Shimmy for Me: A Novella (California Belly Dance Romance Series Book 1) Read online

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  Copyright

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  A

  California Belly Dance

  Novella

  Copyright (c) 2014 DeAnna Cameron

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  | 1

  “It’s only sex,” Abby Anderson said, keeping her focus on the mirror propped on the desk in front of her and the black eyeliner wand in her hand.

  In the corner, Melanie flipped through a tattoo magazine. “It’s about time. How you managed to go a whole year is a mystery to me.”

  “It’s not like I planned it. It just happened. I’ve been busy.”

  Busy working two jobs—three if you counted the belly dance studio that was consuming every spare minute and dollar she had. It didn’t seem possible that so much time had passed since her ex had given her the ultimatum: him or the studio. He didn’t understand how she could leave graduate school and the prospect of a comfortable career to devote herself to what he considered a dead-end business. That’s when she knew he didn’t understand her—and he never would.

  Most days, she was too busy to think about her wreck of a love life. Today she could think of little else.

  May 1. Seeing the date on the calendar had brought it all back. That last terrible fight. All the awful things he’d said to her. She knew they weren’t true. Pursuing her passion didn’t make her selfish. It didn’t mean she was damaged goods.

  She’d find love again. Eventually. But tonight it wasn’t love she was after. She just wanted to think about something besides that brain-dead temp job at the newspaper, the skimpy dance tips she earned at the restaurant, and the studio that sank her deeper into debt every day, even if it was the only thing that could still make her smile.

  She wanted to remember how it felt to be touched. To feel lips pressed to hers, hands on her waist, maybe a caress or two. All the belly dance writhing and grinding in the world wouldn’t scratch that itch.

  She needed a man.

  “Do you have someone in mind?” Melanie asked, distracted by the full-page photograph of a dragon tattoo she was holding beside her miniskirt-exposed thigh.

  “No one in particular.” Abby smoothed a thick layer of smoky eye powder over her lids with her fingertip, then double-checked the crimson silk blooms and rustic Middle Eastern pendants pinned to the scarf knotted around her head, leaving her thick batch of braids, leather strands, and long pheasant feathers to hang freely over her shoulder. She tucked in a few extra hairpins, then turned around. “Maybe that guy at the window table who always slips me his phone number with his one-dollar tip.”

  “Are you serious? He’s got to be ninety years old.”

  Abby chuckled. “I know. I’m kidding. There’s never a shortage of flirts looking to score with the belly dancer, though. I usually ignore them, but tonight, who knows? Can you help me with my straps?”

  Abby turned her bare back to her friend, who set aside her magazine to untie the halter’s plum-colored straps. She tugged them tighter.

  “Good?” Melanie asked.

  “No. More.” Abby squeezed the sides of her top, which consisted of more old coins and cowrie shells than fabric, until cleavage filled the deep V of her neckline.

  Melanie tied the knot, inspected the front, and nodded. “Nice,” she said. “The costume looks great with the tattoo.”

  Abby’s fingers brushed the inked swoops and swirls that curved around her belly and disappeared beneath the waistband of the low-riding harem pants and all the belts, scarves, and tassels tied around her hips. The tattoo—a belated birthday gift from Melanie—was already two weeks old, but still sensitive to the touch. “It is nice, isn’t it? Tell your boyfriend he does good work.”

  “No way,” Melanie said. “It would totally go to his head. He’s already impossible.”

  A pounding on the door interrupted them. “Two minutes,” said a deep, accented voice.

  “Okay, that’s my cue to leave,” Melanie said. “I’ve got to get on the road anyway if I’m going to get to Hollywood before the show. The 405 will be a parking lot if I don’t get moving.” She pulled out her key ring, detached one of the keys, and set it on the desk. “Thanks again for letting me get some practice in at the studio. I locked it up. Oh.”

  Abby stopped dabbing at the color on her lips. She knew that tone.

  Melanie pulled a folded piece of pink paper from her purse. “This was taped to the studio’s door when I got there.”

  Abby took it. “Past Due: Warning” was stamped in thick black letters across the top. Her gut clenched. She wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t make it any easier. She pushed the paper into her bag. She wasn’t going to think about it tonight.

  Melanie bit her lip.

  “It’s nothing,” Abby said, forcing a smile. “It’s already taken care of.”

  “Really?” Melanie asked, cautiously. “Because if it isn’t, if you need help—”

  “I don’t need help,” Abby said. “Honestly. It’s fine.”

  The last thing she needed was pity.

  Two angry thumps on the door.

  “Okay, I’m really leaving now.” Melanie leaned over and kissed Abby’s cheek.

  “See you tomorrow.” Abby watched her friend leave, then reached into her bag. No. She let go of the paper and pushed the bag away. Forget about the notice. Forget about the studio. Forget about her ex and the cold bed she crawled into every night.

  Focus on tonight.

  Abby looked into the mirror.

