Cyril knew that look. He’d met it countless times, from this very chair. Someone would go home happy tonight. Knowing he didn’t want to see, he still turned to scan the crowd.
At first, he couldn’t tell for whom the smoldering glance was meant. A giggling clutch of students snatched at each other’s hands, their cheeks pink with wine and embarrassment. But Aristide wasn’t looking at them.
Alone at his table, Finn Lourdes nursed something he probably couldn’t afford. He was redder than the students, with better reason. Cyril’s jaw clenched. The faces of the crowd around him went slack in sudden amazement, and they all gasped. A few applauded. Something magnificent had happened onstage. Cyril shut his eyes and turned away from Finn.
Another gasp, another round of applause. Someone whistled, sharp and clean. Cyril took a deep breath and opened his eyes again.
Cordelia’s trousers and waistcoat were gone. She wore an elaborate construction of black lace and gold fringe that covered all it needed to and not much more. Aristide was down to rather less than that, and a red feather boa.
Or, no … not a boa. He pulled the drape of ostrich plumes from his shoulders and twirled. The feathers snapped open into two huge fans. He kept one and passed the other to Cordelia in an exchange that involved popping the clasp on her top. She slapped a hand across her chest to keep the cups from falling.
They both spun until they stood back to back at three-quarter angles, fans held open across their bodies. The snare and timpani raced against each other, counting heartbeats between trumpet blasts. And then, with a wail of brass and woodwinds, both Aristide and Cordelia pulled off what little they had on behind the shivering feathers and tossed the jangling bits of gilt and tassels into the pit.
The orchestra hit a beat, the fans snapped shut, and for half a moment they both struck a tantalizing pose. Not quite long enough to see exactly what they were or were not showing, but long enough to make everyone in the audience wonder. Then the lights went out and the crowd screamed for more.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Cordelia was half-in, half-out of her street clothes when Malcolm stepped into her dressing room.
“Knocking,” she said. “Ain’t it a habit some people have?”
“Some more than others.” She scoffed, and he ducked his head. “Sorry, Delia.” He closed the door behind him. “Next time.”
“You’re assuming, Sailer.”
“Queen’s sake. Why you gotta stomp on me before I’m even standing? I came in to ask if you were free for a bite.”
“You clocked me at the interval,” she said. “You know I ain’t.”
His shoulders pulled down and back, tugging the starched front of his white dress shirt into strained wrinkles at the buttonholes. “So you got plans with that swell you been seeing.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. “What about old kite-face Müller? You ain’t angling to take on both at once, I hope.”
“Don’t be a pig, Mal.” She turned her back and presented him with her half-done buttons. “Finish me up. You can make sure I’m shut in nice and tight.” His fingers were calloused; she could hear them, rough against the fine fabric of her dress. “Careful,” she said. “Don’t snag my satin.”
He let out a frustrated breath. It stirred the fine hair at the back of her neck. “You make me so vexed I’d like to skin you, Delia.”
She smiled, then realized he could see her face in the mirror. Too late to drop it, so she looked his reflection in the eyes and made it a tease. He blinked, twice, then scowled and turned his attention back to her buttons. His touch was hot and dry against her bare skin.
“You’re so warm all the time,” she said. “Bet you gave your ma a fright when you was small; always feverish.”
His steady progress up the line of buttons faltered. “Dell…”
“What?” She turned her head, tossing hair across his face. “Something wrong?”
The heat of his hands spread as he opened his palms over the taper of her hips. His thumbs met in the small of her back. “How long you gonna keep this up?” He spoke with his face down, forehead resting in the curve of her neck. His sticky pomade smelled of sweet tobacco.
“I ain’t the one who got all sour in the first place,” she said, leaning into his touch. She shouldn’t encourage him, but it felt good to fall back against that solid chest. They’d get on so well if he wasn’t such a jealous ass.
“So you’ll come on out with me tonight?”
“Mal, I can’t.”
His grip on her waist tightened briefly, and then he pushed away. “Delia!”
“Look, I would, all right? But Cyril wants me to tag along with him and Müller, and I can’t exactly say no.”
“And why’s that? You selling out ’cause he can treat you like a center city swell? You think you’re better than the rest of us?”
“Oh, that’s rich. I’m high and mighty and a whore. The sense you ain’t making would buy a house! Just listen to yourself.”
“Nobody else does.”