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

  It hardly mattered. It wasn’t the wild headdress that had drawn him to this hidden jewel courtyard in the dead of night. It wasn’t the tender brown gaze that brushed over him like velvet, or that scanty bohemian costume, with all its shells and coins and fringe, or even that tattoo his fingers still itched to explore.

  It wasn’t any one thing in particular. It was all of it. The sum of this woman’s strange and wonderful parts. She was a puzzle and a thrill ride, wrapped into one. Something new and utterly different, and tonight that was perfect.

  Tomorrow he would deal with his father and the newspaper. He would do what the family expected and play his role.

  But that was tomorrow.

  Tonight, he wanted no part of that world. Only one thing could divert his thoughts tonight, and she was standing in front of him, just out of reach.

  He bridged the distance and touched her porcelain white chin.

  “Is this all right?” he asked.

  She covered his hand with her own and nuzzled into it.

  “We seemed to have skipped the introductions,” he said, his eyes locked on that smooth, soft cheek. “I suppose I have the advantage. I already know who you are, Zenina, so maybe I should tell you I’m—”

  She stopped his mouth with a quick finger. “No names,” she said, her chocolate eyes widening. “No numbers. Nothing. All right? Let’s just enjoy tonight.”

  She didn’t want to get to know him? Or force him to get to know her? No hoops to jump through, no empty promises to make?

  She really was perfect.

  She took his hand from her shoulder and guided it down the front of her, over the rise of her breast, the soft slope of her belly, the ridge of her belts and scarves.

  His chest thudded at the feel of her. His mind froze.

  She stopped his hand and pulled it away.

  She purred, “Do we have a deal?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, his heartbeat racing, his breath coming fast. “You can have whatever you want.”

  A slow, sexy smile crept across her face and she rose on her toes to whisper in his ear. “Just for tonight, handsome. Just one night.”

  | 5

  “So how was the show?” Abby asked Melanie when her friend stopped by her cubicle the next day.

  “Oh no, you don’t get off that easy,” Melanie said. “Did you do it?”

  Abby kept her eyes on her computer screen and her fingers moving on the keyboard. “Do what?”

  She knew Melanie hated when she played dumb, but this wasn’t the time for that conversation. Her boss wanted his revenue report before lunch and somehow she had to squeeze four hours of work into two.

  “C’mon,” Melanie said. “You ignored my texts. Didn’t return my calls. Now you won’t even fill me in? Just tell me—you hooked up last night, didn’t you?” She wiggled her ruthlessly tweezed eyebrows, making her rolled Bettie Page bangs dance.

  Abby bit back a smile.

  “You did,” Melanie squealed. “I knew it. I mean, I’m not surprised. Who could turn down Zenina, the hottest, wildest belly dancer in Orange County? Next to me, of course.”

  “Melanie.” Abby clenched her computer mouse like it was her best friend’s throat.

  Teasing about hookups was one thing. But announcing she was a belly dancer to the world—or at least anyone within earshot in the Herald’s accounts payable department—that crossed the line.

  For four months, she’d worked to prove herself in this lousy temp job. To be professional and dependable, an asset to the company. Not that it was her dream job—not by a long shot—but she needed it. And she already knew what happened when people who knew nothing about Middle Eastern dance found out she was a belly dancer.

  It had happened in graduate school. First the funny looks, then the whispers. The smirks and eye rolls. It became obvious pretty quickly that she was never going to live down whatever ill-conceived image her classmates had. Then her MBA adviser had suggested a private performance or two might help her grade-point average. That was the last straw.

  She might not have quit the program if Madame Almira hadn’t announced her decision to retire to Florida and sell her belly dance studio—the studio that was like Abby’s second home. But owning and operating the studio herself had seemed like destiny.

  Who knew destiny had such a mean sense of humor?

  “I’m just kidding,” Melanie said tenderly. She touched Abby’s shoulder lightly. “No one heard me. No one’s here. Everyone’s already downstairs. I was sure of it before I said anything. I’d never sell out my shimmy sister. Honest. I’ve got your back.”

