheath out on the balcony because she hated the stench, but she got to sing a lot of Ella here, and the magnificent Fitzgerald had always been her favorite.

Slipping off the piano, she strolled through the crowded room, smiling at both men and women, and when she sang the last of one song, Gus the pianist played a few chords of the next, songs they’d picked out earlier. When Gus got to just the right spot, she launched into “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” giving it the heart-of-Ella touch.

A young man she’d seen in the club a time or two reached out for her hand and pulled her to his table, and as she often did, she cozied up to him, sitting in his lap, walking her fingers over his shoulders, and toying with the hair at his nape. Then she sang just for him—or so he thought. He was young and cute and gullible, and the owner liked her to play up to the paying customers. But she only let it go just so far.