Ripped (29 page)

As we made our way along the red carpet, Pierre pointed out other people he knew, and on occasion introduced me to them if they were close enough to speak to. By the time we entered the building I’d met at least ten toupee-wearing portly gentlemen and their wives, all with teased and fluffed hair and faces so paralyzed from plastic surgery I couldn’t tell if they were truly happy to meet me or not. I wasn’t bothered one way or the other to meet them, but Pierre seemed quite proud that he knew so many prominent art lovers and critics alike. The fact that I’d never heard of a single one of them made me realize that although I could name every prima ballerina in the American Ballet Company for the last fifty years, I was totally uneducated in every art form other than dance.

Despite dreading the event, I was in awe of the decorations as we entered the main hallway which would be our dining room for the evening. From the black-and-white table settings to white floral center arrangements, all the way up to the frosted bulbs that hung in the thousands from the ceiling like icicles. It was a spectacle.

“Impressive, no?” Pierre said proudly, as if he’d been solely responsible for the adornments.

“Impressive, yes.” I nodded in agreement. “It must have taken a team of decorators days to do all this.” I swept my arm around, indicating to the display.

“Ah, yes. This is magnificent.” He leaned in close … too close. “I have seen better of course.” He shrugged. “And worse.”

Was this his idea of small-talk or was he trying to big note himself? I’d seen worse too, but every event had a team of people who worked their butts off to make it as successful as they possibly could. The fact that these people obviously had a truck-load of cash to throw around, and would, by the end of the evening, have more truckloads of donations, meant that they could afford the extravagance that others couldn’t.

We checked the seating plan, and I found myself sandwiched between Pierre and Albert Rickman, a man who was ninety if he was a day and deaf as a post. This was going to be an unforgettable evening in the worst possible way, but at least there was music and alcohol. Lots of alcohol.

As a waiter who seemed to constantly hover around us, filled my glass with red wine for the umpteenth time, I felt Pierre’s palm come to rest on my knee. “Would you care to dance, Jasmine?” he asked with a firm squeeze.

I’d been yelling at poor old Albert for the past twenty minutes until my voice was hoarse, trying to explain to him my dance history of Boston Conservatory, followed by Boston Ballet, and now an independent New York production. I needed the break.

I acknowledged Pierre’s invitation, then turned to Albert. “We’re just going to dance.”

“You’re what?” he hollered.

“Going to dance.” I yelled back, over-pronouncing the words as if it would help him understand.

“Oh, no thank you, my dear. Bad hip. Old war injury.”

“No, I’m going to dance.” I made my fingers dance in a circle on the table. “I’m dancing.”

“Oh, lovely. A performance?” His eyes lit up.

“No, just a waltz, with Pierre.”

“Oh, I think it’s over there.” He pointed in the direction of the bathrooms.

There was no use carrying this conversation on any longer. I nodded, smiled, and then allowed Pierre to lead me onto the dance floor.

“You’re so tense,” Pierre remarked as he placed his hand on the small of my back. “Relax, Jasmine. We are only dancing.”

But I couldn’t relax. I knew all too well what his expectations were of me, and my head was filled with James Bond-style plans to escape them. From tying the tablecloths together to fashion a rope so I could leap from the rooftop, to lighting a fire in the ladies’ bathroom to create a diversion, one ridiculous idea after another ran through my mind.

I couldn’t wait for the evening to be over, but on the other hand, I dreaded the ride home and what Pierre would proposition. At least there was safety in numbers, and with more than one hundred people present, I felt secure that Pierre would be the perfect gentleman. His reputation was far too important to him to risk my making a scene.

As the night continued on, I had to admit I let my guard down and enjoyed myself. Fascinating people had gathered in one place, and the majority of those I spoke to seemed suitably impressed that I was of the artistic variety and not purely a lover of the arts. So many looked upon me with starry eyes as I explained my transition from Boston to New York, before telling me that they too had danced or been involved in some other art form in their younger years. It made me view them through fresh eyes. These people were me in forty years, when the cheers from the adoring crowd were simply a distant memory. I would be here at this ball, meeting young dancers, painters, and sculptors, all vying for time in the spotlight.

“Are you ready to go, Jasmine?” Pierre’s arm wrapped snuggly around my waist and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

I had been speaking for nearly half an hour to Janice Durbridge, a particularly interesting woman who was the owner of a gallery in Chelsea. Her daughter, who was fifteen years my junior, was apparently quite a talented ballerina and so I was relaying my experiences, highlights, and pitfalls to Janice.

“It was lovely to meet you, Janice. I’ve really enjoyed our chat.”

She smiled warmly. “It was an absolute pleasure. You know where to find me.” She leaned in for a brief hug, and genuine warmth radiated from her. I was sure that if I ever needed anything, she was someone I could call upon for guaranteed help.

Within ten minutes after sliding into the limo, I knew that we were not heading in the direction of my apartment. “Where are we going, Pierre?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“For a nightcap, my angel.” He held my gaze firmly. “I trust that is all right with you.”

It was make-or-break time. If I said yes then I sealed my fate and would be doing the walk of not only shame, but absolute humiliation in the morning. But if I said no I would no doubt be booted from the car and from the production. My gut churned as I fought back tears. I’d already lost the love of my life; my career was all I had left that brought me any joy.

Sighing, I felt I had no choice. “Yes, all right.”

