Bad Reputation Page 16

  You’re being paranoid. Remi hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to use you. This isn’t the same as it was with Emily.

  “The app is convenient.” It sounded like even she didn’t believe that.

  “That’s a weak excuse, and you know it.” He pulled her closer, not wanting to give her the idea that she could walk away from this conversation. Who the hell cared if it was an “appropriate” place to talk about it? He was done with being appropriate. He was done with letting things go. With being the unruffled Mr. Genial. “So tell me, Remi. What did you learn about me? I want to know.”

  Her huge eyes turned up to him. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  One thing he liked about her was that she gave as good as she got. Even in the face of struggling with the choreography, she held her own. She held her own with him too. This time, however, she didn’t have anything to say, but the slow creep of a rose-colored flush across her cheeks told him her dirty little secret.

  “What did you learn?” he asked again.

  The muscles worked in her neck as she swallowed, her earrings dangling against the soft curls of her hair winked at him as she turned back to watch the room. “I learned that you like to date. No real relationships to speak of. Unless those people chose not to write a review.”

  Only one. But that was long before Bad Bachelors.

  “And?”

  “You seem proficient in the bedroom.”

  “Proficient?” He chuckled. “You can make it sound as unsexy as you like, but I know you’re not blushing because you read about how ‘proficient’ I am.”

  “I’m not blushing.”

  “Have I lived up to the hype? Was our kiss worthy of my sordid reputation?”

  She pressed her lips together, but the subtle flare of her nostrils told him she was trying hard to control her breathing. “I’ve forgotten about it already.”

  “Liar.”

  “Would it help you sleep at night if I stroked your ego?”

  “I want the truth.” He shrugged. “That’s all.”

  “I told you, I forgot all about it. It’s like it never happened.” She folded her arms across her chest as best she could with a champagne flute in her hand. It was empty, so he took it from her and then she dropped her hands by her sides. A second later, she huffed and recrossed them. “Why do you care so much?”

  “You seem fidgety,” he commented, resisting the urge to let a smirk break free.

  “Now you’re answering a question with an unrelated statement.” Another waiter passed them and offered her a drink, but she declined with a stiff smile.

  “Just making a comment. And in answer to your question…I’m simply curious. I don’t know why you’d need to lie about it.”

  “You should be proud that all these women are singing your praises,” she said, but her tone was blistering.

  “Do I detect a note of jealousy there, Miss Reminiscent Sunburst Drysdale?”

  She snapped her head toward him. “Call me that again and I will stick a pointe shoe where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  His surprised laugh bounced around the room, bowling over the relatively quiet chatter from the rest of the guests. Several people turned in his direction, curious eyes flicking back and forth between him and Remi.

  But the retort shriveled up on his tongue the second he saw Lilah and her date, a guy he recognized as one of his mother’s students, walking toward them. Crap. She must have come as someone’s plus-one. He pretended to pick a piece of lint from the shoulder of his jacket, as he whispered to Remi, “This conversation isn’t over.”

  “Oh yes it is,” she said. The smile on her face was polite. Forcefully so.

  She could think that as much as she liked. But if she’d been digging into his personal life via Bad Bachelors, then he wanted to know why.

  * * *

  Halfway through the party, Remi felt as though she’d run a marathon. Wes had left her alone for a moment to insert himself into a group of men, one of whom was a possible investor. Her feet protested the too-stiff, too-high stilettos and her butt still ached from a mishap in rehearsals where she’d slipped coming down off one of the chairs. Lilah had been quick to inform her that it was a good thing she had some “extra padding” there to cushion her fall.

  Professional jealousy, that’s all it is.

  Still, it hadn’t stopped Remi checking out her figure in the fully mirrored changing room at Saks earlier that day. Sure, New York had been a little too kind to her what with all the tasty pretzels and hot dogs and those damn little Italian pastries that Darcy always brought over after visiting her mother.

  But Remi had decided that she liked the way her boobs and hips had filled out. And her butt too. So screw Lilah’s comment and the extra inches on her costume fitting file. Wes didn’t seem to mind the “extra padding” either when he’d grab fistfuls of it during their kiss.

  Retreat! Unsafe thoughts ahead.

  She’d be better off worrying that Lilah was going to go crazy on her, Black Swan-style, as the show drew near. But thankfully, Wes had deftly managed her questions—with her ever-so-subtle insinuation that they were sleeping together—by explaining that Remi didn’t have any contacts in the dance world here, hence why he’d asked her to accompany him. He’d placated her ego by implying that Lilah didn’t need his help in that area, which had stung a little. But again, it wasn’t untrue.

  “You must be Remi.”

  At the sound of her name, she turned around and found herself face-to-face with a stunning older woman who reminded Remi a hell of a lot of her ballet mistress back home. The woman was tall and willowy, and Remi knew instantly she was a ballerina. The movement in her hands and her head all pointed to years of training.

  “That’s right. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  The woman smiled and shook her head, a pair of exquisite earrings tinkling with the movement. Unlike some of the fancy costume jewelry Remi had looked at in Saks, the little chandeliers dangling from the woman’s ears were the real deal. Diamonds paired with what looked to be sapphires.

