Naked Angel (9 page)

“Think about it,” Mallory said. “You know what? We can choreograph something together. That way, if you freeze up, I’ll be onstage to dance around it.”

“If you think it’s a good idea . . .” Nadia said. God, she hated herself for being so weak. It had been one bad night—she had to get over it. If she couldn’t, then she might as well admit what Max was trying to sell her—once a ballet dancer, always a ballet dancer. She would have no second act.

“I think it’s a tremendous idea,” said Justin. “Now maybe you ladies can help me come up with a theme. I was thinking something to do with Hollywood. Martha’s obsessed with watching old movies lately. Ever since Elizabeth Taylor died and she re-watched
BUtterfield 8
, she’s been on a classic film kick.”

“I love that idea,” said Mallory.

“You could do ‘silver screen sirens,’ ” said Nadia.

“Yes!” Mallory and Justin said at the same time.

“I’m going to talk to Gemma about the costumes,” said Justin.

“Yeah, don’t distract Agnes. I need her focused on the Vegas costumes,” said Mallory.

“I was thinking Gemma could do those, too,” said Justin. “She did an incredible job on the opening night costumes.”

“She did,” Mallory said, slowly and with an obvious effort at diplomacy. “But Agnes directed her. And Vegas is too important to trust to anyone but Agnes. Winning that would get us lots of press and legitimize us as a serious club, not just another place jumping on the burlesque bandwagon. Don’t get me wrong: I’m glad you like Gemma’s work—I do, too. And as Agnes’s apprentice she’ll be helping, I’m sure. But I think it’s important that Agnes is the one to actually make the costumes. I want her to see that as
her
project.”

“Okay,” Justin said, “I’ll talk to them about the Vegas costumes and getting on a schedule. I’m going over there anyway.”

“Great. Saves me a trip.”

“Tell Gemma I want to see the costumes for this weekend’s show by Friday,” Bette said. “I don’t want to look like some extra off the set of
The Tudors
.” Bette and Mallory were performing a Boleyn sisters act.

“I’ll relay the message,” Justin said with a smile. “And Nadia—I’m glad you’re in.”

Gemma spread the synthetic fur fabric on the table and cut it into six-inch strips with pinking sheers. She was relieved to finally be onto the trim of the costume. Mallory had asked her to design two Tudor-period costumes—one for her and one for Bette Noir. The bodice of each had taken Gemma days, the fronts covered with plastic jewels, pearls, sequins, and a central crucifix design made from gold Lurex. Exhausting.

She’d taken the job as an apprentice to Agnes, but the gig was turning into a sweatshop. The old woman didn’t want to do anything herself. What was she working on up there, all day, every day?

There was no way Gemma could do this job for more than a year. Now, more than ever before, she felt an urgency to get her own label off the ground. But how was she going to save enough money? The money she made working for Agnes barely covered her living expenses. She needed an investor. The notion of being able to finance anything herself was naïve at best.

“Hello?”

Gemma looked up from the cutting table. She hadn’t noticed that the front door had opened until Justin Baxter was standing in front of her.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“You’re that happy to see me?” He was joking, but she could tell there was something serious underneath what he was trying to pass off as banter. She felt bad: She hadn’t even acknowledged his gift. It was a delicate, chain link silver bracelet. She knew she should have just called and thanked him, but she was still trying to make sense of what had happened the night of his party. She knew his reputation: Certainly, their hot little encounter was nothing remarkable to him. He probably sent gifts to everyone. So she didn’t want to seem like she thought it was something more than it was. And in truth, the only additional thing she would want out of the exchange was money. Oh, not money for sex like a prostitute. But maybe his special interest in her could translate into a sweeter deal for her costuming work. If there even
was
any special interest on his part.

“I have some items of business to discuss,” he said, obviously looking around the room for some place to sit. The studio was not equipped for meetings.

“Oh? I’m all ears.”

Justin found a folding chair that was propped against a clothing rack, and he placed it at the cutting table so he was seated across from her. She thought, for the umpteenth time, how handsome he was. It made it all the more frustrating that, as usual, she’d felt next to nothing when they had sex. There she was, in a fabulous setting, with a gorgeous, sexy guy—who was doubly taboo because he was married
and
sort of her boss—and she still couldn’t come. What was wrong with her?

“First of all, I want you to do the costumes for the Las Vegas Burlesque Festival,” he said.

“Mallory told me she wants to make an appointment to speak to Agnes about that.”

“I know. But I want you to create them—not Agnes.”

“You’ll have to work that out with Mallory and Agnes. I don’t make those kinds of decisions.”

“I write the checks. I make the decisions. And I want you to do the Vegas costumes.”

Gemma looked at him with new interest. “So what’s the second thing?”

“The second thing?”

“Yes—you said the first thing was the Vegas costumes. What is the second?”

“I wanted to see you,” he said.

“You did?” She wasn’t being coy. She actually found this information surprising.

“Yes. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the other night.”

Gemma smiled and looked down at the cutting board. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls you lure up to your swimming pool.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “No. I don’t.” His steely blue eyes were serious.

“I’m not sure what to say to that. Or do about it, for that matter. You’re married.”

“This is true. But my relationship with Martha is complicated. She isn’t a typical wife. What happened between you and me isn’t even entirely out of bounds with her. I just—I should have invited her to join us.”

“What? Are you out of your mind?”

“No. That’s our agreement.”

“I don’t do things like that.”

