Turning It on (Red Hot Russians) (22 page)

Heath gripped the cane in his thick fist and rolled it twice successfully, but dropped it when he tried the sequence again. Vlad calmly retrieved it. “Don’t try to do everything together yet. Once you are comfortable with the steps, then we will do it with the cane. No hurry. We’ll take it slow.”

Slow was right. Byron got bored and took off for the beach. A sidelined Jeff Scott paced though dance steps, presumably caught up in memories of college glory. Hannah sat on the steps, tapping her feet in her new shoes, and watched Vlad at work.

His broad shoulders and muscular build were similar enough to Heath’s that he was able to coach the stunt man, but Vlad moved with natural grace that was captivating to watch. His tight jeans and white T-shirt accentuated his gorgeous body, yet what drew Hannah most was his patience and understanding. He encouraged Heath, pushed him at times, yet never lost his temper, or suggested he was hopeless. After an hour, Heath’s steps were more nimble and he could complete the dance without dropping his cane.

Vlad grinned broadly, and slapped Heath on the shoulder. “Success! Look at you. You are a dancer. Okay, what comes next?”

“Me and Hannah dance.”

“Ahh, the best part. Show me.”

Hannah stood with her back to Heathcliff, as he grabbed her hips and jerked her from side to side. Though she tried to control her movements, she ended up flopping around like a toy that had lost its stuffing.

Vlad raised his hand to cover his eyes. “I cannot even watch that! You are dancing with a beautiful woman, not fucking her in the alley. You must be smooth, sensual. Like this.”

He took Heathcliff’s place and Hannah’s heart pounded at his touch. Leaning forward, Vlad whispered in her ear. “When I start to move, dip your knees and move with me.”

She bent her knees and rocked back and forth, flirty and sexy in her short, flared dance skirt and high-heeled tap shoes.

“Very nice,” Vlad said. “Doesn’t have to be in-your-face sexy. Not that we mind. But should fit with the music. Now turn.”

She spun to face him, and the sight of him so close made her draw a breath. Vlad merely grinned and brought her in closer. His legs moved between hers and they waltzed around the floor. Hannah watched their feet, afraid she might step on him.

“Look up,” he commanded.

She turned her gaze upward and her eyes locked with his hazel ones. His warm breath tickled her ear and cheek. He was shorter than Heathcliff and more proportional to her, creating a natural fluidity in their movement. She wanted him. So badly, she wanted him. Where he lived, what he did for a living, the gold cross around his neck all ceased to matter. The alluring sway of their bodies made her mental laundry list of shouldn’ts burn away like paper in a flame. What mattered was that he was caring, handsome and never in her life had a man—not even Jack—made her feel this way. Vlad had seen her for what she was, and helped her realize that she was beautiful.

Music played in her mind, but instead of the bouncy
Chorus Line
piano, it was the orchestral swell, and warm, husky voice of Etta James. Vlad drew her into his arms and as they danced, his lips brushed against her ear. “Meet me at midnight. You know where.”

He brought his gaze back to hers and she nodded.

The song in Hannah’s mind concluded with a flood of sweet violins. Vlad released her, and turned back to Heath with a smile. “That’s the way it’s done.”

* * *

When Hannah arrived at The Smiling Shark just before midnight, Vlad was waiting on the love seat, his arm resting along the back; a glass of wine was on the table. For a long moment, their gazes locked and Hannah drank in the sight of him.

“Is this what I’m doing to thank you?” she asked.

“
Nyet,
” he said. “That, I’m still deciding. This is because seeing you only this afternoon with your boys was not enough. Not after how we left things last time.”

“I didn’t like how we left things either. Especially since you might go home after talent night.”

He lifted his hand, inviting her to sit beside him. She settled into the circle of his arm, the brush of his fingertips against her bare shoulder making her skin tingle. Across the room, the bartender smiled.

“Getting eliminated wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Vlad said softly. “Except for leaving you.”

“What about the money?”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind about how important it is to win.”

Did that mean he had changed his mind about trying to start a new life? Though she was disappointed, it shouldn’t come as a surprise. He hadn’t had a clear picture of what that new life might be, and it was hard to walk away from what one knew. Without an education, it would be hard for him to earn the sort of money he earned from stripping. She wouldn’t demean him by suggesting that he ought to “better” himself. Instead, she smiled and took his hand. “This show has changed my mind about a lot of things, too.”

