Amberlough(53)

There was no introduction. The emcee was otherwise occupied, and really, they didn’t need one. The audience sucked in its breath. In the orchestra pit, a slinky vamp skipped between the snare and the cymbal and a soulful clarinetist coaxed an aching note from somewhere below her waist. As the moan of the reed reached its climax, the timpani growled to the brass and Cordelia and Aristide rolled their shoulders in perfect unison. Another growl, another roll. And then the drummer struck a fast one-two and they each turned their heads on a separate beat, skewering the other with a glare.

It should have been slightly farcical, mildly absurd. The emcee dressed like the mistress of a magnate, the sultry stripper done up in glad rags like a concert tenor. But the personalities under the clothes burned through. And soon enough, the clothes started coming off.

Ari dropped the fox fur in one heavy shrug, and it fell like a diva dying on the opera stage. He spun out of the coat’s radius in a swirl of red feathers and kicked Cordelia’s cane out from under her. Rather than staggering, she swept it in a circle, executing a crisp barrel roll straight out of her jacket. It slid down the cane, hanging inside-out from the trapped sleeve to reveal a red lining that matched her waistcoat. Her skin was bare beneath the brocade.

With a flick of her wrist, she flung the jacket offstage. Aristide grabbed the cane and strutted away, dragging her with him. She pouted spectacularly, appealing to house left as he hauled her along.

Appealing, Cyril realized, straight to him. Or rather, Müller. Under the guise of reaching for his glass, Cyril snuck a glance at his companion. The deputy commissioner had half his mouth tucked up in a secret, satisfied smile, and he stared unwaveringly at the stage. The lights glanced off his spectacles, turning his gaze blank and gleaming.

As if she had seen the white flash of shining glass, Cordelia flung out one beseeching arm toward their table, chasing it with a blown kiss. Müller chuckled and swept a hand over his close-clipped hair.

Cyril sipped his drink, satisfied.

On the far side of the stage, Cordelia pulled the pins from Aristide’s hair and dipped him over one knee, hard and fast. His neck snapped back and his curls tumbled free from their knot. Cordelia lowered her head and bit his outstretched fingers with delicate teeth, dragging her mouth down until she caught the tip of his glove.

The slip of satin against his skin played against a raunchy brass arpeggio, a muted trumpet caterwauling over a pulsing backbeat. As soon as the glove came free, Cordelia yanked Aristide up and nearly sent him flying. He took the momentum and slid back, out of his second glove, pulling her into a tight spin so she ended up against him. He swept the top hat from her head and brought it across her breasts, pulling her close so their hips aligned. The trombone howled and they ground down, Cordelia sliding her hands along her thighs to press her knees wider and wider apart. Ari stared over her head with hooded eyes, showing one dogtooth in a foxy smile.

Cyril knew that look. He’d met it countless times, from this very chair. Someone would go home happy tonight. Knowing he didn’t want to see, he still turned to scan the crowd.

At first, he couldn’t tell for whom the smoldering glance was meant. A giggling clutch of students snatched at each other’s hands, their cheeks pink with wine and embarrassment. But Aristide wasn’t looking at them.

Alone at his table, Finn Lourdes nursed something he probably couldn’t afford. He was redder than the students, with better reason. Cyril’s jaw clenched. The faces of the crowd around him went slack in sudden amazement, and they all gasped. A few applauded. Something magnificent had happened onstage. Cyril shut his eyes and turned away from Finn.

Another gasp, another round of applause. Someone whistled, sharp and clean. Cyril took a deep breath and opened his eyes again.

Cordelia’s trousers and waistcoat were gone. She wore an elaborate construction of black lace and gold fringe that covered all it needed to and not much more. Aristide was down to rather less than that, and a red feather boa.

Or, no … not a boa. He pulled the drape of ostrich plumes from his shoulders and twirled. The feathers snapped open into two huge fans. He kept one and passed the other to Cordelia in an exchange that involved popping the clasp on her top. She slapped a hand across her chest to keep the cups from falling.

They both spun until they stood back to back at three-quarter angles, fans held open across their bodies. The snare and timpani raced against each other, counting heartbeats between trumpet blasts. And then, with a wail of brass and woodwinds, both Aristide and Cordelia pulled off what little they had on behind the shivering feathers and tossed the jangling bits of gilt and tassels into the pit.

The orchestra hit a beat, the fans snapped shut, and for half a moment they both struck a tantalizing pose. Not quite long enough to see exactly what they were or were not showing, but long enough to make everyone in the audience wonder. Then the lights went out and the crowd screamed for more.





CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

Cordelia was half-in, half-out of her street clothes when Malcolm stepped into her dressing room.

“Knocking,” she said. “Ain’t it a habit some people have?”

“Some more than others.” She scoffed, and he ducked his head. “Sorry, Delia.” He closed the door behind him. “Next time.”

“You’re assuming, Sailer.”

“Queen’s sake. Why you gotta stomp on me before I’m even standing? I came in to ask if you were free for a bite.”