Dance: The Collected Series Page 4

  “That’s a good start,” he says, remaining perfectly calm. “I like your fire. But I’ll need to see more. Show me what your body can do ...”

  How dare he. What a bastard. He has no idea what this body can do.

  “I don’t have to show you anything,” I say. “All you need to know is that I’m good. In fact, I’m good enough to win a scholarship at the Eldridge School of Dance. And I think they might be slightly better judges of poise and technique than you ...”

  “That may well be the case, Julia. But I’m not interested in poise and technique. In fact, I’m not interested in anything you’ve learnt in some fancy dance school ...”

  “Now hold on there,” I interrupt. “I haven’t even started classes yet. My dancing’s raw.”

  “And that’s exactly what I want to see,” he replies. “So show me.”

  “Okay,” I say, my breath shivering past my lips as the adrenaline courses through my veins. I strut towards him, encircling him, moving around behind his desk, so that he has to swivel in his chair to remain facing me. I’m standing by the window now, the New York skyline behind me.

  “I can do this ...” I say, pushing myself up onto the toes of my right foot, then lifting my left leg off the ground and bringing my foot right up to my head, “and I can do this,” I say, spinning on my toes in a graceful full circle, “and of course, I can do this ...”

  In one fast movement, I pull my dress up around my waist, then drop down into a full splits.

  There you go, asshole.

  I shoot a glance up at him. He’s smiling down at me, his legs spread wide apart, so cocky, so self assured – but I know my moves are working. Because between his legs, the clear outline of his cock, pressing and straining against the inside leg of his pants, tells me everything in need to know.

  “Very good,” he says, a sharp tightness to his voice now, charged with pure animal lust. “Anything else?”

  Just as gracefully, I rise back to my feet, pulling my dress back down, giving him only the very briefest flash of my panties beneath. Then I pace towards him, my eyes locked onto his, as sleek and graceful as a cat closing in on her prey.

  “I’ve got a few other moves,” I say teasingly, steadying myself on the arms of his chair as I lean in towards him, pushing my chest out for a moment, bringing my face right up close to his, close enough that our lips are almost brushing, close enough to fill my senses with that amazing cologne he’s wearing. And keeping my eyes locked onto his, l reach between his legs and cup the hot, thickness of his cock for a moment, registering with a shiver just how fucking hard – and big – he is. Then I spin around, so that I’m facing away from him, again steadying myself on the arms of his chair, as I start to push my ass back towards him, feeling my dress riding up around my waist to show off my bare buttocks as I grind myself against him, the sheer hardness of his cock now right there between my legs, grazing me, my pussy throbbing so fucking hard as I work him up like that, feeling his hands move first to my sides and then slip further upwards, up towards my breasts ...

  I let him almost touch me there, feeling my nipples stiffening into two tight buds, crying out to be touched and tweaked, and a part of me wants nothing more than to feel his hot hands enclose my breasts, but instead, just moments before he touches me there, I reach up quick as a flash and grab his wrists, pulling him sharply off me, spinning back around to face him again.

  “Not until I’ve got the job,” I hiss.

  “It’s yours,” he growls, our faces so close that I can feel his breath dancing against the tingling skin of my neck.

  “That’s not good enough,” I say, pushing myself back to my feet and walking calmly and confidently to my chair, the only tell tale sign of what just happened, the hot dampness of my panties and the way my breath is still shivering a little past my lips.

  I sit back in my chair and cross my legs, heart pounding, pussy throbbing, but keeping my face fixed and stern, giving nothing away.

  “I want to see it in writing,” I say, my voice still trembling a little. “One week. One hundred thousand dollars.”

  He stares at me, his legs still spread wide, his cock still rock hard between his legs, straining so tightly now against the tailored confines of his suit slacks it looks like it might tear the fucking fabric right apart.

  “I’ve already prepared the contract,” he says, sliding a heavy, cream colored envelope across the desk towards me.

  I lean forward and take it from the desk, sliding out the contents – a sheaf of carefully typed pages, outlining the terms of our arrangement, the wording as cold and precise as any business document. I can’t take it all in right now, but I pick out certain words, certain phrases: confidentiality ... within the bounds of reason ... seven days and nights (inclusive) ...

  It’s obvious that this is a proper legal document, and I wonder if he had his lawyer draw this up ...

  At the bottom I see his name is already signed, and there’s a blank dotted line for my own beneath.

  Before I can change my mind, I snatch the nearest pen – a beautiful, heavy Mont Blanc ballpoint – and hurriedly sign my name.

  “There,” I say, slamming the pen and the signed contract back on the desk in front of him and fixing my eyes on his, showing nothing of the voice inside me that’s screaming: What the fuck are you getting yourself into?

  “So,” I say. “What happens now?”

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I wake in a panic, pushing the unfamiliar sheets off my naked body, wondering just where the hell I am. Because nothing looks familiar.

  Okay, relax, Julia. Relax. You’re in a room. A fucking huge white room. And it’s morning and you’re naked and ...

  Then it all comes flooding back.

  The last twenty-four hours.