“Jack?”

Her smile felt strained. “Once we’re back in New York, things between us will sort themselves out. Being here has made me see that so much of what I always believed wasn’t necessarily true. I mean, in twenty-four hours, I’ll be tap-dancing on live TV!”

“Feel ready for it?”

“I think so. You saw me rehearse. What do you think?”

“I think you move very well.”

“For a big girl, you mean.”

“Not at all. But you’re still not confident enough to look your audience in the eye.”

“Can you blame me?”

“You have no reason to doubt yourself, and showing confidence matters. In skating, the judges wanted to see we were not afraid to look right at them. It is even more important for me now. Ever seen a stripper afraid to make eye contact?”

“I’ve never seen a stripper at all.”

He blinked in surprise. “Really? Not even a fake cop dropping in on a bachelorette party?”

“My friends aren’t like that. We don’t get enjoyment out of degrading people.”

Vlad raised his brow. “Degrading them?”

She winced. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sometimes, it does feel like I’m a piece of meat, and nothing else.” His voice was resigned.

“Vlad, I’m sorry.”

His touch reassured her that he didn’t take her comment personally. “No harm done. Still, the fact you have never seen an exotic dancer troubles me. I think we should remedy that right now.”

It took a moment to grasp his meaning. “You’re going to strip for me, here? Now?”

“If you’re only going to see one, might as well be the best.” He turned to the bartender. “Miguel, you don’t mind, right?”

The bartended laughed. “Oh, no, senor, I don’t mind at all.”

“First we need some music.” Vlad took her hand and led her across the room to the jukebox, where he perused the selections.

She was conscious of his strong hand still clasping hers. “What do you usually strip to? Disco?”

“Depends on the character I’m playing. I just did a routine to Lady Gaga’s ‘Applause,’ where I played a movie star. I’ve done construction workers, cops, the usual. You won’t get the full effect though, because I’m not wearing tear-off pants.”

This sounded intriguing. “There is such a thing? Where do you get them, Stripper Supply?”

He laughed. “It’s just normal pants cut up and held together with fasteners. Can’t be too tight though, or I’ll break out of them too early.”

Hannah shook her head. “The things you learn.”

“This song’s good.” He fed money into the slot and punched a number, then gestured at a nearby chair. “You sit here. And take out some money. I don’t do this for free, you know.”

His teasing wink made her laugh. “I didn’t bring any.”

He grabbed a cocktail napkin and folded it in half. “We’ll pretend.”

She took the napkin and settled back, imagining she was a customer at the club where he danced. As she sipped her wine, he braced his hands on the arms of the chair and whispered in her ear. “A private dance, just for you.”

A rush of heat spread through Hannah’s cheeks and her heart thrummed wildly as she gazed up into his chiseled features and warm, gold-flecked eyes. Deep within, the muscles below her belly tightened and quivered. Her mouth felt dry, despite the wine. This was unquestionably erotic, yet at the same time...safe. An experience enjoyed by millions of women, though never her. Until now. The sexiest man she had ever met was about to perform, and she didn’t have to share this moment with anyone else.

As the opening beat of The Black Crowes’s “Hard to Handle” burst from the jukebox, Vlad pushed off from the chair in a powerful, fluid motion. Standing with his legs spread, he rocked his hips to the music, smoothing his hands over his denim-clad thighs. Hannah’s grip tightened on her glass and in her lap, her fingers twitching as she imagined touching his smooth, warm skin and watched the movement of his toned muscles. His dance was infused with sensuality and masculine grace. She swallowed and pressed her thighs together, aware of the dampness between her legs.

As Chris Robinson growled out the second verse, Vlad undid the buttons on his shirt, slid it off and flung it. Hannah caught it, and the alluring scent of him wafted from the soft fabric. The garment was still warm from his body. She clutched the shirt as he moved closer to plant his feet on either side of hers. He rocked in time to the music, and thrust his hips in a raw, suggestive motion.

Mesmerized, she couldn’t look away. Her lips moved. “Oh my.”

His laugh broke the spell, reminding her it wasn’t some sexy stranger dancing for her pleasure but a man she trusted and cared about.

Even so, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his lower body, the ripple of his tight abs, and the sensuous motion of his hips as he unbuttoned his tight jeans.

