Spring Collection (30 page)

“Marco?”

Tinker’s sharp, angry voice entered his fantasy. “Marco, the walk! That’s what I’m here for, not to watch you moon into the goddamn mirror! When are you going to teach me the runway tricks I need to know?”

He sighed in irritation as he put away his thoughts and turned to the business at hand.

“You’ve made your runway walk into an imaginary barrier,” he told Tinker. “That doesn’t mean that you don’t truly believe in it, simply that it does not exist. You have two feet, two legs, you’ve walked all your life. All you lack is attitude, and attitude isn’t
how
you walk but how you’re
feeling about yourself
while you walk. I realize that you believe, in your negative way, that it has to be instinctive, that you haven’t got the knack. You’re wrong and I’ll prove it. Can you dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yes, dance.”

“I even stink at disco because I can’t let myself go enough to do it right.”

“Have you ever had dance lessons?”

“No.”

“I thought as much. I’m going to have you taught to tango.”

“What goddamn good will that do?” Tinker shouted in vivid disappointment, glaring at him, arms
akimbo. “I’ve got two left feet. It’s the most useless idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Now listen to me. I’ve used the tango before with girls who had your problem, and it worked for them. You’re too young to know, but the tango is the ultimate dance of passion. A dance of arrogance and authority, but above all,
passion
. Anybody, even you Tinker, can learn enough in a course of intensive tango training to absorb some of that passion. Then when you walk on the runway you’ll
gather yourself into yourself in
such a passionate way that you’ll move with the power of the tango, the seduction of the tango.”

“Bullshit!”

Marco ignored her, putting a tape in a tape deck that lay on the accessory table.

“Tomorrow we work all day with my assistants, with everyone in the house I need to execute my sketches,” he informed her. “After that, we’ll work every afternoon, right up to the show if we have to. Each morning you’ll have tango lessons with Señora Varga, a magnificent woman, the best tango teacher in Paris, who’ll teach you the man’s part since you’ll be walking forward, not backward, as the woman normally does. You’re going to tango three solid hours every single morning and tango in your dreams every night, and when I work with you, I’ll play tango tapes. When you get the tango in your blood you’ll be different in ways you can’t begin to imagine now, so listen now, listen to the music while I unpin you.”

Shaking her head in bitter dismay, Tinker listened as the taped music filled the room. It had a strong beat, sure, but how the hell was that going to give her an “attitude”? She damn well wasn’t going to dance her way down the runway! Was Marco merely trying to use her as selfishly as possible, reducing her to a high-class fitting model who spent her mornings learning the tango and her afternoons being his “inspiration,” for all the good that would ever do her? Would she ever learn enough to be competitive with Jordan and April, or was this just another cruel trick of a cruel man?

Marco finally released her from her lace cage.

“Put your clothes back on and sit down for a few minutes, while I talk to you. The tango isn’t hard but it’s a precise dance without a single sloppy move. It has clear, simple rules, and that’s why you’re going to be able to learn it—you will never have to ‘let yourself go’—that thing that bothers you so much. You never have to improvise.
The movements of the dance itself will give you attitude
. A fat old woman becomes seductive when she does the tango. You’ll learn exactly how to hold your whole body from the position of your head to the way you point your fingertips and toes. If you follow the rules it’s impossible to fail.”

“What kind of rules?” Tinker asked, interested in spite of herself. If she was anything at all, it was someone who had always been good at strict obedience to rules.

“In the tango you are attached to the earth. It’s a level dance, no bouncing. Your whole foot is on the floor except when you have to lift your heel to move your foot. Your knees are
always slightly flexed
. That’s the first rule, flexed knees. There is only one beat, no matter what the step. Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. You never have to learn more than that. Flexed knees, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow—how difficult does that sound?”

“Too easy to be true.”

“On your feet, you’ve rested long enough.” Marco turned off the tape. “I’m going to teach you the basic step right now, so you’ll understand how simple it is. Every other step follows the same exact beat.”

“The man’s part?”

