another crescendo as he disappeared into the darkness. The young woman turned to the audience, her head lifting, fiery and defiant. Tears poured down her cheeks.
Tess hadn’t understood much of what she’d seen so far in this club, but she understood this performance. The woman had been betrayed, and she was lashing out, rejecting the man and the pain he’d caused her. She might have wanted to forgive him, but there was a part of her that couldn’t forgive anymore. She’d been hurt too much.
Tess had never lashed out. She’d dropped out. The coward’s way, she realized now. Her wounds had scarred over and were taking up space that could have gone to something else, like having a life that was more than work, 24/7. Never once had she passionately retaliated or defended herself or her feelings.
But the sadness she felt had no chance against her talent for denial. Grand acts of defiance were for the stage, the movies, she told herself. Life was not an idealistic drama. It was getting through.
At least no one could say she hadn’t gone after the brass ring. She’d tried it all, everything from one-night stands to long-term engagements—and come away each time confused and disillusioned. Men had hurt her in little ways. They’d hurt her in big ways. And she had let it happen. She’d even gone back. Eventually, she’d seen the pattern. It was needing things that men couldn’t give that had gotten her into trouble. That’s when the lightbulb had gone on. Needing was her problem.
The hot magenta beam followed the young woman to the other side of the stage where a second man waited, slender and stealthy in his fedora and single-breasted pinstriped suit. With a cold smile, he approached her. And for some reason, she didn’t resist him. He tipped her chin high and stared into her eyes until she stopped crying.
She seemed not even to breathe.
With slow precision, he kissed her. His lips brushed, danced. He waited, then drew back to look at her. What did he have here? A wounded bird or an irresistibly clever tease? His tongue flicked the curves of her unyielding mouth. But she didn’t respond, even when he lowered the strap of her dress and bared her breast.
His hand cupped her flesh.
Her eyelids quivered and closed. She had slipped back into the pattern. This was her fate, and she was helpless to change it.
Tess understood. She understood too much.
The first male dancer—the matador—sprang from the darkness. He pulled the other man away and yanked off his fedora. Long dark hair tumbled free, waves as beautiful and silky as a girl’s. The two men struggled, but the matador was clearly stronger. He ripped open the other man’s jacket, revealing breasts as round and firm as ripening fruit.
Tess was startled. A male impostor?
The matador laughed uproariously, kissed the impostor and flung her away. She tumbled to the ground, where she coiled like a snake and spat at him, daring him to come near. The young woman stepped in, as if to protect the impostor. Her fierce expression warned the man off. She would defend even her enemies against him. He had cut her that deeply.
The matador came straight for her, and the dance began. A tango, the eternal struggle for sexual power. She ripped open his jacket, and buttons flew, exposing pectoral muscles that were very much a man’s.
She cracked his face with her hand. Cymbals clashed, and the music took on a Latin beat, brooding and sensual. He stepped back, confused, hot with frustration. He circled her, moving in rhythm with the music, seducing her with burning looks. If he’d been an animal, his fangs would have been bared.
He came around her from behind. With a snap of his wrist, he broke the other strap of her dress. The slip floated to her waist, hanging on her hips. Magenta fire lit her shivering breasts. They were the only flesh that moved on her rigid body. Her arms were pressed to her sides, her fingers curled into knots.
Tess watched from the aisle, increasingly aware of Danny who stood next to her. He’d turned his body slightly, perhaps not even consciously, until the curve of his hip pressed against hers. She glanced at him, not surprised that he was fixated, too. He was watching the ménage à trois with a mixture of fascination, undisguised curiosity and something that might have been male lust. His jaw was taut, his mouth parted, poised as if he was imagining himself in the matador’s place.
Tess probably shouldn’t have expected anything else, given what was going on. But it hit her wrong. Men, she thought. They’re all dogs, even when they’re women posing as men. She averted her eyes, refusing to watch any more of the performance. She could imagine how the dance was going to end, with the two of them having sex onstage, probably standing up, and she didn’t need to watch it.
She heard another whistle and pop and wondered who’d gotten smacked this time. The audience gasped, and finally Tess couldn’t stand it. She looked up just in time to see the young woman standing over the matador’s fallen body, a smoking gun in her hand.
Apparently she’d taken fate into her own hands. Literally.
Attagirl.
“I need some air.” She turned and started for the exit, not caring whether Danny followed her or not. He grasped her arm, catching her midstride. She swung around, thinking she ought to slap him. Everybody else was doing it.
“I’m out of here,” she said under her breath.
“I’m right behind you.”
The Marquis stepped out of the shadows, blocking them as they reached the doors. “You aren’t leaving?” He held the door open for them, gracious to a fault, and undoubtedly evil to a fault as well. “You haven’t seen the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, our adult theme park.”
“Why broken dreams?” Tess wondered aloud.
She asked the question as she slipped past the Marquis and entered the lobby. Danny was right beside her, but he didn’t seem to have anything to say, and Tess couldn’t gauge his reaction to what the Marquis had suggested. Danny’s expression was as neutral as his sage-green crewneck sweater and blue jeans, but Tess wasn’t buying it.
Why wasn’t he asking questions? She suspected he had some familiarity with this place beyond hearing about it from Mitzi. She couldn’t let go of the feeling that he was not on her side where the Faustini account was concerned, and that she was being set up in some way. And if that was true, she had no idea how far he might take it. She wondered suddenly if the Marquis was involved. But Danny’s motives concerned her most. Was this about work, or was it personal, too?
“Broken things demand our attention,” the Marquis explained. “They won’t let us take them for granted, and we take too much for granted in this life, don’t you think?”
“Can’t disagree there,” she said, “but I think I’ll pass on the Boulevard.”
“Don’t be silly.” He gestured toward an elevator, the same one that had brought them up to the opera house. “It’s on your way out. You don’t want to miss the Vampire Forest. It’s our star attraction.”
The Marquis’ eerie yellow eyes came to mind, even though Tess would have preferred to forget them. Vampire eyes.
One of many lessons Tess had learned in the ad business was to pick your battles. Fight the ones you had a chance of winning. Gracefully concede the others—and save on the wear and tear. In this case, arguing would only prolong the agony, and besides, the Marquis had said the magic words, “It’s on the way out.”
Moments later, the elevator doors opened to yet another opulent hallway of a castle. Wall sconces designed to look like candelabra splashed firelight across the high vaulted ceiling, and freestanding torchieres threw flames as forked as any demon’s tongue. Billowing shadows filled every corner and crevice of the long corridor.
It was a bit medieval for Tess’s taste, but then so was the Marquis. They’d only gone down one floor, so this couldn’t be the dungeon. Those things cried out for a subground environment.
“Welcome to the Boulevard,” the Marquis said.