  Of course, Melanie had her back. She knew that. It was just this damn deadline getting to her.

  “I did think some good sex would loosen you up, though,” Melanie whispered. “Guess it wasn’t that good.”

  Abby didn’t say anything, but the sex had been better than good. Part of her wanted so badly to tell Melanie about the incredible night she’d spent with that amazing man. That executive-suite god with the chest and abs that could make a woman cry. Or at least whimper with desire.

  When he had pulled his car around—a black-as-sin Maserati that purred with horsepower—she thought nothing could top the feel of that butter-soft leather. But once he closed the door of the small villa at the Newport Beach Bay Club & Resort and pulled her in for a long and deep kiss that sent her heartache packing, she’d known the Maserati was not going to be her favorite ride of the night.

  He had been everything she had hoped he would be. A gentleman who tempted her with soft kisses and tender caresses. He took his time, letting her be the one to urge him to the bed. She had undressed him and guided the foreplay before working herself on top of him. In the nearly complete darkness of the room, they had communicated with touch instead of words. Their bodies pressed and played together in perfect unison, as if they had always known each other.

  It wasn’t until sometime after three in the morning that he had given in to his exhaustion and fallen asleep, her cradled beside him, both of them naked but for the scarf, straps and feathers still wrapped around her hair. Only the silk blooms and pendants had tumbled out of place.

  Around four, she had sneaked away, dressing quickly and slipping out to avoid an awkward good-bye.

  The taxi driver wasn’t thrilled by the measly five-dollar fare to ferry her the mile and a half back to her car, but she didn’t care. That night had been exactly what she’d needed. Even though she had to show up to work with two hours of sleep, she felt better than she had in weeks. No wonder Melanie could see right through her. And she would give Melanie the details—eventually.

  Right now, it still felt like a wonderful dream, and she didn’t want it to end just yet.

  The boss’s office door flew open, bringing her thoughts back to her report. Carl Deffner emerged, tugging on the decades-old brown suit jacket he wore only for meetings with the publisher.

  “Damn,” Melanie said under her breath, hiding her face from Deffner. “I thought he was downstairs.”

  Deffner held up his watch. “Ladies, what are you still doing here? The meeting started five minutes ago. Get down there.”

  “I was telling Abby the good news,” Melanie said.

  “Wh—?”

  “Shh,” Melanie said under her breath. “Go with it.” To Deffner, she added, “I didn’t think you’d mind. You said it wasn’t important, just fifth-floor politics,” referring to the publisher and top-level executives who occupied the building’s highest floor.

  “I’m sure that isn’t what I said,” he said.

  As Deffner’s executive assistant for the past couple of years, Melanie wasn’t shy about pressing him for information, or speaking to him the same sassy way she spoke to everyone. Despite their occasionally prickly exchanges, they seemed to work well together. He had saved Melanie from the layoff list more than once, and he was the reason Abby had gotten this temporary job.

  “And I don’t care what you’re talking about, it can
wait until after the meeting. So get down there. Both of you. The guys upstairs notice who walks in late, and if things go south down the road, well, I think you can see where I’m going here.”

  Even the hint of a layoff was enough to light a fire under Abby.

  “C’mon, Melanie. Honestly, sir,” she said, standing up and making her way to the aisle. “I didn’t know I was supposed to go. I’m just a temp.”

  Deffner grumbled something and hurried past them. At the elevator, he pressed the button and looked back. “C’mon, ladies, now.”

  When he was out of earshot, Abby grabbed Melanie’s arm. “So what’s the big secret?”

  Melanie glanced at Deffner and seemed to read in his expression that she was on the brink of pissing him off. “It’s good news, don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you after the meeting.”

  Deffner held the elevator for them, and then set a brisk pace through the first-floor lobby.

  “Has it started?” Melanie asked Jeanine, the receptionist with the silver beehive she adorned every day with a bow to match her pastel polyester suit.