  Zenina looked back. Part tribal belly dancer, part vaudeville chorine, part silent picture vixen. She had drawn from her favorite inspirations to create her performance persona. Her alter ego. Her dance self.

  Three angrier thumps rattled the door.

  “I’m coming,” she hollered. This was it.

  Three hundred and sixty-five frigging days. It was a long time. Too long.

  “You can do this,” she whispered to her other self. “It’ll be just like any other performance.” Only better.

  By the time she took her place on the small stage, the lights were low, and a slow, snaky melody had filled the restaurant’s main room. She was only a silhouette to the roomful of diners, holding her pose like a living statue. She usually closed her eyes during this prelude and focused on the energy of the music and the audience.

  Not tonight.

  In the darkness, her gaze roamed. She wanted a good view before the stage lights came up to brighten her, and blind her.

  Nearly every seat was filled. A good draw for a Thursday night. Mostly couples, some groups. But it was the single men she searched for. The ones who sat on the fringe to watch.

  Would it be the college jock tipping back beer in a bottle? The shy guy in the Oxford shirt f
idgeting with his soda straw? Maybe the older…

  A Suit at the bar caught her eye. One hand wrapped around a highball glass, the other tugging at his tie. Calm. Confident. And sexy as hell. The way his gaze locked on her made her tingle in all the right places.

  He was the one.

  | 2

  Derek Collier sipped his Macallan 18 and watched the restaurant’s belly dancer come alive to the hypnotic rhythm pulsing through the dining room. When he’d seen the words “belly dancing” glowing in blue neon beneath the Sultan’s Tent sign, he’d expected the kind of flashy beads and sequins dancer he’d seen a hundred times before.

  He didn’t expect this.

  The poster at the front called her Zenina, a tribal fusion belly dancer. Whatever that was. From his vantage point at the bar, she looked like nothing he’d ever seen—part bohemian waif, part harem fantasy, part… Damn, the way she swayed and writhed up there was making it impossible to think.

  It was a welcome diversion. Tonight, thinking was the last thing he wanted to do. He sipped again and felt the ice-chilled scotch pushing away the memory of the last five hours. The rage, the frustration, the betrayal. Six years he’d been away, and six years he’d been dreaming of the day he’d be back. Hell, he’d been dreaming of this his whole life. Working for it, preparing for it. And now… Shit. What did it matter? It was out of his hands. His father had made that clear. He wasn’t going to make peace with it tonight—he couldn’t imagine he ever would—so what was the point of sulking when there was something so much more interesting on that stage?

  He stared hard at that amazing creature. At those milky white arms moving with a ballerina’s grace. At those shaking hips. At that swirl of a tattoo around her middle, twisting and beckoning. He’d never seen anything like her before. He tugged on the Windsor knot at his throat. The scotch had to be working its magic because all he wanted to do was run his fingers along that tattoo. To trace the delicate lines on that soft, supple surface.

  He drank again and welcomed the burn, but it did nothing to lessen the pulsing beneath his belt.

  He turned back to the bar. He should probably mind his manners tonight. There were plenty of good reasons to behave himself. He still had a job to do. And he was still a Collier, for whatever that was worth. He raked his fingers through his hair in the way that made the short, dark strands stand tall. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar, then a flash of plum and silver caught his eye. A blur of seductive movement.

  The belly dancer had left the stage and was dancing between the tables. He watched her dip backward, her spine nearly parallel to the floor. Her belly pulsed and fluttered, making the tattoo lines twitch and tease. God, she was limber.

  His mind reeled with the possibilities when her dark-as-night eyes met his. Her hint of a smile made him weak in the knees. When she shimmied down the aisle in his direction, he had to remind himself to breathe.

  Finally, when she stepped in front of him, it was all he could do to keep his hands to himself. Instead, he breathed in the warm scent of her, an intoxicating blend of flowers and spice. He wanted so badly to touch that long and lean torso, that tattoo so close he could trace every winding line, if he dared.

  His cheeks flamed and his chest tightened against his starched Armani shirt. When she met his glance again with hooded, bedroom eyes, he struggled to remain composed.

  His fingers fumbled in the pocket beneath his lapel and pulled out a bill he squeezed between two fingers. He lifted it, enticing her closer.

  Another hint of a smile told him she needed no enticement. She was watching him as intently as he watched her. When she neared, he angled to slide the bill beneath the snuggest of her belts. But at his reach, she swung her hip away. He should have known. It was a game every belly dancer played, and she played it well. Offering up a hip, then pulling it away when he made his move.

  His desire made him as clumsy as a schoolboy. After he’d made three tries, she wiggled her finger, and shimmied those flawless shoulders, jiggling that exquisitely full chest, then turned away.

  His heart sank. Was their game over?

  But she stopped. The music reached a dramatic pause, and before he knew what was happening, she dipped into another deep, reclining pose.

  Only this time, her head was practically in his lap.

