Plain Return (The Plain Fame Series Book 4) (7 page)

She led them through the lounge, and several people looked up as they passed. Amanda saw the subtle movements of people leaning forward and whispering to each other. Alejandro, however, acted as if he didn’t notice although she knew that he noticed everything. If he acted aloof and preoccupied, however, he wouldn’t have to stop and pose for photos; neither would he be obligated to talk to anyone. This seemed reasonable to Amanda. After all, she rationalized, this was his time, not time he owed the fans.

As she thought these things, something dawned on her: Alejandro orchestrated every move that he made. The realization struck her hard, and she stopped walking just long enough for him to pause and turn around.

“Are you coming, Princesa?”

She stared at him, remembering that first weekend in Philadelphia when he had taken her hand and asked her to dance. It hadn’t been their first dance together; he had danced with her back on the farm in the
grossdaadihaus
. But that second dance had taken place as several dozen people stared at them, watching the international superstar dance with the fresh-faced, straight-off-the-farm Amish girl. She had felt awkward and shy, but he had said something to her that she hadn’t thought to question at the time:
They need to see this. Remember the goal.

While she stood there, digesting this realization, she watched as Alejandro took a few steps toward her and stretched out his hand. The gesture broke her trance, and she saw that people were watching them.
Remember the goal.
And she understood:
reality was the fantasy that the public saw.
From the corner of her eyes, she had seen several people take their photo. And she remembered that every photo had a price. Fans would circulate them on social media while the paparazzi would sell them to the news media. Regardless, she knew that every photo had the potential to either add to or detract from Viper’s success.

She smiled at him, tipped her head demurely, and took his hand. Trying to maintain a straight posture, something about which Stedman constantly criticized her, she caught up to Alejandro and let him lead her to the private alcove in the back of the restaurant.

“Well done, Amanda,” he said under his breath as they settled into their seats. “Now, may I ask what that was about?”

“You may ask,” she said as the server set the linen napkin across her lap. “But I am not going to answer.”

It took him a second to digest what she had said, her voice so serious that it had caught him unprepared. Then, when the words sank in, he tossed his head back and laughed. “Touché,
mi querida
.
Touché.”

She pursed her lips and batted her eyes at him, trying to act coquettish, which only made him laugh again. He reached across the table and took her hand in his. She squeezed his hand, enjoying the way that he looked at her, as if he was appreciative of her humor as well as happy to be in her company.

“Danke,
Alejandro
,”
she said in a soft voice.

He tilted his head and arched one eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he finally asked, “For?”

“For being patient with me,” she answered. “I needed your support this week.”

Alejandro released her hand and glanced at the server who was approaching the table, a bottle of chilled champagne resting against his arm. Alejandro glanced at the label and nodded before returning his attention to Amanda. “I know you are disappointed,” he said. The flat tone of his voice surprised her. He might as well have stated that the sun was shining or the sea was calm. “Aren’t you?”

He took a deep breath, looking as if he was trying to choose his words carefully. The hesitation was enough to let Amanda realize that he had a different opinion on the situation than she did. “We have a busy few months, Amanda,” he started. “The South American tour is going to be followed by Europe. And when we return from that, we will play more venues in the States.” He lifted the flute of champagne to his lips, hesitating before he sipped it. The tiny bubbles traveled from the bottom of the glass to the top. “Try your champagne,
mi querida.
It’s a night to celebrate.”

“I . . . I’d like to hear more about what you were just saying.” She couldn’t just brush aside his comments. She needed to truly understand what he meant.

“About the tour?” He twirled the stem of the champagne flute between his thumb and fingers, thoughtfully watching the rising bubbles in the glass. “It’s a busy time, Amanda. Days and nights merge into one on a tour like this. It’s different from touring in the US. More difficult. And during the downtime, what little there is of that, I’ll be recording new songs.”

“From where?” This was news to her. She had figured that while he was on the road, his focus would be strictly on promotions and performances.