“Eyes, Hannah,” he said. “The lesson’s all about the eyes. Look up here.”

“But it’s so hard!”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.”

Actually, she had a very good idea, judging from the bulge between his legs. She forced her gaze upward, over his smooth, tan torso, broad shoulders, to his stubbled cheeks and beautiful eyes.

He was close enough for her to see the light sheen of sweat on his bare skin. Without thinking, she reached to touch him, but he moved out of reach. “Not allowed.”

She snapped her hand back, disappointed. “No?”

“Only way to touch me is with money.”

“But you keep moving!”

He winked. “Then catch me. Come on, Hannah. Don’t be shy.”

What the hell? When he approached again, she hooked a finger into the waistband of his jeans and reeled him in. She stuffed in the folded napkin, aware of his closeness, and all she wanted to do was press her mouth against him and taste the salt of his skin. She gazed up into his eyes, feeling bold, powerful and yes, thoroughly sexy.

The music played on, but Vlad stopped dancing and coaxed her up from her chair. They stared into each other’s eyes and her knees felt weak. She raised a trembling hand to stroke his feverish skin as his chest rose and fell with each breath.

“Hannah...”

In his low, sensuous voice, her name sounded like a seduction, and instinctively, she knew that no matter how many other women he had wrapped in a spell of desire, this moment was as precious to him as it was to her. Vlad threaded his fingers through her hair to cup the back of her head, and then brought his lips down on hers.

Hannah’s heart pounded at his hungry, demanding kiss, and she responded with equal fervor, craving him as much as he craved her. This was how a man’s desire felt—not indifferent, but passionate, crashing down over the side of a mountain and washing away her doubts and resistance. Aroused and frantic, she plundered his mouth, taking all he offered, thirsting for more.

When their lips parted, a shade of sadness danced across his features. Then he smiled. “I know how you can thank me.”

Chapter Twenty

Eric awoke the morning of the live broadcast actually looking forward to his meeting with Cody deWylde.

Though there were still important decisions to make—such as who the Final Flings were actually going to be—Eric found he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned,
Last Fling
was over. Stick a fork in it. Done.
Finito.

He’d spent the weekend in the throes of a creative frenzy that had resulted in finished scripts for the entire first season of
St. Nowhere
, plus detailed synopses for seasons two and three, all triggered by the heady experience of watching Alison Michaels bring Dr. Pamela Chandler to life.

The writing was some of the best he had ever done. The concept had the right combination of familiarity and edginess. This could be a breakthrough series, and all he had to do was survive the next five days and bring
Last Fling
to a satisfying conclusion.

As they said in San Juan,
no problema
.

The moment he stepped off the elevator, Cynthia Bishop pounced, rattling off questions from her ever-present clipboard. He provided answers to the most vexing issues, but left the rest to her.
Last Fling
was Cynthia’s baby now, and he couldn’t be happier to hand over the reins. In the break room, a pretty young intern, back from the shoot at the sunrise yoga class, informed him that Roller Derby Gina was MIA. Any idea where she could be? Oh, and come to think of it, no one had seen Cody deWylde either.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Eric smiled and took his first sip of stale coffee.

His coproducer stumbled into his office a little before noon, wearing sunglasses and rumpled clothes. His face looked pasty even under his spray tan. “Cynthia said you were here. Got the eliminations done yet?”

Eric minimized the
St. Nowhere
series bible open on his screen. “I was waiting for you. You’re the executive producer and said all along the network wanted you to make the final call.”

“Smart man. But since I’ve been so busy,” he said as he yawned deeply. “I’m counting on your expert advice.”

Eric was only too happy to give deWylde his advice, but the pretty intern stuck her head in the office. “Eric? They’re still looking for Gina, but no luck.”

DeWylde winced. “She’ll turn up. Maybe check her room again?”

The girl looked confused and then spotted Cody lolling in the chair. “Oh, good morning Mr. deWylde. Thanks, we’ll try that.”

She left in a hurry. Eric glared and grabbed the dog-eared stack of
Last Fling
story notes from the corner of his desk. “We’ll never get anything done here. Let’s go for a ride.”

On the way upstairs, deWylde hit the craft service table for a can of Red Bull and a jelly doughnut that had been sitting in an open box since yesterday. They went out the back door, below the terrace. Eric craned his neck to glimpse the cast down on the beach. A small, shapely figure stood apart from the rest. Her flowing dress and long hair fluttered in the breeze, as she gazed out at the ocean.

