Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele
6
Ava
I stare at my reflection in the mirror of the dressing room allocated to me. My first gig. My FIRST gig. Whoa. It’s for a destination wedding Isla is organizing. The entire theme is a mix of exotica drawing on different influences from the East. They’d wanted a performance to kick off the evening’s festivities, which is where I come in. Isla had asked me and I’d jumped at the opportunity. Finally, I am moving forward in the direction of my dreams.
I take in the beaded appliqué work of my blouse, the tiny mirrors sewn into it reflecting the light from the bulbs that frame the mirror. My hips are encased in a pair of shorts, attached to long panels of light, gossamer fabric that falls to my ankles. Intricate overlays of sequins catch the light and shimmer. I stare at my reflection and can’t stop the smile that traces my lips.
I’d only been twelve when I’d attended a musical and watched the women shaking their hips. With the colored scarfs that they’d wrapped around their hips, their hair open and rippling down their backs, their laughter and happy faces as they’d flung their heads back, shaken their arms and legs, and moved to a rhythm I’d sensed but not heard—I’d felt a primitive calling to be one of them. To be as free, to not think, to be able to live in the moment as I allow the music to take over, to let my body flow with the beats.
My mother had loved everything to do with the East. Even though she had been dead set against my career as a dancer, it was she who'd influenced my eclectic taste in music. I reach for my purse on the dressing table, pull out the picture I keep in its protective sleeve. It's of the four of us—Mum, Dad, me and Raisa. I touch my finger to Mum's smiling face. She looked so young, so happy there. I love this picture, taken on one of the many summer vacations we'd spent exploring the countryside, wearing my favorite red dress, a gift from Mum. It's the only picture I took with me when I left home. I had been angry and grieving at Mum's death, the loss too much to bear.
Had even wondered if the disappointment in my career choice had brought on the cancer. But my sister had banished the notion. It was Raisa who had encouraged me to follow my dream when my parents had been so against my dropping out of med school. She'd told me that if my heart lay in dancing, then I should follow it. If I didn’t try, I’d never know what was right for me.
I’d taken her advice, and never regretted it. If only I could bring some of that courage to bear on the upcoming solo performance. My first solo performance. Gah!
There’s a knock on the door and Isla pops her head into the room, "Five minutes, babe."
I nod as she closes the door behind her, then slide the picture back inside my handbag. This is it. I can do this. I have to do this. If I have any hope of competing in the World Belly Dancing Championships that will be held in a few months, then I have to start with conquering my fear of live performances, which begins with this one. Of course, I do have to actually sign up for the competition, which I will do... Just as soon as I get my courage together.
I rise to my feet, walk out toward the stage that’s been erected in one corner of the ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel. It’s the most exclusive hotel in town, also owned by Saint, one of the Seven.
The sound of guests talking and cutlery clinking against plates reaches me as I step on the stage. I walk to the center of the platform, take my stance. Wait… Wait…as the noise ebbs…flows…begins to die down. A hush creeps through the audience and I still don’t move. I keep my sight focused on a distant point at the back of the room. Silence descends, yet I still wait. A beat, then another. The first strains of the music I’d chosen for this piece drift through the air. Where Have You Been by Rihanna.
The notes swirl around me, sink into my blood as I sway my hips, twitch the muscles of my stomach, raise my arms in the air, and allow the notes to guide me. I close my eyes, let myself sink into the rhythm, swirl my hips, move my feet, glide my arms down to my hips, lower still, curve my spine and raise my arms above me, then straighten to twirl around and around. I dance to the beats until I am sweating and limber.
My joints loose, my skin warm from the exertion, sweat beads my forehead and trickles down my back. Finally, I leap through the air, land on my feet, roll, and sink to one knee, head bowed.
The music fades away.
In the silence that follows, my heart beat drums in my ears, blood pumps at my wrists, behind my eyes. My heart thunders in my chest—clap-clap-clap—the sound of the audience’s applause echoes the rhythm.
"Bravo."
"Encore."
I allow my lips to curve in a huge smile. I did it. Yes. I pulled it off. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to make a career out of this, after all.
The hair on the back of my neck rises. My pulse rate ratchets up. I tip my head up, glance about at the smiling faces of the audience until my gaze clashes with his.
Amber eyes, burning brightly, fringed with those incredibly dark, thick lashes that I want to feel feather across my skin.
I swallow; my throat dries. A bead of sweat trails down my spine as I hold his gaze and I struggle to maintain my composure, despite the tickle. His lips firm and a nerve throbs at his temple. He narrows his gaze and the skin around his lips tightens. No doubt about it, he’s angry. But why? What the hell did I do to warrant his ire? What do I even care if I did? I tip up my chin, then rise to my feet. I rake my gaze down that perfect nose, across his gorgeously shaped lips, the tendons of his throat that are constricted by the white collar he wears at his neck.
