Page 81 of A Certain Appeal
“Now, what do we have here?” Johnny edges to the side of the stage. The band takes their cue, kicking into Henry Mancini’s “Baby Elephant Walk.”
Working in time with the music, I reach my hand to the middle of my back and grasp the tassel, guiding it down the zipper track withpracticed slowness. I shift my shoulders to further open the gap, the cool of the room and the heat of the spotlight dancing across the widening sliver of exposed skin. I face the diners again.
With a roll of my shoulder, the dress tumbles to my bicep, catching in the crook of my elbow. I wink, pressing delicately at the neckline of my dress to keep it in place. The applause is lively, but I’m looking for more. A roll of my other shoulder and the opposite side of my dress slides down, but with my off-center hold at the top of the dress, it falls farther, revealing the left cup of my bra and the glinting pastie below.
Gasps and whistles burst from the audience. Chloe bellows, “Liz-ard!” like a rowdy frat boy, and any residual self-doubt evaporates in a feathery cloud. I can’t make out Darcy over the stage lights, but knowing he’s watching makes my pulse thrill. It’s not just us, and this is hardly intimate, but this peel has turned into the jumping-off point for the rest of our evening.
Returning to the production, I draw my lips into an exaggerated O of surprise, then smile again. I arch an eyebrow and lift one finger from the top of my dress. Then another.
The room is still. At the next beat of the song, I pull my hand away completely and let the top of the dress fall, the straps tumbling past my hands until—
The dress catches at my hips. I stare wide-eyed at the point where the dress sits, the front draped over the skirt like an apron. The waist of my garter belt is visible, as well as the bare skin above my undies, framed by the arch formed by the stays of the belt. I pout and shimmy, but the dress doesn’t budge.
I hold up a finger in faux realization and turn my back to the crowd again. Hooking my thumbs into the fabric at my hips, I edgethe dress down, leaning over as I guide it past the rise of my satin-clad backside. Once it’s cleared my rear, the dress falls freely to the floor, mercifully not snagging on any of the rhinestones in my tights. I straighten, slowly running my hands up the sides and backs of my thighs.
When I reach my full height, I extend my hand demurely. Johnny moves forward to take my fingertips, and I step out of my dress with dainty, ladylike steps. I face the audience again, surveying the length of myself and brushing away some invisible dust. Satisfied, I raise my arms in a classic showgirl pose, beaming wide. The crowd goes wild. My heart thrashes, and I let out a giddy laugh.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Johnny hollers, “Kitten Caboodle!”
I’m about to descend the stage when I remember my kitten duties. I step one foot into the puddle of my dress, then kick up my heel, fingers crossed that I have my timing right. The move lifts the dress enough that I catch it, then smoothly drape it over my arm. As I pass my table of supporters, Chloe throws her hands up in delight, and Gales and Charles keep up their applause, with Gales adding a wolf whistle. Darcy still hasn’t moved. He’s looking at me like he did the night we met, as though the final notes of “Feeling Good” linger in the air, and I’m due for a pouncing.
“Help me out, Darcy.” I bump his shoulder with my hip, savoring the heat of his body so low on mine. “Was that ‘cheeky’ or ‘insolent’?”
He opens his mouth to reply but ends up taking in a breath, a smile sneaking across his face. “That was all you.”
CHAPTER
22
“I have to warn you.” Darcy plucks a key card from his money clip. “The room is... excessive.”
I grin. Ifhe’ssaying it’s excessive, then it really must be something. “I’ll try not to hold that against you.”
“You’re too kind.” He presses the key to the panel above the doorknob, and the lock disengages with a robotic grinding.
The sound grates against the final, frayed thread of restraint I’ve been clinging to since the show wrapped. I could distract myself from the evening’s trajectory while I had costume fragments to pick up and pasties to shill. But from the moment I stepped onto the main floor in my street clothes, it’s been a countdown to this. Darcy called a car, we dropped off Chloe and Gales at an after-hours restaurant, and the next stop was the Standard. No discussion. No hesitation. I don’t think I’ve taken a full breath since seeing the hotel’s sign.
My breathing inches toward normal as I step into the room. The suite is paneled wall-to-wall in wood, with all the upholstery in shades of deep red. There’s a dining table off to one side, flanked by a three-quarter banquette and a pair of chairs with red leather seats. Farther into the room is a platform with wedge-shaped cushions I assume are supposed to comprise a lounge space.
The only break in the color scheme is the floor-to-ceiling window that spans the exterior wall of the room. I walk toward it, drawn by the sweeping view of the Hudson. As I round the corner of the hallway, I can see into the sleeping area, and—
“Is the bedround?” I deposit my bag on the table and move toward the red disk. But before I get there, I note another oddity, a giant teacup bathtub between the foot of the bed and the window. “How many times have you used that?”
“In all the trips here?” He stands beside the dining table, his hands in his pockets. The hanging lamp over the table is the room’s only source of light, and it bathes him in a soft glow. “Zero.”
“Ugh. You have no appreciation for luxury.” I pivot back to the view.
He chuckles. “I appreciate they didn’t slack on theshower.” His reflection in the glass grows larger as he comes closer. He sheds his jacket along the way, tossing it onto the couch thing. “But if you’d prefer the tub, I’m game.”
My eyes follow the progress of a ferry crossing the water below, but my remaining senses are homed in on Darcy’s approach. He’s close enough that the warmth of his body seeps into my back. I rest against his chest. I track a flat barge as it makes the slow trek toward New Jersey and focus on the steady rhythm of Darcy’s heartbeat against me.
“You asked about the song,” I say. The work of Henry Manciniwas the only subject of conversation on our drive over. “But you didn’t say what you thought of the peel.”
“Hmm.” The low sound rumbles against all points of contact. His deep inhale pushes me toward the glass; I drift back again as he breathes out. “I wanted to pull you off that stage and take you to the coat check.”
I shiver. “Then you should know”—I turn to him, my back almost against the glass, and raise my chin, exposing the zipper pulled high on the rounded collar of my jacket—“I leave work at work.”
No hesitation. He takes hold of the zipper and draws it down slowly, shifting to stand so close that his hand barely wedges into the space between us. I rest my hands at his waist. The jacket parts, and his hands come to my collar. He kisses my temple, then leans closer, his breath tickling the shell of my ear. “Do I have permission?”