Was she thinking about him, just as he thought about her? Eric smiled, remembering the past three days and the thrill of collaborating with a beautiful woman who shared his creative vision. They’d connected on so many levels, and though it hadn’t gone as far as he’d hoped, the fact it hadn’t assured Eric that Alison’s feelings were sincere, rather than a ploy to land a role. Life after
Last Fling
felt bright with promise.

He and deWylde went out to the staff parking lot and Cody sneered as they passed the SUVs. “Please tell me we’re taking something comfortable. I’m damn sick of roughing it.”

Hard to believe that Resorte Siete Mares was anyone’s idea of roughing it, but Eric was glad he’d grabbed the keys to the Navigator. If they could get this last task done in comfort, deWylde would likely be much more agreeable to Eric’s ideas. “Sure, bro. Whatever you want.”

Eric kept his eyes on the winding, narrow road and away from the passenger seat, where deWylde was consuming his disgusting breakfast. The host took off his shades and looked over at Eric with bloodshot eyes, a mean scratch of the side of his face. “Jesus, what a night. They call that little bitch Danger Doll for a reason.” Cody chuckled and tipped his head back against the seat. “She wanted to do everything possible to make sure she’s cast in my next project.”

“And what’s that?”

“A show about roller derby, what the fuck else? The Xposé Network goes behind the scenes for an intimate look at the lives and loves of the Ft. Lauderdale Vicious Vixens. J.P. gave me the green light to start casting.”

That could only mean the network head was pleased with the way
Last Fling
had turned out. Eric resisted the urge to do a happy dance in his seat. “Good to hear that you and J.P. are thinking ahead. Which reminds me, I’ve been wanting to talk with you about—”

“Yeah, yeah.” DeWylde licked a blob of jelly from his finger and washed it down with a swig of Red Bull. “So...eliminations and Final Flings. Let’s do the easy ones first. Your buddy Jack. I assume he’s doing Robynne, so obviously she stays. And as of right now, unless someone else impresses me, she’s also my pick to win the big grand prize. Kirstin, Gina and Cristal all go home.”

Eric wasn’t surprised that Robynne was the front-runner for the money, nor did he doubt she’d take Jack to bed to win it. As for the rest, Danger Doll Gina had turned out to be a diva-in-the-making pain in the ass. He wouldn’t miss Kirstin, either. The German model was about as interesting as elevator music, but Cristal Glass knew how to create drama. He would be sorry to see her go. “Guess so.”

“Easy peasy. Next up, little Hannah. Our choices are Byron Lord, who’s gayer than the Easter Bunny, Jeff Scott Fitzgerald, who’s an annoying little shit, and Heathcliff. Who’s the lucky fella?”

Eric chuckled. “No one in their right mind is going to picture Hannah and Byron Lord in bed, even if she chooses him. The PR firm for Fitzgerald Family Mortuaries has already been in touch to say corporate interests are best served if Jeff Scott receives a dignified exit. Since the Fitzgeralds are showing their commitment to moral decency with a big ad buy, I’d say it’s best we play along.”

“J.P. would be proud to hear you say that.”

Indeed, he would. “Which leaves Heathcliff.”

Cody lifted a brow. “You wield power well, my friend.”

Yes he did. He was like the Grim Reaper in Prada loafers, and it felt good. This was the opening he’d waited for. “Speaking of J.P., when you talked with him last, did he happen to mention my new series idea? You know, the hospital drama I pitched?”

“Huh? Oh, that. Yeah, he mentioned it.” Cody slurped Red Bull. Eric’s heart pounded as if he’d just drunk an entire case of the stuff.

“And?”

Cody shrugged. “And it’s a go. He wants you to call his assistant next week when you’re back and set up a meeting. Now, Team Red. Any solutions to our dilemma?”

Eric’s thoughts scrambled as he tried to shift from ecstasy over having the network approve his new series to the reality of still having a series to wrap up.

He nearly shuddered to think how close he’d come to wasting a phenomenally talented actress in a piece of throwaway junk like
Last Fling
when she was meant for something greater. “I think your idea about Vlad is the way to go.”