Oh.My stomach hollows out and my palms dampen. Of course, he’s here in an official capacity. Likely, he officiated the wedding ceremony that took place earlier.
I raise my gaze to his, and the coldness in his eyes seems to deepen. He wipes all expression from his face, draws himself up to his full height, which puts him heads and shoulders above everyone else in the vicinity.
His shoulders bunch, the fabric of his long-sleeved black shirt stretches across his massive chest. His biceps bulge and strain the seams. He seems to be in the throes of some emotion that I can’t quite identify.
I tilt my chin up, thrust out my hip and place my palm on it.
His jaw tightens. Then he turns on his heel and marches off.
What the hell—?
The crowd swallows him, people clapping and whistling. The sound washes over There’s a touch on my shoulder and I shudder. I glance up into Isla’s concerned gaze. "You, okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Or the devil… Which can’t be right, because he’s the exact opposite. Right? A man who’s devoted himself to the service of God. So why the hell can’t I get past this attraction I feel toward him? And it’s not only because his name is Edward. This is something deeper, more powerful. More forbidden. Is it because I am not supposed to entertain such images about him that I can’t stop myself from thinking along those lines?
Oh, my god!I snort. And God can’t do anything for me right now, because he’s the one who put me in this position.
"I’m okay." Or I will be, as soon as I wash off the sweat from this bout of dancing. And shed the impure thoughts that crowd my mind, and which I have no right to be thinking. To think, I can’t even confess them aloud…because hell, there’s no one else I’d rather be confessing to than the glowering, growling, grumpy man who’d clearly watched me dance and not been too happy about it. Well, too bad. Bugger him and his judgmental ass. I can do what I want, when I want, as long as it makes me happy. And right now, dancing is the only thing that seems to give me some sense of myself. Which is what I want, right?
A few of the men and women from the crowd step onto the platform and I clutch at Isla’s arm. "I know it’s not being very polite, considering this is a private gig and I do need more of these, but right now, would you mind very much if I went back to my room? I just need a break."
"From him, you mean?" She jerks her chin in the direction of where the glowering jerkass—argh, is it wrong to think of a priest in those terms? —had stood.
"You saw him?" I whisper.
"Hard to miss, when he glared at you all through your performance." Isla chuckles.
"Shit." I hunch my shoulders. Good thing I hadn’t noticed him until the very end of the performance or there’s no telling what would have happened. I’d have lost my rhythm, most likely, and that…is saying a lot. Once I start a dance routine, normally, nothing can distract me…but I suspect he could. The crowd of people reach us. I turn around, head the other way, leaving Isla to manage them.
That woman is a keeper, seriously. The way she’d pulled off the reception for Arpad and Karina in a very short period of time—I’m talking days, here—was a miracle. She never loses her cool, always manages to get things organized. If only I could get her to organize my life, as well. I veer down the corridor and back to the hotel room that doubles as my dressing room.
Slipping inside, I place the bouquet on the dresser. Then shake back the hair from my face. Turning, I head for the bathroom, step inside to run the shower. I slide down one side of my blouse when the hair on my nape stands to attention again. I glance up and meet his gaze in the mirror.
Somehow, I am not surprised. After the way Isla had said he'd watched me through that performance, it was inevitable that he would follow me here.
I stare as he watches me from the doorway of the bath. Shit, is he going to come in? Why isn’t he coming in?
I raise my shoulder and allow the sleeve of my blouse to slip further down my arm.
His chest rises and falls. He watches me with a searing intensity that sends a frisson of lust chasing down my spine, straight to that part of me between my thighs. My core clenches. Moisture pools between my legs, dots my palms. And it’s not because of the steam from the shower.
I reach behind me to undo the ties of my blouse when he puts up a hand. "Stop," he commands and all of my pores seem to pop.
I halt with my hand on the knot that holds the edges of my bodice together, watch him as he curls his fingers at his sides, as his chest muscles ripple, and he drags his fingers through his hair, before whipping off his priest’s collar and shoving it in his pocket.
Umm, okay, not what I expected.
He walks over to stand right behind me. The heat from his body sears me. The steam from the shower in front creates a fine mist that seems to dot his forehead, cling to the crisp collar of his shirt, now open to reveal the tendons of his beautiful throat. My belly flutters and my toes curl. What craziness is this that just the sight of his throat seems to send me into raptures of the kind I’ve never faced before? My fingers itch and my palms ache. I want to step back, close the distance between us and rub the curves of my ass against that thick, heavy length of his that would be tenting his pants about now. And I shouldn’t do that. I blow out a breath, then move toward the sink. I hook my fingers over the edge of the sink, tip my chin up to hold his gaze in the mirror.
"Why are you here, Edward?"
