Sophie Weston - The Bridesmaid's Secret

She was dancing alone, quite unselfconscious. Her concentration was total. She moved like a mettlesome horse, graceful yet powerful, and just on the edge of danger. She even stamped like a horse pawing the ground. Gil felt himself break out in a cold sweat.

She was unaware of anyone looking at her. She gave her whole body to the music. Her shoulder-length hair swung from shoulder to naked shoulder. But she did not have the overt sexuality of most of the dancers. Her dancing was spiky, even savage. Was she angry with someone? Maybe herself?

Gil took rapid stock. Paco should know. It was his club. If he was half as good a businessman as he had promised to be, he would know his clientele in depth. Gil eased round the dance floor to the bar where Paco was watching the floor.

‘Who is she?’ Gil said with an urgent undertone.

Paco did not have to ask. Gil could not take his eyes off her. Neither could plenty of other men. Which, in a lively New York club, was unheard of.

She was light as thistledown. Elusive as quicksilver. Fierce as fire. And oblivious to the hungry stares.

Gil was not oblivious. He saw the stares, recognised the hunger and it infuriated him. More than that, it filled him with a desire to shake the girl awake and make her see what she was doing. So much concentration, so much passion was dangerous. Why couldn’t she see that?

Paco looked across at the blonde and pursed his lips.

‘She comes with the fashion crowd. New. Been around since Christmas. Don’t know her name. Could be a dancer.’

Gil was still watching the vital figure. She was never still, not for a moment.

‘She looks like it.’ There was a husky note in his voice. The abandoned blonde was magnetic.

Paco raised his eyebrows. ‘Want me to ask around?’

Gil smiled. Paco could not quite keep the surprise out of his voice. Gil knew why. Paco knew him very well. He knew that Gil was not into instant lust.

And he wasn’t. Not even now, though his pulses were pounding. The girl, writhing and punching the air, was much more than a lust object. She looked difficult. And demanding. A conundrum and a challenge and—

Mine, thought Gil.

He felt exultant yet oddly calm.

‘I can find out about her,’ offered Paco.

Gil did not take his eyes off the dancer but he reached behind him along the bar and picked up a small bottle of water by touch.

‘I think it’s time I did that,’ he said amused, intent.

He did not even look at Paco before heading out onto the seething dance floor.

Bella was having a wonderful time. She always had a wonderful time. That’s what she was known for. The original party girl, ready for anything. She was always laughing. She made everyone else laugh, too. You knew you were going to have a great time when you went out in a group with Bella Carew. Under her lively magic, gloom and despondency turned into stardust.

Tonight the Japanese fashion editorial team, slowly unbuttoning to the Cuban beat, would have endorsed that enthusiastically. They let their long day of meetings dissolve in the rhythm. Seeing that they were happy, Bella allowed herself to relax. She let the stomping beat take over.

The music changed. One of the boys she had danced with before, caught her by the hand. Matching her steps to his, Bella went into a near perfect copy of the singer’s videoed routine. Her partner laughed in delight. She laughed back at him.

I am enjoying myself. That’s what I do best.

Except that these days it was getting harder and harder to enjoy herself. Oh, she could stay out late, dancing or talking with her friends. But eventually they wanted to go home. And when Bella got back to her rented loft apartment she was cold. The central heating system was American and efficient. But that had nothing to do with it. This was the cold of loneliness and it bit to the bone. And it was going to be worse tonight, with the prospect of that discussion with Annis tomorrow.

Still, no need to think about that yet. No need to think about that for hours. She slid both hands into her hair and swung it, letting her shoulders keep the rhythm as she turned her back to her partner, dancing round him provocatively.

Only to find that someone else responded to the provocation.

The first thing she was aware of was a warm hard hand on the bare skin of her midriff. Bella was so startled she almost missed her step. She looked back over her shoulder at the intruder, indignant.

‘Hi,’ he said.

Or she supposed that was what he said. It was too loud to hear him and nearly too dark to read his lips. But she could see them with odd vividness in the flickering shadows. Sculpted, sensually full and yet with a tension to them that spoke of deliberate control. A man of passions, then, but passions carefully mastered.

Bella could have laughed aloud at her fantasy. Especially as his mouth was almost all she could see of him.

In the strobe lighting though she could make out that he was tall and thin as a rake. She was aware of deep, intense eyes that seemed to burn into her. And there was a wicked rhythm to his dancing. Behind him, Bella saw her former partner fling up a hand in rueful farewell and move on to one of the other girls without missing a beat.

Which left her hard up against a body that seemed made of steel.

Pliant steel. She gasped, as he flung her away from him, brought her back. While she was still reeling, he clasped her to him in some routine that he was completely master of. Bella did not know it. Between surprise and lack of familiarity with the steps she floundered. For the first time in years she missed her footing several times.

The stranger bent forward, pushing her head back and said in her ear, ‘Let me lead.’

It went against the grain because Bella was an excellent dancer, but she did. At once, she seemed to know what he was going to do before he did it. The steel body moulded hers, signed to her what she was to do, and she responded. They were perfect together.

When the track ended, she turned to face him, out of breath and exhilarated.

‘Who are you?’ they said in unison.

He shook his head. ‘You first.’

He offered her the bottle of water. She drank deeply, then tipped some over her hot forehead. The water dripped down her cheekbones, her throat…She saw him watch a tear-drop slide between her breasts under her scoop-cut top.

He masked it at once but she saw the effect it had on him. It made up a little for being hijacked on the dance floor. She smiled brilliantly at him.

‘Tonight I’m Tina the Tango Dancer. You?’

‘Tonight?’

She shook her head, so that her hair swung wildly. ‘This is New York. You can’t expect me to give out my name to anyone who walks up and grabs me.’

He was amused. ‘But you look like a girl who likes to live on the edge.’

She winced. That was what everyone thought. Even her family thought Bella could cope with anything. Love them and leave them, that was Bella. Light-hearted. Adventurous. Never, ever, vulnerable.

And she wasn’t. She wasn’t.

That was why she was in this wonderful town alone, putting her life together and telling herself the loneliness would pass as long as she did not let anyone see it.

The disc jockey was talking, promoting his latest mix. Bella tuned it out.

She said airily, ‘There are edges and edges.’ She passed the bottle back to him. ‘You’re not telling me your name, I notice.’

‘Gil.’

‘Just Gil?’

In spite of his amusement, the dark eyes rested on her bare shoulders as if he was hungry. She saw it. A small curl of awareness thrilled through her.

But he answered coolly enough. ‘If you’re Tina the Tango Dancer, I’m just Gil.’

She liked the hunger. It made her feel alive. Just as the music and the strobe lights and the cold midnight streets outside made her feel alive. As she had forgotten how to feel when she was on her own.