  “I’m Adele Evans.” She held out her hand. “Wesley’s mother.”

  “Oh.” She could see it plain as day now. They had the same piercing-blue eyes and flawless facial structure. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. He speaks very highly of you.”

  Adele laughed. “No, he doesn’t.”

  Remi cringed. What on earth was she supposed to say to that? Despite her parents’ faults and their way of pushing their opinions onto her, they never had anything bad to say about one another. She’d grown up in a loving, though nontraditional family unit and couldn’t imagine a life where parents and children were at such odds as Wes and his family were.

  “We have a complex relationship,” she said, her expression difficult to read.

  She nodded. “Family isn’t always easy.”

  “Exactly. Especially not when you have a family with such combustible, creative personalities as ours.”

  Remi knew a little of Wes’s strained relationship with his mother, and so she’d conjured up an image of the formidable Mrs. Evans. But this unfiltered, honest woman didn’t fit the picture in her head at all.

  “I hear you’re the star of my son’s show,” she said. “But I am wondering how on earth he managed to find such a gem right under my nose without my knowledge.”

  “I didn’t train here,” she said. “I only came to New York a few years ago.”

  “From Australia, right?” Adele studied her. “I recognize the accent.”

  “You’ve been?”

  “I spent some time performing at the Sydney Opera House when I was much younger.” Something wistful and longing passed over Adele’s face, like a wisp of smoke. Then it was gone. Her striking blue eyes were back to being shrewd. “Wonderful country. I saw a woman named Giul
iana Michaels perform a variation from Sleeping Beauty that was impeccable.”

  Remi nodded. It was hard not to picture Giuliana’s angry face—her lips mashed into a thin line as she ordered Remi to leave. No doubt it would have been a good decade or two since the time when Adele had watched her perform. “Mrs. Michaels was the artistic associate when I was in the corps de ballet at the Melbourne Ballet Company.”

  “Then you must be very good. I understand she didn’t suffer fools.”

  “No, she did not.” She also didn’t suffer anyone who dared take something—someone—her precious daughter, Ariana, wanted.

  “Tell me. How did Wesley come to find you?” Adele cocked her head, eyes sparkling as though she was fully interested in what Remi had to say. And yet there seemed none of the judgment or derision she’d expected.

  “I was working in a barre studio, and he brought his niece along.”

  Wes had told her she shouldn’t feel the need to lie about how they’d met. He stood by his decision, regardless of their unusual meeting.

  “Frankie? That little devil.” Adele winked.

  “Of course, she’s your granddaughter.” Remi shook her head, laughing. “Yes, Frankie. Chantel brings her to our parents-and-children class once a week. But he was filling in.”

  “And he could tell you were a trained ballerina?”

  She smiled at the memory, at the way her breath had caught in her throat when she’d spotted him leaning against the doorframe, eyes wide and drinking her in. “He saw me practicing.”

  “He’s always had a good eye for talent. He used to sit in on our open days and tell me who he thought we should invite into our school.”

  Remi could imagine him as a kid with dark, floppy hair and bright, impish eyes, watching people dance and analyzing their technique.

  “Had you decided not to work with a company in New York?” Adele asked.

  Remi tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “I was taking a break.”

  “I know a lot of ballerinas, dear. Taking a break is not a thing.”

  It wasn’t. Dancers pushed through all kinds of pain. Fought against fatigue on a daily basis. They pushed harder and aimed higher than regular people. They wanted more.

  They wanted…everything.

  “I once saw a girl fracture her wrist after a fall and make a sling out of a pair of old ballet tights so she could complete a rehearsal.” Adele winked. “You either dance, or you don’t. There is no taking breaks.”

  This was the rigidity and single-mindedness her parents didn’t understand. To them, it was a strange idea to push yourself until the breaking point simply to see how long it would take. To always be hungry for more, never satisfied with what you had. They’d tried to advise meditation, gratitude journals, daily mantras of positivity. Tell yourself that you’re happy where you are, her mother had said. But that wasn’t what Remi needed. In fact, she loved that ballet was the opposite of that. The eternally restless itch of ambition, always prickling under her skin… It made her feel alive.

  “I made a mistake back in Australia. It ended my career there and so I came here,” she said. The truth tumbled out, like a demon seizing its chance to escape. “I bombed my first two auditions and became so worried that, if I failed a third time, I might never dance again.”

  “Ah.” Adele nodded. “That makes more sense.”

  “I was young and stupid.”

  “We all were at one time. Believe me.” She flagged down a passing waiter and collected two champagne flutes, handing one to Remi in a similar way to how Wes had done earlier. She saw a lot of him in his mother, as much as he would hate to hear it. “To being young and stupid.”

  “Hear, hear.” Remi raised her glass to Adele’s and the sweet, little chime rang in her ears.

  “I wish my son would realize that he’s not too old to still be in that category,” she said. There was a sharpness to her tone, but it wasn’t nasty. More…concerned. “But my saying it over and over won’t have any effect. He needs to see that for himself.”

