Diva XII

The couch in her dressing room was cramped but served the purpose. Ellie lay entangled with her leading man and waited for the inevitable. The awkwardness, the elusive gaze, the mumbled apologies. She tried not to think of her rumpled Chanel suit or what Edith would say when she had to launder it. She tried not to imagine the faces of her colleagues, of Hamilton’s studious ignorance, of Swain’s wry smirk or the narrowed eyes on Margie Hunter. She glanced at the telephone on the vanity, half-expecting it to ring with a frantic Vera on the end of the line.

Everybody knew. Somebody would talk. It would be in all the rags by morning.

What had she done?

Dane’s weight shifted. The cue for remorse. Ellie gave him a shove and set about straightening her skirt. His unkempt costume didn’t look much different. His character’s hair wasn’t as tidy as his eight-by-ten’s either; it just figured that her appearance had suffered more from their tawdry tussle. Her hair was mussed, her jacket torn open—and an earring was missing.

Shit shit shit.

She sat up to feel for it between the cushions. His back was to her while he rearranged his clothes. Ellie kept her face averted, unsure which of them was the more embarrassed.

“Milady?”

While her head was down, Dane had knelt in front of her. One of her black patent pumps was in his hand; she’d heard it hit the floor just as her back had hit the couch. Bewildered by his courtly tone, she frowned at him. He brandished the shoe with a naughty twinkle in his eye.

“If this slipper fits, you’re the girl I’m looking for.”

Ellie’s laugh emerged as an unladylike snort. Clearly, she was the more embarrassed. It was an unusual reversal of roles. Overcompensating made her sound belligerent. “Are you always this gallant after sex?”

“Only if I want a repeat performance,” he answered, frankly. He caught and cradled her stocking foot in his free hand, reclaiming his chivalrous demeanour. “May I?”

She couldn’t keep the colour from flooding her face. “If you insist.”

Her foot slid into the shoe as easily as he had slid into her. She felt something come loose deep inside and she swayed on the point of a mortifying swoon. Dane smiled as if he had half-expected the shoe not to fit, then bent his head and kissed her ankle. Ellie forced herself to speak, to keep the rising tide at bay while she unscrambled her wits.

“They’ll talk about us, you know.”

“Let them talk.”

“You don’t know what they’ll say.”

“Maybe I don’t care.”

“You should,” Ellie said, sadly.

Dane raised his head. “Why?”

His face was open and earnest. His hair tumbled, unruly with spent passion, over his forehead, and in that moment Ellie understood why she was so attracted to him.

Dear God, I could fall in love with this man.

She put a hand to his cheek, ran her fingertips over the angled bone and down to caress his lips. Her touch lingered there, her thoughts teetering against the urge to push him away before either of them got hurt. Dane studied her with his soft grey eyes, and when she finally slid off the sofa, he gathered her into his arms.