DeWylde gave a satisfied nod. “Tammy and the Russky for the Final Fling, while the rest of the UN delegation goes home. What about Chris?”

Eric’s phone, propped in the Navigator’s cup holder, buzzed and Cynthia’s photo flashed on the screen. He reached to answer. Cody thrust his empty Red Bull can into Eric’s open hand. He tossed it aside and pointed to his tablet, which sat on the dashboard. “Cynthia must have the footage from the early interviews ready for tonight. Open it up and let’s take a look.”

Cody grabbed the tablet and tapped his way to the footage Cynthia had sent. In addition to the live talent acts, tonight’s show would recap each team’s journey using earlier footage of each contestant and fling. Eric was very glad they had held back some of the juiciest cuts, which would have so much more impact now. Eager to see what the geniuses down in the editing bay had prepared, Eric pulled onto the shoulder of the two-lane road. Together, they watched Vlad’s interview segment.

When it was finished, deWylde paused the clip. “It’s good, but I still don’t feel like it’s enough. There has to be more anger, more conflict. Having Alison shift from Tammy’s gal-pal to Chris’s Final Fling will give that.”

Eric shook his head. He had deferred to deWylde’s preference in everything else, but not here. Especially not with his show about to become a reality. “Chris wants Miss October.”

Cody shrugged. “Too bad for Chris. No one made him executive producer. Jack, Hannah and Tammy all get their choice. Chris will just have to live with ours.”

Eric’s hands were slick on the steering wheel, but he took a breath, ready to stand his ground. “Actually, Miss October is my choice, too. I’ve cast Alison as the lead in my new series.”

“You can’t. J.P. wants Kelsi Summers for the part.”

“Kelsi Summers? No way. She’s twenty-three.”

“Twenty. And hot.”

“But Pamela Chandler is in her early thirties. She’s a grieving mother and widow, and a
doctor,
for Christ’s sake! Kelsi Summers is a year out of high school, not medical school!”

“She has two million followers on Twitter.”

“Totally different demographic. This is serious drama, not college angst. Alison Michaels is perfect for the part. She read for me the other night and I swear it was like watching Pamela come to life. She nailed it.”

“More like you nailed her. Look, cowboy, you want to do the talent, who am I to judge? The suits may not like it, but live and let live, I say. But you’re delusional if you think J.P. is going to let you cast a has-been with a history. Everyone knows what a liability she is. Hashtag train wreck.”

“What happened back then was because of grief from losing her parents. She’s different now. She’s been here ten weeks. Have you ever seen her be anything but professional? I have video I can send to J.P. Once he sees it, he’ll be convinced.”

Ideas were already turning in Eric’s mind. He could write a costarring role for Kelsi. There was a young nurse he had intended to kill off at the end of season one, but there was no reason the character couldn’t stick around. Maybe he would write a storyline just for her. A teenage hunk with cancer? Amnesia? Malaria? He’d figure it out. No matter what, he couldn’t let Alison become Chris’s Final Fling. His phone buzzed and flashed Cynthia’s photo once more. Eric answered and put Cynthia on speaker.

“Have you looked at the clip I just sent?” The associate producer’s voice was high-pitched and frantic.

“Yeah, Cody and I watched a few of the interviews. Nice work.”

“Not those. The new stuff that came off the GoPro you had stashed out at the beach bar. Oh my God, Eric, you have to see it. You’re a genius.”

Cody shifted his gaze, smiling slyly. “A genius? What’s she talking about?”

“I got a tip from the bartender at that little place down on the sand where no one goes.” Fingers trembling with excitement, he tapped the screen to access Cynthia’s email and the attached file. “Apparently, someone does go there.”

He and Cody leaned in to watch the small screen, which showed Vlad sitting alone on a rattan couch, two drinks on the table in front of him. Obviously waiting for someone. Eric’s jaw dropped as that someone came into view.

“Holy fuck,” deWylde muttered. On-screen, Vlad caressed Hannah’s face.

The quality of the audio wasn’t great, but it was good enough to reveal that Hannah and Vlad the Bad were a lot more than castmates. DeWylde was practically salivating onto the screen, and when Vlad’s striptease ended in a passionate kiss, he let out a scream that filled the car.

“Yes! The TV gods love you, man! They love you! J.P. loves you! I love you!
This
is what the Team Red story needed, and you, my man, have delivered!”