Page 46 of The Virgin's Dance
He sat against the mirror. Boh realized she always felt calmer when he was near, when he was watching her. She had someone to whom she could channel the passion that she felt when she danced. As the beautiful music played, she used Pilot’s handsome face as her focus, her body curving toward him, yearning, loving.
When she finished, he applauded her, and she could see how moved he was. She went to sit next to him and he kissed her. She grinned and ruffled his curls. “Pretty boy.”
Pilot laughed. “Lunatic. Boh,Jesus, it’s a privilege to watch you dance.”
She leaned against him. “It’s an honor to know you, Pilot Scamo. You bring out the best in me.”
“We do that for each other, I think.”
“You’re right.”
There was a knock at the door and Elliott, pale and wan, stuck his head in the door. Boh and Pilot scrambled to their feet. “Hey, El, come on in.”
Still on crutches, he hobbled in. “Can I talk to you both? It’s important.”
An hour later they were back in Liz’s office. This time Celine was the one who looked pale. After Elliott told them the story of how Eleonor had caught him and Kristof in the bathroom, he explained how Kristof told him that Serena had known and had offered to “fix” the problem. The shock of learning Eleonor’s death wasn’t accidental was palpable, but Celine nodded.
“I did wonder if someone led her up to the roof. It wasn’t one of her normal routes she took when she was confused. I honestly believed no one would want to hurt my love … but now we know Serena Carver was a psychopath.” She looked at Boh. “Thank God she didn’t succeed a second time.”
Pilot was on edge. Boh could sense the tension in his body, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. “What I don’t get is how someone like that could exist in this environment, where everything is shared. People walk around exposed, physically and mentally, and no one saw the madness in her? What about her family?”
“Estranged.”
Pilot sighed. “Celine, I’m so sorry for your loss. I just want to understand why Eleonor died and why Boh was nearly murdered last night.”
“I think we all do.” Liz said. “But now that Serena is dead, we’ll never know. We have to move forward.” She looked at Elliott, whose shoulders slumped down. “And I need to talk to Elliott alone for a few minutes.”
Boh squeezed Elliott’s shoulder as they left the room, then she and Pilot walked home to their apartment.
“So much damage,” she said, and Pilot nodded.
“We’ll get through this, baby.”
She smiled at him. “I know. I love you.”
He stroked the back of his hand down her face. “As I love you. Come on. Let’s have lunch, then maybe you can help me at work.”
“Love to.”
The good thing about being filthy, stinking rich, Eugenie thought, was that one could afford a fleet of private detectives to stalk one’s ex-husband and know what he was doing every second of every day.
Now, as her detective streamed his video, she watched Pilot and his dancing girl walking to his studio—the studio he thought Genie knew nothing about. The Carver girl, now thankfully silenced—what an amateur—had failed in her mission to kill Boheme Dali, so now Eugenie had to step up.
And, by God, did she know how she was going to do that. This time next week, two more lives would be destroyed, but hers would be the happiest it had ever been.
She couldn’t wait.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Grady Mallory introduced Boh to his wife, Flori, and two friend who had accompanied them. “Boh, Pilot, these are Maceo and Ori Bartoli. Pilot, Maceo is interested in showing this exhibition in Italy.Discuss.” Grady finished with a grin as Maceo and Pilot laughed, shaking hands.
Flori bore Boh and Ori away to get drinks. “This is the boring part. Listen, I know Quilla will be here soon, so let’s get a head start on drinking.”
Boh giggled. The two women were a lot of fun, but Boh’s attention was always being drawn back to her lover, being feted by his peers, the press, art critics. The had exhibition opened an hour ago, and Boh had just about gotten used to her most intimate parts being on display for the public.
She had to admit, Pilot had photographed her nude in such a way that it wasn’t exploitative at all. Most people were commenting on the love in her eyes and she knew Pilot was pleased. It truly was a collaboration between her and him—Pilot might not be in the photographs, per se, but he was right there with her in every shot.
There was one shot of them, a small shot for Pilot’s biography at the end of the exhibition. Both of them were laughing, foreheads touching, so much love between them. Boh had made Pilot promise not to sell that shot.