“I . . . gathered that. And to be honest, I didn’t want her to join us.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I didn’t want to share you,” he said, his voice low. His eyes swept down to her breasts. She knew he wanted to put his hands on her, but the table kept him at a safe distance.

“I think we should stick to business conversation,” Gemma said.

“Fine,” he said with a reluctant smile. “The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is that I want you to design costumes for a party I’m throwing at The Painted Lady. A few of the girls are going to be performing dressed as different silver screen movie stars. I also want to transform the room to look like an Academy Awards ceremony. Maybe you can help with that, too.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Martha’s birthday.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I am. I do something different every year. We usually go away, but we’ve been so distracted with the opening of the club. . . .”

“No, I mean, are you for real asking me to work on your wife’s party—me, the woman you cheated on her with? Don’t you find that a tad questionable, morally speaking?”

“First of all, I told you the cheating thing isn’t that black-and-white with us. Would she be thrilled about it? No, but only because I didn’t follow the rules we set for stepping outside the marriage. And as for your doing the costumes and room, I think you’re amazingly talented. And I always want the best.”

“I’m going to be very booked up doing the Vegas costumes. As soon as Mallory decides on a theme I’ll be starting straight away.”

“I’ll make it worth your while financially.”

Now she was listening.

“What are we talking, exactly?” she said.

“I’ll pay you ten grand a week while you work on the party.”

“And when’s the party?”

“In three weeks.”

“I don’t want you to tell Agnes—or even Mallory. They won’t like this.”

Justin smiled broadly, as if she was doing him a favor by taking a ridiculous amount of money from him. “I agree,” he said.

“And what you’re paying me doesn’t include the budget for materials, correct?” she said.

“That’s right.”

She wrinkled her nose in consternation.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“If I’m doing all this work for you, and assisting Agnes with the weekly clothes for The Painted Lady, I’ll have no time to work on the fashion line I’m designing. I believe that’s what they call an opportunity cost?” she said. She could tell by the expression on his face that her tough negotiating stance made him want her all the more.

“What are you saying?”

“I need you to pay me ten grand a week for as long as I’m doing the Vegas costumes, too—not just the party stuff.”

“It’s a deal—if
you
agree to one more thing,” he said. She looked at him skeptically. “Come to dinner with me tomorrow night,” he said.

“What about Martha?”

“She’s at our house in LA for a few days.”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“We can talk business for part of the night if it makes you more comfortable,” he said with a flirtatious smile.

Gemma knew she should just roll with it. Ten grand a week was money she’d never find anywhere else at this point. “Fine. But we can’t make a habit of this,” she said. “You know what they say about not mixing business with pleasure.”

“They’re wrong,” he said. “No two things go better together. I’ll pick you up at your place at seven thirty.”

“You don’t know where I live,” she said.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me.”

Gemma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew she should find him charming, but mostly she just heard the classic refrain from the film
Jerry Maguire
: “Show me the money.”

She picked up a blue Sharpie and wrote her address on the back of one of Agnes’s business cards. He slipped it into his wallet and walked out the door without saying another word.

Less than a minute later, her cell phone rang. She was sure it was Justin calling to say something cheeky, but it was an unfamiliar female voice.

“Is this Gemma?” the voice said.

“Yes,” Gemma said slowly. “Who is this?”

“Violet Offender. I’m a burlesque performer.”

“I know who you are. You own the Blue Angel now.”

“It’s Violet’s Blue Angel, but yeah.”

“How did you get this number?” Gemma said, glancing up at the stairs to make sure Agnes wasn’t on her way down.

“Burlesque is a small world.”

“Yes—a little too small. I’m at work, and my boss is not a fan of yours. So maybe you should tell me why you’re calling.”

“First of all, Agnes shouldn’t have anything against me. It’s not my fault she sold the club thinking it was going to be owned and operated by Billy Barton alone.”

“I don’t know that much about it, to be honest. I just heard that you used to work for her, she fired you, and then you somehow ended up involved with the new incarnation of the club—and used the name she created with your own tacked on the front. I don’t know what you call that here, but I think
audacity
fits the bill.”

“Whatever. Now she can spend all her time sewing like any grandma should.”

“Oh, come on! You really can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious. You’ll learn that about me. Now don’t you want to know why I called?”

“I am a tad curious.”

“Then meet me tomorrow night and I’ll fill you in.”

“I have dinner plans tomorrow night.”

“So meet me after dinner. At my club. Eleven o’clock. The show will be finished; people will be heading out to the next drinking destination. We’ll have the whole place to ourselves to chat.”

“I don’t know. . . .” Gemma said. “Why don’t you at least tell me what this is about.”

“If you want to know what this is about, I’ll see you tomorrow night at eleven.”

And she hung up.

N
adia couldn’t control herself.

After leaving The Painted Lady, instead of taking the subway straight uptown, she got off at Forty-second Street, Grand Central. And then she walked the few blocks toward Sixth Avenue.

Max Jasper was becoming a mental distraction, and she had to put an end to it. She decided she would just make one appearance at Ballet Arts, show him that she wasn’t afraid of being around ballet—that she had simply moved on—and that would be the end of it.

She found the building. Not surprisingly, it was beautiful, with a limestone façade, decorative arched doorway, and a marble-floored lobby.

She gave her name to the security guard, expecting him to call someone to grant her admittance. But he just looked on a list and said, “Mr. Jasper is expecting you.”

Expecting her?
Presumptuous bastard
.

She thought about turning around and leaving, but she was already there, and now she was curious to see exactly what the great Mr. Jasper had going on.