“In hotel rooms, if I must. The EP is scheduled to release in time for summer with the remaining songs releasing in time for the Christmas tours.” He sighed, meeting her gaze with a look of sorrow in his eyes. “My joy, Amanda, comes from your joy. Would I have been happy if you were pregnant?
¡Sí, claro!
I know how happy that would make you and that, in turn, would make me happy. But there is so much going on right now, and I know there is time for family later. For now”—he lifted the glass and tipped it toward her, a silent toast—“I am enjoying a wonderful evening with my beautiful wife.”

Reluctantly, she lifted her glass and touched its rim to his. But she did not drink the champagne. Instead, she set the glass back down on the table and tried to understand what he had just told her. She paid no attention as Alejandro spoke to the server in Spanish, gesturing toward her and then toward himself. The server must have said something that struck Alejandro as funny for he laughed out loud and reached out to touch the man’s arm.

Give them what they want. Remember the goal
.

Amanda wondered if he used that same philosophy with her, giving her what she wanted in exchange for the end goal. But she couldn’t imagine what that end goal could possibly be. Alejandro loved her; that, she never once questioned. Her greatest concern was his constant need to orchestrate situations, all conveniently and impeccably timed to either tease or reward the fans.

So what is this mysterious goal? she wondered.

And just as she had experienced the beginnings of an epiphany earlier, she now had another thought: the price of the photos was a metaphor for the concept of a brand. Alejandro wanted whatever photos were taken of her to work either to build the image created by his marketing team or to provide the paparazzi with nothing. If the photos didn’t help sell the image his team wanted to create, then she should simply walk away. To stop and greet the fans was a great photo opportunity if the paparazzi were taking photographs. But to allow random selfie photos to be taken with her and posted on social media was a different matter, especially if the photos did not match the image that was being built of her.

Clearly, the image of her earlier that week—one in which she was leaving a dance studio after three hours of practice with her cheeks flushed as a result of Stedman’s constant criticisms regarding her performance—was not the image of Amanda that Alejandro wanted circulated.

“I hate dancing,” she blurted out.

“Excuse me?” For once, he appeared truly taken aback.

“I hate dancing,” she said, forcing herself to continue with her confession. “And I am not particularly fond of Stedman.”

“I see.”

“Please don’t make me continue, Alejandro.”

He seemed to consider her request. “Stedman is working on the choreography for the show. You know that,
sí
?”

“He’s unkind,” she said sharply. “And I don’t want to be treated in an unkind manner. He gets angry that I have an improper sidestep on the line of dance and that my hips don’t open during the three-eighths turns in the waltz. He keeps telling me to listen to the music, to feel the rhythm, but I just don’t understand what he means.” She lifted her chin and took a big breath, trying to muster the courage to say what she really felt. “Dancing is just not something I am comfortable with.”

For a long second, Alejandro merely stared at her, a blank expression on his face. He took a moment to sip at his champagne while he studied her. She couldn’t tell if he was irritated or amused. When he set down the champagne, he slid out from the alcove and extended his hand, palm up, in her direction.

She looked at it, confused. “What is this?”

“Come, Princesa,” he commanded. “Take my hand and let’s go.”

“We’re leaving?” She placed her hand in his as panic welled up inside of her. “Is it what I just said?”

With a slight shake of his head and a soft clicking of his tongue, he indicated that she should not continue speaking as he led her back through the restaurant’s lounge and to a doorway that she hadn’t noticed previously. A stairwell curved down to another floor of the building, and as they descended, Amanda could hear music coming from wherever they were headed. The closer they got to the bottom of the stairs, the louder the music grew.

A man nodded at Alejandro and opened a door for them, the music suddenly filling the air. Alejandro led Amanda through the door and onto a small dance floor that was already crowded with people.

“Oh help!” she muttered, knowing that he could not hear her.