Pierre’s condo was spectacular, and I was sure if my legs weren’t shaking and my heart drumming out a prestissimo rhythm in my chest I would have taken the time to really appreciate his style and flair for minimalism. As it was, the only thing I managed to really absorb was the view. From the penthouse suite, the view of the Hudson River at night was breathtaking, and I bided my time gazing out the window to take a few deep breaths and calm my nerves.

Even though I had agreed to accompany Pierre back to his apartment, I didn’t want to be there and wasn’t entirely sure I could go through with what he had planned. Baxter was ever-present in my mind. His gray eyes that held me captive; his smile that could brighten the darkest of days; his voice that lifted my heart with its melodic warmth. He may not have been in my life anymore, but he was forever in my heart.

Through the reflection of the window, I watched Pierre mixing drinks before removing his bowtie and loosening his shirt buttons. My body tensed and I willed it to relax and just accept the fate I had chosen. It wouldn’t last long, and heaven knew I wasn’t the first girl to be in this position.
Relax, just relax,
I repeated in my mind over and over, but the gnawing on my lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth confirmed to me that this just wasn’t going to work. I had to go home. I had to call a cab and … but where the hell was I, exactly?

Pierre’s sleazy demeanor was turned up ten notches as he silently glided across the floor toward the window where I stood.

“Ah, here we are, little dove. Come take a seat beside me on the sofa.” He took my hand in his to lead me over, but my feet were firmly rooted to the ground. I couldn’t move. “Come now. Let’s not play hard to get.” A firmer tug this time that jerked my arm acted as a warning. We could do this nicely or we could do it roughly—either way it was going to happen.

Sitting on the feather-stuffed leather cushions, I swallowed down the lump in my throat and took a sip of my drink. What was it? Scotch? Rum? I had no idea, but it burned my throat and I choked down a cough before taking a bigger gulp. Pierre’s arm slid around my shoulders across the back of the couch, and it took all my effort not to pull away. He leaned in. The brush of his cold fingertips down my neck sent a wave of ice straight to my heart. If this was going to happen I needed to put up a wall right now, protect my heart, guard the little piece of my soul that would always belong to Bax and keep it safe, pure and whole.

Pierre placed his glass on the coffee table, then with two fingers, tried to prise the drink from my hand. I gripped tighter, not wanting to let go, believing that somehow this piece of crystal could act as a barrier between Pierre and me.

“Come now, Jasmine. This scared-little-girl act isn’t fooling anyone.” He forcibly removed the glass from my hand and placed it on the table. “You saw tonight that I have standing in the arts community.” Lips that felt like a wet fish brushed my neck, making me shiver. “We could do great things together, with your talent and my contacts.”

I closed my eyes and tried to take my mind somewhere else, but the only place I wanted to be was beside Baxter, safe in his warm embrace.

“Now then …”

Pierre’s phone burst into Beethoven’s
Symphony No. 5 in C Minor,
a fitting ring tone for someone of his breeding. He leapt up like the couch was on fire and ran to the phone that sat on the kitchen counter.

I breathed a sigh of relief. With any luck it would be bad news, really bad news, and he would have to fly back to Paris instantly and I would be saved from the biggest mistake of my life. His voice rose, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying as it was all in French. Storming past me, he spared a split second to glance at me from the corner of his eye before opening the balcony door. The cold air whipped through the apartment, sending a wave of goose bumps up my legs before the door was closed again behind him and I was left alone inside.

This was my chance. I pulled my phone from my purse then searched the apartment, poking my head into every room until I found what I was looking for—the study. Surely there would be a utilities bill or something with the address on it so I could call a cab and then sneak out before Pierre was finished with his call. Pierre’s mahogany desk was spotlessly clean apart from an old-fashioned lamp, fountain pen set, and ink well. Damn, there had to be something in a drawer maybe, or in the filing cabinet. I circled the desk to find a set of drawers and commenced pulling them open from top to bottom until I found a filing drawer full of documents.

Bingo!
This had to be what I was searching for. File after file was pulled onto the desk and I scattered papers around, looking for something that would get me out of there, but as I shuffled the documents something caught my eye. These were documents, contracts, and bank statements all pertaining to
When the Ship Comes In
. I scanned down the list of names with my finger. Tiffany, Becca and myself were all on there and next to each name was a dollar amount. I leaned in closer, trying to understand what I was reading. I hadn’t been paid a tenth of what was beside my name, and I doubted any of the others had either. I didn’t understand what I was reading, but my gut told me this was important. Grabbing my phone, I flicked to camera mode and took a photo of the page. Scanning the next page rang more alarm bells, and yet the next, and the next. Bank account details for Switzerland. Credit card statements in various names, and directed to the same post office box address. There was money coming in and going out again so quickly it made my head spin. I didn’t have time to read and absorb it all now, so I clicked off photos of each page and then carefully sorted the papers back in order and neatly filed them in the drawer.

My heart raced. I knew from the knot in my stomach that Pierre was doing something undoubtedly shady with the funding for the production, but what it was I wasn’t sure. Still, I had to find a letter with the address for this condo so I could leave. Poking my head through the doorway, I quickly checked on Pierre. He was still on the balcony, his free hand waving animatedly in the air, his voice rising so loudly it could be heard through the double-glazed door and windows. There was still time and only one file left. Closing my eyes, I said a silent prayer that this would contain what I needed. Slowly, I pulled open the file to find an electric utilities bill. My body physically relaxed; I had what I needed.