Page 23 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“Harassing!”

“He’s a terrible pest, Gary,” Deepa said, “and he doesn't tip nearly as well as you think.”

“I saw him picking a fight with Miss Patel,” Jonathan supplied, looking offended on her behalf. “Absolutely ungentlemanly behaviour, I tell you.”

With a gesture from the manager, Stu, the door security, loped over to escort Phillip away. The man went, puce-faced and sputtering indignantly with every step, but he didn’t actually try to fight the security detail. Deepa wished he would, because Stu was a very large, very muscular fellow with a face like a brick wall, and she rather wanted to see him pummel Phillip into the ground. Instead, she had to settle for watching him get frog-marched out of the vicinity.

“Are you alright, Miss Deepa?” Jonathan asked solicitously, crowding close, though not daring to lay a hand on her without express permission.

“I'm fine, Jonathan. You don’t need to worry about me. Mr. Etonborough is persistent, but ultimately useless, I think.”

“A terribly rude chap, isn't he? Is there anything I can do to turn your evening around? Can I get you a drink? Or take youout? I know a lovely spot that does a curry to die for, and I’d love your opinion on the cuisine—”

“You're so sweet,” she interrupted, “but I really must finish my set.”

“After that—”

“I'm afraid I have a prior appointment. But another time, yes, I’ll have to try this curry. It sounds delicious.”

“Another time,” he echoed hopefully.

Cherie followed Deepa back to the stage, casting glances at Jonathan as he reclaimed his table to watch the end of the show.

“You wouldn't go for that?” she asked wistfully. “He’s seemed a sweetheart, the few times I’ve talked to him. And that face! I wouldn't complain if he wanted to take me out.”

“You’re welcome to him,” Deepa told her, climbing the stairs to take her place behind the microphone once more.

“He's only got eyes for you, and everyone knows it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t return the sentiment. Eventually he’ll catch on.”

“What a shame,” Cherie murmured. “He talks like he’d treat a girl right, you know?”

“I’ll make sure to get the two of you alone together sometime,” Deepa said fondly.

As the band started up again, Deepa sank into the music, crooning honey-voiced and sultry as she swayed like a snake-charmer, enticing every man to inch closer and open their wallets. The crowd was growing as the hour inched past nine, and it only took one enthusiastic admirer to make it worth her time.

Halfway through her song, Roz entered the club. Dressed in a soft charcoal suit and carrying an armful of wildflowers, she looked more handsome than any man in attendance, and infinitely more charming. From the moment Deepa laid eyes on her, she couldn't look anywhere else. She couldn't even pullher gaze away long enough to play the crowd. A helpless smile unfurled across her lips, escaping around the song. Roz didn’t take a table, but kept off to the side, standing unobtrusively in the shadows holding her flowers in the crook of one arm, her other hand in her pocket, the perfect picture of casual self-assuredness. Cherie, flitting through the crowd to deliver drinks and entertain the men, caught Deepa’s eye just long enough to throw her an exaggerated wink.

It was exquisite torture, forcing herself to stay on stage and finish her set. As the evening crept on, each song was sexier than the last, teasing the men as more dancers joined Cherie on the floor. When Deepa was done, they would take her place on stage to put on a show, but until then, they twined around the tables, trailing teasing touches over the men's shoulders and knees, bare legs flashing out from under tiny, swishy dresses, their bodies hidden behind enormous feather fans to play at being coy. Roz seemed amused by their antics, but her attention never wavered from Deepa’s place in front of the stage’s merlot-red-draped backdrop.

As ten o’ clock neared, Deepa’s set wound down, and she stepped back from the mic after her final song with a smile as the crowd rocketed to their feet, whistling and applauding. If Roz weren’t there, she would spend another hour mingling with the men, accepting gifts and tokens and maybe a little more, depending on her mood. She was paid to sing, but it was the off-stage entertainment that paid her bills. Her livelihood depended on her popularity, and taking another early night would win her no new admirers.

Well. She supposed one more couldn’t hurt.

Descending from the stage, she parted the sea of waiting men, offering them the bare minimum to keep them hanging on as she made her way towards her date. Roz waited patiently, her gaze flickering over the gifts being pressed into Deepa’s handsas she navigated the compliments and propositions put to her. Finally, Cherie took pity on Deepa and lead her flock of dancers to intervene, skilfully distracting the men in a flurry of glittering sequins, lipstick, and feathers, allowing Deepa to slip away unnoticed.

“Hello again,” she said, a little breathier than she meant to be. “You came.”

“Course I did,” Roz replied with a smile. “Seeing you on stage? I couldn't think about anything else all day.”

“Did I live up to your expectations?”

“You outdid them,” Roz promised, and stepped close enough to put one hand on Deepa’s waist, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek.

It was an ostensibly friendly kiss, but the hand on her waist lingered just long and low enough to suggest something more intimate.

“Are you wearing magic?” Roz murmured, her lips brushing Deepa’s skin. “I can tell. Got a nose for it.” Pulling back, she tapped the sniffer in question, and Deepa’s heart thudded in panic for a second before Roz continued. “You wear that when you’re performing, yeah? To lure in the men?”

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