Once they were out on the floor, he spun around and faced her. One eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth lifted as he started to sway to the Cuban beat. Immediately, he began to dance, his feet moving in perfect rhythm to the music. Feeling lost, she watched him for a minute and then recognized the dance as the cha-cha. I know this, she thought. He reached for her hand and began to guide her with the simple dance steps: forward, back, cha cha cha. As her comfort level increased, he began to smile and proceeded to guide her through even more advanced steps. He did not speak—for it would have been impossible to hear him over the loud, pulsating music. Instead, he used pressure points: his hand on her back, his fingers on her palms, his thigh pressed gently against hers.

As Amanda became more comfortable with the rhythm, she relaxed and just followed his lead. She even laughed when he spun her around and pulled her into his arms, her back pressed against his chest and her face near his shoulder. Alejandro tilted his head down and peered at her. The music stopped, and she looked up into his sparkling blue eyes.

“Ah, there you are,” he teased softly. “My Princesa.”

Yes
,
she thought. Here I am, in your arms . . . the only place I want to be.

“I think Stedman must be doing a good job, no? You danced quite well.” He released her by spinning her away from him, although he still held her hand. “Now you just need to integrate some of those moves into a pattern for the stage. You’ll do quite nicely, Amanda.” He bowed to her and kissed the back of her hand. “Another dance before we return to our table,
sí
?” As if on cue, the music began again, but this time, the DJ was playing one of Viper’s songs.

The other people cleared the floor and cheered, clapping their hands and moving their hips in time to the music. Alejandro laughed and waved at the DJ.

“Let’s go!” He swung Amanda around again and began moving his hips and feet in one fluid motion that reminded her more of poetry than of dancing. Amanda watched him for a few long seconds, mesmerized by his ability to not just dance by himself but to visibly enjoy it. When he turned and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her to him so that they were pressed against each other, she had no recourse but to mirror his movements. Before she knew it, they were dancing the mambo. While her own moves felt stilted and forced, Alejandro moved as if the dance was second nature to him.

At first he’d pull her into a closed position and then fling her out into an open position, his feet never once stopping their perfectly timed rhythmic movement. The crowd cheered when Alejandro broke into a dance solo, his feet moving so fast that Amanda couldn’t keep up. She found herself laughing and taking two steps backward so that she didn’t get in his way.

When the song finally ended, several people approached him, the men clapping him on the back and a few women enjoying a warm, sweaty hug. Amanda watched all of this, trying to understand exactly what the point of bringing her downstairs to the dance floor had been. It was when Alejandro posed with several women—his smile lighting up his face and his expression the same one he wore in all of the photos for which she’d seen him pose—that she realized this, too, had been orchestrated.

They returned to the table. Alejandro was barely out of breath from his dance, although sweat glistened on his forehead. Once they were seated, he used his napkin to dab at it. “Fun,
sí
?”

“I get it,” Amanda admitted.

He looked up in surprise.
“¿Sí?”

How could she not? He hadn’t told her what was important; he had shown her. Viper, the international sensation, could not put his wife onstage, where thousands of cameras would be taking videos and photographs of her, if she was just going to stand there with no idea of how to enhance his entertainment value. The fans wanted to see Amanda, but they were there for Alejandro. By learning how to dance and entertain his fans, she increased his brand image and that was the name of the game.

“Ja,”
she replied, sounding more confident than she felt. “I’ll keep working with Stedman.”

“Good girl.” From his reaction, she could tell that Alejandro had never once doubted that she would give in to his wish. However, he had opted not only to count on her submission but also to show her how important it was for her to honor his request and work with Stedman. Amanda now saw that if she wanted to truly be helpful and supportive of Alejandro’s career, she needed to develop skills for dealing with the fans and presenting herself onstage. It was all part of the package.

“But,” she added, lifting her water glass and taking a small sip, “that doesn’t mean I’ll like it!”

He laughed at her sassy remark and leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “I’d imagine it no other way,” he whispered.