  §

  After I signed the contract, Dylan made a couple of phone calls, telling his secretary to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon, and then we both walked out through the building. And as we went, I could feel the knowing looks of all the other employees at Campbell Finance burning into me. Do they all know what we’ve just agreed to? I wondered. From the dismissive scowl of Dylan’s beautiful blonde secretary as she watched us walking out towards the elevators, I’m pretty sure she knew exactly what was going on.

  By the time we stepped out through the front doors of the building and into the hustle and bustle of Wall Street on a Monday afternoon, there was already a limo parked and waiting, its engine purring, the driver holding the door open for us.

  I slipped inside first, registering the plush tan leather interior and the smoked glass that separated the driver from our seats in the back. A moment later Dylan got in too, pulling his door shut then giving the driver a nod to set off.

  I remember darting a glance at that smoked glass separator, wondering just how private these seats really were, because already I could feel it: the scorching heat coming from Dylan, the intensity, the expectation of sex, and it seemed magnified by our little enclosure, like two tigers in a cage.

  The car crawled along for a while through heavy downtown traffic, and eventually I had to ask the question that had been puzzling me since we first set off.

  “Where are we going exactly?”

  “To the airport,” Dylan said, his black eyes piercing me for a moment, as if challenging me to ask further questions.

  “But,” I began, “I mean, well, I don’t have a passport with me or anything. I won’t clear security ...”

  “It’s my private jet,” he replied in a lazy drawl, “and we won’t be leaving the country. So you won’t need to worry about any of that.”

  “Well, um, you see, well,” I continued, now feeling really unsettled, my head whirling with all this new information. “I still don’t have my stuff. Let me call in at my apartment and get my stuff.”

  He smiled cruelly.

  “What is it you think you’re going to need?” he asked, as if I were asking the most stupid
question in the world.

  “My ... stuff,” I persisted. “My things! My clothes for a start ...”

  “You won’t need any clothes,” he laughed.

  “Oh no, no, no,” I replied, holding my hands up. “You’re not keeping me tied naked to a bed for a whole fucking week ...”

  “That’s not what I meant at all,” he cut in. “Have a little more imagination, Julia. I have an extensive wardrobe for you and a personal shopper, should you need one. You shall have everything your heart could possibly desire.”

  At this, I fell into an embarrassed silence, and on top of that, the closer we got to the airport, the more my worries and nerves seemed to increase. I was holding back the truth from him, keeping my lips pressed tightly together. When was I going to tell him? Because I could just feel myself getting more and more tense.

  I remained silent as we were escorted quickly and quietly through security as if we were royalty, and then out onto the runway to Dylan’s own private jet, which seemed to be just waiting there for him, with a full crew and everything, its white paint gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

  I just wished I could enjoy all this, but instead my heart was hammering mile-a-minute, and all the blood had left my face. I felt twisted up with nerves and worry, and as we climbed the steps and boarded the jet, I was glad to sink into the sumptuous tan leather seat, because if I’d stayed on my feet a moment longer I might have fainted completely.

  By the time the engines rumbled into life and we began to speed down the runway, I was a complete wreck, my hands clasped together, my eyes wide, my jaw clenched tightly.

  “Jesus, what is it?” Dylan asked from his seat opposite, utterly confused.

  And I just couldn’t keep it in any longer.

  “I’ve never flown before, okay?” I blurted out. “I’m freaking terrified!”

  “You’ve never flown before?” he replied incredulously.

  And I was about to remind him that not everybody was born into this kind of lifestyle, when our conversation was drowned out by the roar of the engines as we began our take off.

  I closed my eyes and gripped the arms of my seat and waited for the rumbling and shaking to finish, feeling the plane begin to climb, my stomach lurching, and then all of a sudden the noise died down and we seemed to be quietly purring along in the air.

  I cautiously opened one eye, then the other.

  There was Dylan, sitting across from me, lounging in his chair like he’d done this a billion times before – which, of course he had – trying to keep the smirk off his face.

  “See?” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  I released my grip on the arms of my chair a little and ventured a glance out of the window. I couldn’t help but gasp. It was beautiful – a perfectly white layer of fluffy clouds, as far as the eye could see.

  “Here,” Dylan said softly, nodding to someone over my shoulder, “maybe this will help you relax.”

  A moment later, a stewardess arrived, placing two champagne flutes down on the table and filling them from a large chilled bottle.

  “To the week ahead,” Dylan said, holding his glass out towards me, his eyes full of expectation at what lay before us.

  I picked up my own glass.

  “Whatever you say,” I replied, clinking the flute against his, and then gulping back as much of the delicious liquid as I could in one go.

  Just like flying, I had a feeling that there was going to be a lot of stuff I’d never done before, that Dylan was going to guide me through in the next seven days. And I wondered if there was enough champagne in the world to get me through it all ...

  §

  It felt as if we were only up in the air for a few minutes before we’d started to descend again. With the champagne inside me, I found the landing a little more bearable, although still kind of petrifying.