  She wanted to ask Adele what she meant exactly, but something told her that wasn’t a wound she should pick at. “I wouldn’t listen to anyone back then either. So I can’t judge.”

  “Hmm.” Adele nodded. “Have you thought about what you might do after Wes’s show, if it goes ahead? You could find yourself with some open doors should the right person support you.”

  Now was Adele talking about herself or Wes? “I hadn’t really thought about it to be honest. This has all happened so fast.”

  Adele set her champagne down and opened the small, sparkling purse that she’d kept tucked under one arm. She fished out a thick, cream business card with subtle embossing and soft, gold font. Adele Evans, Founder, Evans Ballet School.

  “You should think about it. And then you should call me. I have a lot of contacts here and I’m always looking to help talented dancers.”

  “But you haven’t seen me dance,” she said.

  “I know my son,” Adele replied. “If he sees something in you, it’s because it’s there.” She laid a hand on Remi’s shoulder for a second and then she picked up her champagne and made her way back into the crowd.

  Adele Evans would have the number of every major ballet company on speed dial. A good word from her would go far. Very far. Far enough, perhaps, that she might be able to walk into a company role, do better than the corps de ballet. New York was home to some of the best dancers in the world, and she could be among them. She could have her dream back.

  What would Wes say?

  The question popped into her head unbidden. Why did it matter what he thought? She wasn’t beholden to him. Sure, she owed him her loyalty during Out of Bounds because he’d given her a chance. But beyond that? If she wanted to pursue a connection with Adele, it wouldn’t be any of his business.

  But despite the logic being sound, a little part of her shifted uncomfortably at the thought. He would be upset…and for some minute and misguided reason, that didn’t sit well.

  Chapter 14

  “Wes and I stopped dating shortly after I found out who he was related to. My decision, not his. I’ve got one intimidating stage mother already. I don’t want a second.”

  —FutureTonyWinner

  Wes saw Remi talking to his mother out of the corner of his eye. Instinct told him to head over and ensure that she wasn’t messing with Remi’s head. But the man standing across from him was nibbling at the bait.

  “I understand you already had another investor lined up,” Bert Soole said. The older man was a longtime investor in the arts—word had it he supported everything from ballet to Broadway to funding a scholarship for young classical musicians. “I take it that hasn’t worked out.”

  “Unfortunately not.” Wes brought the glass of scotch to his lips and sipped, stalling. How much had Bert heard? He didn’t want to get caught in a lie, but he didn’t want to volunteer any detrimental information, either.

  “And why might that be?”

  “Creative differences,” Wes replied. “This show pushes the boundaries and so do I. It won’t be to everybody’s taste.”

  “Sounds like a risky investment.” Bert smiled. Wes would have put him in his late sixties or possibly early seventies, with a full head of snow-white hair and sharp gray eyes. The kind of eyes that said no detail was too small. “I tend to like those. What’s the point of living if you only ever play it safe?”

  “That’s how I approach my work,” Wes said, internally sighing with relief.

  “Can I ask why you haven’t approached your family to invest? I understand that your mother and father have nothing to do with this piece of work—at least that’s what she tells me.”

  Of course that’s what she’d said. “Would it be redundant to say ‘creative differences’ again?”

  Bert chuckled. “You’re a man wh
o knows what you want.”

  “I do. I’m also willing to fund the entire thing myself if that’s what it takes. But I’d prefer not to sell everything I own.” It was a gamble to put it out there so bluntly, but something told him that Bert would respect the drive.

  Would his ability to read people pay off now?

  Bert eyed him for a moment, his silvery brows knitting above a round nose. “If you’re willing to put everything on the line for this show, then it tells me you have the commitment level I look for when I sign my money away.”

  Wes nodded all the while fighting the urge to fist pump. “How about I introduce you to our lead ballerina? I’m sure she’d be thrilled to hear from the person who’s going to help bring this show to New York.”

  “Well, due diligence needs to be done. My lawyers will need to weigh in.” He winked. “But please, I’d love to meet her.”

  As they walked over to Remi, Bert talked about his son, who’d studied in the Juilliard music program and had passed away at twenty-three from a rare form of leukemia. Bert and his wife hadn’t been able to conceive any more children, so they’d funneled their considerable wealth into giving other kids the chance their son never had.

  Remi stood alone at the side of the room, a tense look on her face. Even with her lips pressed into a line and her hands toying nervously with some beading on her dress, she outshone everyone and everything around her. His mother had gone, but Wes was dying to know what she’d said. However, that was a conversation for a later point in the evening. For now, he needed Remi to shine.

  She turned and caught his eye, the tension melting away into a charming smile. Though he knew her well enough by now to recognize her mask when he saw it. Not that Bert would know any different. She played her part beautifully, charming the older man with stories of her home country and her adventures as a newcomer to Manhattan.

  “I ended up all the way in Queens before I realized I’d gone the wrong way,” she said, pressing her hand to Bert’s arm and laughing. The genuine sound ran along his spine, gathering steam until his body was alive with it. “I swear, my roommate was ready to fit me with a tracking device, I got lost so frequently.”