“No. I’ll lead, but you’ll get the idea. Feet together, pull yourself up from your waist, shoulders level, but normal, not like a soldier, neck long … no, you can make it longer than that … head proud, eyes wide open, absolutely no smile. I’ll walk you through the basic step very slowly without music.”

Marco stood facing Tinker from a distance of some eight inches and put her left hand on his right shoulder.
“Look over my shoulder, not at me.” He grasped her other hand in dance position. “Now, flex your knees.
More!”

Feeling utterly foolish, Tinker gazed into the corner of the room.

“When I say ‘slow’ walk back on your right foot and when I say ‘slow’ again, walk back on your left foot.”

They took two deliberate, backward steps in slow motion. “Keep your knees flexed! Now when I say ‘quick,’ another step back on your right foot. On the second ‘quick,’ a step sideways, to the left on your left foot. Then when I say ‘slow’ drag your right foot across to your left foot and stop.”

He led her powerfully through the last three steps, preventing her from wavering.

“That’s it,” Marco said. “You’ve just done the basic step.”

“You were holding me up.”

“Because we were doing it so slowly that you could have lost your balance. With music it goes so quickly that there’s no problem. Now, we’ll walk through it again without music. I want you to say the slows and the quicks with me out loud.”

“Oh, for goodness sake!”

“Stop being such a self-conscious child!
Slow! Slow! Quick, quick, slow, damn it!
That’s better. And again. And again.” He led her twenty times around the room until Tinker found herself matching the steps and the words automatically.

“Now, with music,” Marco said.

“Can’t I wait till the first real lesson?” Tinker pleaded, panicked again.

“No, you cannot.” Marco put the tape on and walked back to Tinker. “Doesn’t that music make you want to dance?”

“No!”

“You’re a liar. From now on, no more walking, no more talking.
Now!”

They circled the big room, the only sound their feet
and the music. After a shaky start, Tinker found the beat, and soon, sooner than she would ever have believed, she found herself dancing in a sense of heightened consciousness. She became a big, resplendent, masterful cat, a great, prowling, sure-footed, arrogant cat, full of indisputable pride, a cat whose territory no one would dare invade. The beat of the insistent music became her cavalier, the music infused her with its strength and grace, the music made her forget that she couldn’t dance, because while it lasted, she could. She could!

“Basta!
Enough.” Marco danced her over to the sofa and released her so that they both fell backward, side by side. “You may rest a minute. So, now, what do you think? Unwilling to admit it, aren’t you? But you were doing the tango, no mistake about that.”

“I know.” Tinker blushed with deep pleasure. She was dripping wet, her sweater clung to her in patches, and sweat ran down her forehead into her eyes.

“Here,” Marco said, offering her a handkerchief. As she dabbed at her face he inhaled the pungency of her natural aroma with brutal pleasure, savoring the throb of his instant arousal. There would never be a better opportunity, he thought through a haze of lust. While she continued to dry her face he opened his trousers in a quick, stealthy gesture. With a deft, strong move and the advantage of surprise Marco grabbed Tinker’s wrists and flung her to the floor, locking his knees around her body.

“Take it in your mouth,” he ordered.

“No!”
She screamed as loudly as she could, rearing backward.

“There’s no one left in the building. Do it!”

“The hell I will!”

Her resistance inflamed him. It was exactly what he wanted.

“Have you ever had a hard cock in your mouth?” he asked, savoring the words. “Have you ever sucked a man until he came? No, of course not. This will be your first time.”

“Let me go!”
Tinker struggled as violently as possible but she was immobilized.

“Not until you’ve taken it between your lips. Not until you’ve tasted it. I won’t permit you to stop. Look at it.
Look!”
He pulled her by her wrists until she was forced to bend forward at the waist. “How can I let you go when it’s so hard? Don’t you know that when I’m in your mouth you’ll
own
me, you innocent child? Don’t you want that power?”

“Power?” Tinker asked in a muffled voice, ceasing to struggle.

“I’ll teach you something that will give you power over every man alive.”

“That?” Tinker said wonderingly. “Only
that?”

“Yes. That.”

“You’re hurting my wrists,” she whimpered.

“Bend your head and take it in your mouth,” he said, his voice thick.