  “A few minutes ago, dear.”

  Deffner double-timed his pace to the building’s auditorium.

  Inside, the publisher was at the lectern, speaking with gushing optimism about the first-quarter numbers in both ad revenue and circulation. Since she had spent the last several weeks transferring revenue data from an old database into a newer one, and had seen the first-quarter revenue numbers herself, she knew they were nowhere near those cited by the publisher.

  She was leaning in to Melanie’s ear to remark on it when the publisher switched topics. He gripped the sides of the lectern, and his voice slipped with emotion. He spoke of his years with the newspaper, of good times and bad, and all the amazing memories. But that it was time.

  It was as if a puppeteer had yanked a string. Those sitting straightened in their seats. Abby and the others standing in the back leaned forward. No one breathed.

  “It’s been a privilege to lead this fine news organization for more than twenty years,” Randall Collier said, “but we need a change. It’s a different world today than it was on the morning in 1983 when I was handed the publishing reins from Rutherford C. Collier, my late father and this newspaper’s founder. And just as I took those reins from my father, it is my honor today to announce that effective immediately, I am handing them over to my son—Derek Rutherford Collier. Derek, will you come up here, son?”

  A man in a perfectly tailored gray suit rose from the front row and walked to the lectern. There were audible gasps from many in the room, but no one was as stunned as Abby. And no one was as near to fainting as she was because that well-dressed, slick-haired young Collier, the one being slapped on the back by the publisher and who was looking into the crowd with the seriousness of a wartime general, was the man who had just given her the best sex of her life.

  “What’s wrong?” Melanie whispered.

  Abby tried to whisper, but her throat was too dry. The room was suddenly unbearably hot. She couldn’t breathe. Her pulse raced, and her heart thudded. It was a panic attack. She hadn’t had one in years, not since her very first belly dance performance, but the feeling was unforgettable. She leaned against the wall, told herself the room wasn’t spinning. The world wasn’t ending.

  “What?” Melanie mouthed again, watching her with wide-eyed concern.

  Abby swallowed hard. “Last night. Him.” She pointed to the stage.

  Melanie’s expression changed from worry to confusion… to amusement. “You hooked up with Collier’s son?” she whispered.

  Abby covered her face with her hands. If only she could rewind the last twelve hours. She took a deep breath, and then another. Maybe Melanie was right. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. She just had to steer clear of him. It wasn’t as if she moved in the same circles as the executives.

  She’d just stick close to her desk. Keep her head down. And what was she thinking? A guy like that wasn’t going to waste time thinking about her. He’d probably already forgotten about her. And it had been dark. She had been in costume. If he saw her walking the halls in her wool skirt and cardigan twin set, he’d never recognize her. Not a chance.

  Finally, she could breathe.

  “Guess I’ll have to stay away from the executive floor,” she whispered back to Melanie.

  Melanie’s lips disappeared into a thin line and she shook her head.

  “What?” Abby asked.

  Instinct told her it wasn’t good.

  Melanie took her elbow and led her to the door. “We have to talk. Now.”

  | 6

  “I thought this would be good news,” Melanie said, closing the door to the ladies’ restroom back on the fourth floor and checking for feet under the stalls.

  “That what would be good news?” Abby said. She was trying to stay calm. Trying not to freak out. Trying to effing breathe. Her imagination was reeling with worst-case scenarios. “Damn it, Melanie, tell me before I throw up.”

  Melanie sank her tush against the sink counter. “Okay, but remember, I thought I was doing you a favor. I thought it was a good thing—”

  “Tell me!”

  “All right. The good news is that a great permanent position came up this morning. Deffner asked me if I wanted it, because, well, it would be a step up. But I’m not interested. I’d have to give up my four-ten work weeks, and I’d have no time for practice—”

  “Melanie! I swear to God, if you don’t get to it, I’m going to scream.”

