Arranged(54)

The usually narrow stage was built wide for the show to accommodate live music acts. I walked to the heavy beat of the drums, letting my hips sway. We hadn’t had a real dress rehearsal. We’d had the music but not the band, so it was only about halfway down the catwalk that I realized who was crooning into the mic.

Brooks Ainsley. Awwwkward.

Luckily, I had too much momentum to let it so much as pause my steps. I was wary as I passed by him, but he didn’t come near me, in fact tensed up and took a few notable steps away as I moved by. He’d learned his lesson.

I smiled at him and winked. He winced, looked away, and kept singing.

There was a discernible reaction from the crowd: gasps, laughs, cheers. Might as well have fun with it. I added a little jaunty bounce to my steps and an extra sashay air kiss at the end of the catwalk.

I didn’t dare look into the crowd. While an awkward rock star might not make me falter in a walk I’d mastered years ago, I didn’t think I could react so blithely if I spotted my husband in the throng.

As far as I was aware he’d never attended one of my runway shows, and it was easier to just pretend he wasn’t at this one. Finding out otherwise would be hell on my already grated nerves. The man got to me like nothing else could.

At least five pairs of hands started peeling my clothes off my body the second I hit backstage. The show was too frantic to honestly entertain something as frivolous as modesty, so all the dressing room rules were quickly thrown out. I opted for penance over permission on that one. At one point, I clashed eyes with a fuming Asha and it left me no doubt that I’d be getting hell for it later.

Oh well. No time to worry as I was unwrapped from white lingerie and twisted back into a complicated series of thin black velvet straps that materialized into a teddy and somehow managed to show even more skin than the first look. Goodbye, runway virginal color theme. Good riddance.

A small team shrugged enormous black feather wings onto my shoulders, and another helped me step into thigh-high black velvet boots before pushing me gently back into line.

It must have been a quick wardrobe changeover because there were over a dozen models waiting in front of me, eyes plastered to a screen showing live coverage of the show. Everyone was dancing and cheering each girl’s walk as they watched. I had a naive moment where I thought everyone was just being nice before I realized we were all still on camera.

I had the whimsical thought that they should do this at every show. Even fake kindness was worlds better than the usual bitterly competitive backstage vibe.

I took my second walk slower, in time to the now sultry music number. There was no exchange between me and Brooks this time, in fact everything was going smooth as could be right up until I hit the end of the runway. I lingered at it, forcing myself to hold my spot and pose when all instincts pointed to moving through that catwalk with all due haste.

I was doing great, giving all my best angles, face calm, mouth relaxed, eyes smiling when I made the colossal mistake of letting myself look at the crowd.

Shit. He was in the front row. Banks. Staring right into my eyes like he wanted to fuck and throttle me simultaneously.

I didn’t blow it completely, in fact it probably looked like I was just milking my moment to the nth diva degree, but inside I was a wreck as I made my slow way back up the walk.

Why was he here? And . . . What was with that look he’d given me? Why was he so hostile? Why was he always mad at me? And . . . How could he manage to turn me on with one brief, contemptuous glance?

I exited the stage thinking that was the end of the show, but I was sorely mistaken. Backstage had turned into an after party between one blink and the next. I was led back to my prep station.

Someone handed me champagne, and I actually took a real sip before another someone took it from me so that a new team of helpers could shrug me out of my wings.

“You okay, Duchess?” Chester asked. I hadn’t even seen him, distracted as I was in my own thoughts.

I looked up and smiled winsomely at him. “Great,” I replied cheerfully, stepping out of my wicked boots and into some furry pink slides. A new wave of energy had rushed through me at both the thought of being done and possibly seeing Banks again.

I was stripped down to almost nothing and shrugged into a fresh pink striped robe.

I was scanning the crowd for my husband when someone else caught my eye.

A gorgeous woman with a glorious mane of black hair was making her way toward me. She was a standout in a room full of standouts, and I recognized her instantly.

Speak of the devil. She just kept coming up, things about her inserting themselves into my life against my will. Or perhaps they’d been there all along and I was too naive and sheltered to see it.

It was Fatima. My husband’s ex. The woman who had ruined him. And she was headed straight for me.





CHAPTER





TWENTY-FOUR





Fatima came directly toward me, not trying to hide the fact that I was her destination. She stopped about two feet away and just studied me with an air of amused disdain. What else could I do but study her back?

The backstage situation post-show was crowded beyond belief, but somehow her confidence and my fear were the only things in the room.

She was the quintessential enigmatic woman. Wicked and mysterious. Her eyes were black and sultry her lashes heavy and thick enough to hide all kinds of secrets. Her skin was a fine bronze with golden undertones that gave her a glow that outshone any makeup. A natural beauty that was all the more stunning with a bit of polish, which she had in spades. Her lips were painted blood red and they were lush, with an exaggerated cupid’s bow that contrasted interestingly with the mean twist to her mouth. She was sharply stunning.