Page 7 of The Virgin's Dance
Boh’s face was flaming red.Pilot Scamowas inspired … byher? No way. No freakin’way. Pilot’s name was known all over the world and he’d photographed some of the world’s most beautiful women—Serena’s jibe about him sleeping with supermodels came back to her.
“Mr. Scamo—”
“Pilot.”
“Pilot—what exactly is it that you’re asking me to do?” If this was a line to get her into bed—God help her but this gorgeous man wouldn’t need a line—she would have to revise her good opinion of him.
“Work with me on this project. Obviously, we’ll need a theme, and my ideas are at the very early stages. I’m sure you’ve seen the many, many ballet portraits that have been done already; photographers like Karolina Kuras or Alexander Yakovlev have produced some stunning work. So we need an original angle. I’d like to work with you and figure something out.”
“In six weeks?”
Pilot nodded. “In six weeks we’d have to come up with a theme, get the costumes, find the settings.” He smiled suddenly, a wide, boyish smile, and Boh felt her belly quiver with desire. Working closely together with this man for six weeks?Yes, please …
“I’m in.” She found herself saying and was reward by an even bigger, even sexier smile.
“Fantastic.”
They swapped contact details and Boh smiled shyly at him. “I guess we’re going to have to start right away.”
“I guess so.” His eyes dropped to her mouth for a split second and then he looked away, a faint spot of pink appearing on each of his cheeks. Boh realized he didn’t want to look like a creep, but there was no denying the attraction between them. Still, this man was a professional and so was she.
But, at least,she thought later, after she’d said goodbye,I have a new friend.Ha, her body said to her, when was the last time you got wet over afriend?
Shut up.But she grinned to herself as she made her way back up to Kristof’s class, feeling lighter than air at the thought of spending the next six weeks with Pilot Scamo.
Chapter Five
Pilot’s good mood lasted until he got back to his apartment and saw his doorman shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Mister Scamo,” he said, “I’m sorry. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’s waiting upstairs.”
Pilot sighed. “It’s not your fault, Ben. It’s okay.”
Eugenie was sitting outside his apartment door and Pilot was grateful that he had never given in to her request for a key. “Why?” he had asked when Eugenie suggested it, “We’re divorced, Genie.”
She saw him now and held her hands out to him so he helped her up. She didn’t let go of his hands, instead pressing them around her waist. “Darling.”
Pilot gently extracted himself. “Genie, what are you doing here?”
Eugenie huffed. “Well, if you don’t want to see me.”
God, it was going to be one of those days. She really was the queen of passive-aggressiveness. “I’m working, Genie. As I said, what is it that you want?”
“To see you, obviously.” She stroked a hand down his face and it was all Pilot could do not to jerk his head away. He’d been there before and knew what the consequences of that would be. The half-moon scar next to right eye was evidence of Genie’s rage when she was slighted. “I miss you, Pilot. More than you know.”
Ah, Genie Ploy number three,he thought. The regretful ex. “Genie, you’ve been calling me nonstop and as I said, I’m working. You know what it’s like when I have a project on.”
He was hoping to keep the argument out in the hallway, but as one of his neighbors edged along the corridor, curious, and not being shy about it, Pilot opened his door and stepped back to allow Eugenie to enter. Damn it. He had been successfully keeping her away from his new life until now.
Genie walked into his apartment and smiled. “Ah, typical Pilot. Unorganized mess.”
He shrugged. Eugenie liked everything in its place all the time; Pilot wanted his home to look lived in by ahuman, not an automaton. His walls were lined with bookshelves stuffed to the gills, his couch was old and battered and incredibly comfortable, his record player was on the floor with a stack of vinyl next to it. On the coffee table, a collection of mugs had varying degrees of old coffee or tea; a half-empty bottle of scotch, a notebook with ideas.
But Genie was wrong—Pilot knew where every single piece of his life fit in this place—it was his haven and he hated that she was in it, judging it, sneering at it.
“Like I said, many times now, I’m working, so—” He made a motion for her to say what she had to say. Genie half-smiled. She was looking even thinner these days. Always slim, when he had met her she had been a healthy weight but as the years went on, she lost her appetite for anything but vodka and cocaine, and when Pilot had left her, her addictions had only gotten worse. Now she looked to be under 100 pounds.
Of course, Genie herself didn’t mind the weight loss at all. In her circle of Upper East Side friends, she was the thinnest, could fit into the sample sizes of all the best fashion designers, and reveled in her addictions. Apart from cocaine, Adderall, and the occasional speedball, she would start every day using meth. Her fragile, brittle blonde beauty was already beginning to crack at the seams. Pilot would have felt sorry for her but her cruelty made him feel numb to her downfall.
“My darling,” she came toward him now and he couldn’t help but back up a few paces. She noticed and anger flashed in her eyes, but she struggled and smiled. “Don’t be scared of me, my darling. Pilot, after everything, the life we built, the love we had, don’t you think we deserve more than this, this sad little divorce?”