  Those long braids, those thick strands of violet and magenta yarn, the leather straps and feathers draped beside him. He stared, awed by the exotic headdress of red silk flowers and the ancient-looking jewelry, but it was those beautiful chocolate brown eyes and kissably soft lips that mesmerized him.

  So. Unbelievably. Close.

  He would capture that mouth with his own, if he could just catch his breath. If he could just…

  She whispered, so quietly only he could hear, “The courtyard next door. After the show.”

  Was it a question? Was it a demand? It didn’t matter. He’d say yes to anything. He managed a nod.

  With liquid grace, she righted herself and shimmied away. When she reached the center of the room, the music reached its climax. She struck a pose and caught the final note with a bow.

  Then she was gone, disappearing into the dark, leaving only the applause behind.

  If she was true to her word, he knew where she would be. Where he hoped she’d be.

  He put away the tip the dancer never took and twitched his finger at the bartender, who was lingering with another patron on the far side of the counter.

  “Is there a courtyard nearby?” he asked as he paid his bill, surprised by how eager he was for the answer.

  “You mean the one next door with the Spanish fountain?” the young woman asked. “It’s pretty spectacular. But you’d probably want to see it during the day for the best view.”

  Derek nodded, but he knew better.

  If that dancer showed up as promised, the very best view would be there tonight.

  And he sure as hell wasn’t going to miss it.

  | 3

  Abby took her time in the office she used as a dressing room. She wanted to feel everything. The anxious anticipation, the intoxicating thrill. It all coursed through her like an electric current, awakening every nerve and pushing aside every thought. Everything but the image of him. That perfectly chiseled, perfectly attentive, perfectly astonishing specimen of a man sitting alone at the bar. The expensive suit had caught her eye, but it was his smile that had drawn her in. The subtle grin that was almost a smirk. The expression said he was there to play. No strings. No expectations. No complications.

  He was perfect.

  Slowly, she retouched her makeup. Carefully, she adjusted her costume. She rechecked the ornaments in her hair, her belts, her tassels. Finally, when she had stretched out every one of her little tasks, she took the piano shawl from her hips and retied it around her shoulders, letting the ivory fringe spill over her bare skin as protection against the nighttime chill that settled along the Southern California coast, even after an unseasonably hot spring day.

  When she couldn’t wait another moment, she slipped out the back of the restaurant, deposited her performance bag in the trunk of her car, and made her way across the darkened parking lot. Her destination was the building that looked more like a grand hacienda, with its stucco walls and rustic pergolas, than one of Newport Beach’s most prestigious—and beautiful—office complexes.

  She paused at the edge of the archway, beside a patch of white jasmine blooms glowing silver in the moonlight. At the center of the courtyard, a fountain rose a full ten feet, maybe more. At the top, gentle streams cascaded from beneath King Neptune’s feet and descended two tiers to a lighted pool that cast its liquid turquoise shimmer on the surrounding palms and bougainvillea. The massive structure looked like it belonged in a historic Spanish plaza. With its gentle trickling and beautifully rendered figures and reliefs, it could always calm her uneasy mind.

  But tonight it wasn’t an uneasy mind that had lured her here.

  A movement in the
shadows caught her eye. A man rising from a bench. It was him, and he was running his fingers through his hair, just as he’d done at the bar. A nervous habit? Was the anticipation getting to him, too?

  From the shadows she watched the way the blue light danced along the smooth planes of his cheeks, his jaw, his lips. He was gorgeous, clean-cut, and sophisticated, but there was something else, too. Something in that crooked grin she could see even here. Even now.

  Around her, the night air hummed with the distant din of traffic and diners leaving the restaurant. Footsteps scraping on pavement and voices drifting over the fountain’s splash. But no one came their way. The office windows above stood dark and empty. They were entirely alone.

  Her leg brushed something leafy that gave her a start. Soft and gentle, like a lover’s caress. She thought again of the way he had watched her dance, as if they were the only two people in that dining room. Fresh desire flooded over her. To feel a man’s touch again. This man’s touch. It had been so long. Her body ached for it. She could do this. She wanted this.

  Just for tonight.

  She stared until she had memorized the narrow arc of his brow, the hard angle of his chin, the sharp curve of his jaw. When she was sure she could recall them all on the coldest and loneliest nights, she pulled the shawl more tightly around her bare shoulders, stepped from the shadows, and spoke.

  “So, you’ve come.”

  | 4

  Derek searched the darkness, and found the belly dancer standing at the gate.

  “Don’t be shy,” he said. “I don’t bite.”

  She crept into the fountain’s blue glow, and the effect took his breath. She looked like something from another world—certainly something beyond his world, with its usual salon-tanned, gym-slimmed social climbers eager for a place beside the future heir to the Collier family fortune.

  This dancer was a beauty, though not in the ordinary sense. There was nothing ordinary about her. Was she blond? Was she brunette? It was impossible to say with all those strings, straps, and ornaments in her hair.