“My wrists … I can’t bend.…” She was on the verge of tears.

He let go of one of her wrists and put his free hand behind her head, pushing it toward his cock. Tinker stiffened her neck until his attention was focused on pushing her head down. Then, with a lightning movement, she grabbed his balls with her free hand and squeezed them as tightly as she could.

“Aah!” he screeched, gasping in pain.

“You sick, evil bastard!
If you ever touch me again I’ll kill you.” With both hands free now she squeezed even harder. “I’ll never be in a room alone with you again. Do you want to work without me?—I’ll go or stay—your choice.”

“Stay,” he grunted.

“I thought you’d say that. I believe we understand each other now, innocent though I am.”

“Let go!”

Tinker held his balls in one final wrenching squeeze. “Know what I was famous for in high school, Marco?”

“Damn you!”

“The best blow job in town. See you tomorrow.”

Tinker was out of the door, shaking but still grinning at her lie, a long time before Marco was even able to move.

I
f I had to bet on it, I’d say that Tinker had unquestionably won the jackpot.

There had been a couple of free days during which Lombardi sent word that he didn’t need any of the girls and didn’t have time for Tinker. I was deeply concerned that he didn’t mean to keep his promise to her, but at least the time was used by Mike, who had the three girls at his disposal—by now he must have exposed enough film to fill ten issues of
Zing
. Then yesterday, Tinker had been selected for special treatment by Lombardi.

I didn’t know about it until he called me a half hour ago, while I was eating breakfast, to inform me of her new schedule: tango lessons in the mornings, afternoons working for him in his atelier. I asked him what I could do to help and he said that since he had arranged for one of the limos to be permanently assigned to Tinker there was nothing else she needed. No, the photographer was most definitely not welcome to pollute the concentration of the tango lessons nor, most particularly, was Mike to interrupt his work with Tinker. We were to leave her to him and his staff and to Señora Varga, and not bother him with questions: his time was at a premium.

Naturally I immediately checked this all out with Tinker, the anointed, who, for a change, I managed to find in her suite taking a bath. She promised me that she could handle the pressure.

“It’s an overly heavy schedule,” I warned her.
“You’re spending almost every night on the Left Bank with some guy. Now you’ll be dancing all morning and standing on your feet being fitted all afternoon—that’s just crazy pressure, Tinker. You’d be giving yourself much better odds if you moved back to the hotel … at least you’d have your evenings free to soak your feet, get a good night’s sleep alone in your own bed … I don’t have to remind you how much there’s at stake. I have a responsibility to you, Tinker, and you have a responsibility to yourself. You know what Justine would say.”

“Oh, Frankie, I don’t give a damn! I don’t care what you say, I can’t not be with Tom. He’s what keeps me going. Oh, if you only knew him you’d understand.”

“So introduce me.”

“I will, I promise, but not yet. It’s too soon … I want him all to myself.”

“Tinker, I hope to God that you’re as strong as you think you are,” I said with real worry. Tinker was so aflame with a combination of love and ambition that she was beyond reasoning with. If she insisted on burning the candle in the middle as well as at both ends, there literally wasn’t anything I could do, short of physical restraint, to stop her. Justine and I both knew that she had magic and now Lombardi did too. Maybe, after all, it was this Tom who had given her the special visibility, the new glow of self-assurance that Lombardi responded to?

While I was mulling over how delicately I could break this significant, unwelcome, and sure-to-be-upsetting development to April and Jordan, Mike Aaron called on the house phone.

“Frankie, it’s another magnificent day.”

“Oh, be my guest, just take the girls again,” I sputtered. “I don’t care if it’s good weather or bad, they’re yours, all except Tinker, she has to work.” Did it matter how many unnecessary pictures he took?

“No, that’s not why I called. I’ve been feeling terrible about that lie I told the other night.”

“Huh?”

“Telling everybody that we’d been at the Louvre. It eats away at me. And then you rubbed it in that none of them had gone. Don’t you see that we’ve put ourselves into a position of cultural superiority that we don’t deserve, and I feel that’s distinctly immoral.”