  I still can’t believe that people fly frequently; I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

  We landed at what seemed to be a really tiny airport, and again were quickly bustled through security as if we were celebrities, once more straight into a waiting limo. It was dusk by now, and I looked out of the tinted windows trying to make out any signs, trying to work out just where in the hell we were. But there were no clues.

  “Where are we?” I asked, frustrated, as the car set off towards its mystery destination.

  “You don’t need to know that,” he replied, obviously enjoying his complete control of the situation and how totally in the dark I was.

  Of course, I thought.

  So I took out my phone and hit Maps, watching the cursor zoom over to my brand new destination.

  “Newport, Rhode Island,” I announced proudly, pleased to have outwitted him.

  “Very good,” he said with a nod.

  And then, before I even knew what was happening, he’d reached out and snatched the phone from my hand.

  “Hey!” I gasped. “Give that back!”

  “Clause 14b,” he said, slipping the phone into the breast pocket of his jacket. “No cellular devices. You’ll get it back in a week.”

  I sighed, knowing it was useless to argue.

  After all, I’d signed his stupid contract, hadn’t I?

  Like it or not, I was his for the week.

  §

  After a short journey, the car pulled up outside what could only be described as a mansion: private gates opening automatically, a huge tree-lined driveway, lit up fountains bubbling away in front of the beautifully designed house, a whole wing of garages off to one side, what looked like a private tennis court nestled in the acres of sculpted gardens that enclosed this place off from the rest of the world – the works.

  The driver opened the door for me, and as I stepped out – as corny as it sounds – I really felt like I was stepping into a fairy tale.

  The house was beautiful, the grounds were breath taking, and there, moving around the limo to take my arm and lead me towards the house, was Dylan – my ‘fairy tale prince’ in what was most definitely not a fairy-tale romance.

  Trust me to pick a prince who’s also a complete and total asshole, too.

  The large wooden door to the front of the house opened just as we stepped up to it, and standing there was a man who I assumed was a butler or some other kind of help – he had a kind, smiling face, was in his fifties, and was dressed in the smart black clothes of a waiter.

  “Good evening, Mr Campbell,” he said politely, stepping back to let us enter the house.

  I took a few steps inside, then stood there frozen.

  “Dylan,” I said breathlessly, “this is incredible.”

  I’d never been inside a room this big before – and this was just the hallway. Above us hung a huge sparkling chandelier, to either side of us were two gigantic corridors, and in front was the most sumptuous curving staircase, with golden handrails and plush red carpeting.

  “My mother has very good taste,” Dylan said. “I grew up here. This was my family home. We’re scattered across the world now, but we could never get rid of this place. It’s been in the family for generations. We use it as a holiday home. It’s the perfect place to entertain.”

  The way he said it was so casual, like he was just talking about any normal family house. But the place was insane. I looked around me in amazement, unable to take in all the beautiful sumptuous furnishings at once, each time noticing some new amazing detail. And soon, a new question began gnawing at me.

  “So, let me get this straight, do you just keep all these servants and fresh flowers around and all the lights blazing, just on the off chance that one of you is going to show up for the week?”

  “No,” he said dismissively. “I called in advance to say I’d be arriving with a guest.”

  “But when?” I asked, puzzled. “I’ve been with you the whole time. I didn’t see you make any phone calls ...”

  “I called yesterday.”

  Yesterday? Before I even knew whether I was gonna show up or not?

&nb
sp; And I felt completely powerless, like it didn’t matter what I wanted. Because he knew I was going to come here all along, even when I hadn’t made my mind up. I’d stupidly thought I was the one making the decisions, the one calling the shots, but now I wasn’t so sure ...

  Maybe I was doomed from the very moment I met him in the bar.

  “Follow me, I’m taking you to your room,” he said, leading me up the huge plush staircase and down the longest corridor I’d ever seen in my life, past at least ten other bedroom doors before finally pushing open the door to the huge, beautiful room I’m in now – pure white walls, sleek minimalist design, massive shuttered windows, and a large and inviting-looking four-poster bed with crisp, white, freshly-washed sheets.

  And while I wanted to just jump straight into it and go to sleep, it was clear that something else was going on – it was there again, I could sense it, that aggressive sexual intensity, just oozing from him, like in the limo.

  I ventured a glance at him and sure enough his eyes were smoldering, fixed intently on me like I was something he needed to possess.

  Here it is. All those limos and private jets were just a distraction. Now I’ve got to perform.

  “So where were we?” he said, his voice dropping a register, now low and husky. “Oh yeah, that’s right. You were auditioning ... Then you signed the contract ... So now it must be time for you to show me the rest of your moves.”

  Shit. We’re alone in a bedroom together. Anything could happen. I need to stall for time.

  “I’d need music if I wanted to show you properly,” I countered.

  He’s gotta find a boom box in this massive house? That should take him at least half an hour ...

  But in answer he simply turned and walked over to the nightstand by the bed, taking a remote control from it and pushing a button.

  A soft mechanical whir from behind me. I turned around to see a large panel on one wall sliding back to reveal a huge flat screen TV and, either side of that, two large stereo speakers. He pushed another button and silky smooth R’N’B came flowing from the speakers in crystal clear quality.