  “I told Deffner you’d be a perfect second choice and he agreed. You have an interview at three o’ clock, but I think the job is pretty much yours if you want it. It has to be filled immediately.”

  Abby cocked her head and replayed the information in her head, searching for the problem. She couldn’t find one. “Why did you think I’d be upset? It’s what I’ve been hoping for.”

  Melanie swallowed hard. “The job is assistant to the publisher.”

  Abby dropped back against the cold tile wall. Derek’s assistant. She closed her eyes. Of course. It was an awful trick, dangling this perfect job in front of her. But the answer was simple. “I can’t take it. I’ll decline. I’ll say I’m happy where I am.”

  Easy come, easy go, right?

  Melanie didn’t seem to think so.

  “I can decline, right?” Abby pressed.

  “There’s something else you should know,” Melanie said, her cherry-red lips puckered in distress. “The departments have been told to cut back on nonessentials. Deffner has to make cuts, and your position is one that has to go.”

  “But the job is supposed to last till June. It’s only May.”

  “I know. He thought it would take longer to input the old data into the new system. You’re just a lot faster than he expected.”

  “You’re kidding. I did so well that I worked myself out of a job?”

  Melanie’s expression crumpled. “I’m so sorry. I know it isn’t fair. It’s this stupid company. The rumor is there’ll be more layoffs if they can’t meet this quarter’s numbers. It sucks.”

  Abby knew what that meant. Even if she managed to keep her job, a temporary employee would be the first to go if layoffs were announced. She might be hired back after the dust had settled, but it would be too late to save her studio. “I can’t believe that hypocrite Collier was just down there boasting about the first quarter and how great the numbers looked.”

  “It’s all morale bullshit,” Melanie said. “You know it better than most. You’ve seen the real numbers.”

  She hadn’t run the revenue and expense numbers side by side like a tax accountant, but moving all the financial data for the last ten years over to the new system had given her a window into what was coming in, and what was going out. The company was in the red—deep, bloody, painful red. It had been for months, and it was getting worse, not better. But only someone paying close attention would notice Randall Collier had quoted expense numbers collected a
fter last year’s layoffs, but revenues that were projected before the staff had been cut by a third. It was a smokescreen to make the rank and file feel like their sacrifices had been worth something, and that the cuts had been enough.

  Clearly they weren’t.

  “So basically, I have no job?” She was still struggling to grasp it, but it was the absolute worst thing that could happen. The belly dancing gig at the Sultan’s Tent helped, but the newspaper job paid the bills.

  “You’re overqualified for this job anyway,” Melanie said. Trying to find a silver lining. “No one with an MBA from Chatham University should be tapping numbers into a database.”

  “I don’t have an MBA. I have one year in the MBA program. That’s it.” That decision to leave early and take over the belly dance studio had seemed so much sounder then than it did now.

  “Do you regret leaving?” Melanie asked.

  “No.” She didn’t regret it. Even now, as hard as it was, she would do the same thing again. She thought of her father and how much he had sacrificed to get ahead in his brokerage firm. He put off everything that had made him happy, telling her there would be plenty of time for all that when he was retired. But he’d never reached that retirement. A late-stage pancreatic cancer diagnosis had seen to that. She didn’t want to live that way. Dancing made her happy. It was her life, and that studio was her dream.

  More than once she had thought that those dark days at Chatham, after her belly dance secret had gotten out, had been a blessing in disguise. That they had pushed her to the path she should have been on all along.

  It had taken nearly every dollar she’d inherited from her father to buy the dance studio, but she had a good business plan. Although students loyal to Almira had dropped off, she knew they’d return when Abby proved she meant to continue the Shimmy Shop as a dedicated belly dance studio. And that wasn’t all. She had bigger plans. One of the unfinished dance rooms would make a wonderful retail boutique one day, and that coupled with a large storage area in the back could support an online retail store, too. She also wanted to apply to the city to serve coffee and snacks, and turn the main dance room into Shimmy Café at night where students could practice their performance skills and locals could come in to enjoy the entertainment.