So since every move she made could be defined as a mistake, then why not just make more interesting mistakes?
A few passengers had gotten on, staying in the front of the bus where they couldn’t hear her. She pulled out the business card that Hannah Gallagher had given her, and stared at it for only a minute before she tapped out the number.
“May I speak to Noah Gallagher?”
“Who may I say is calling?” the receptionist asked.
She hesitated for a second. “Shamira.”
The line clicked open after a brief wait. “Noah Gallagher.” His voice was deep and resonant.
“Hi.” Her voice was too high, but she kept on. “I’m the dancer who came to your office today.”
Brief pause. He must have noticed that she wasn’t calling from Bounce. The company name would have come up on his caller ID.
“Hello, Shamira. I assume that’s a stage name.” His tone was affable. “Do you have a legal name?” No edge to that question, either.
“I don’t need one, for our purposes. Shamira is fine.”
There was another brief pause. “Your agency told me no,” he said. “Emphatically.”
“I’m not calling through the agency. Which you probably noticed.”
“Yes, I did.” He paused. “Will you come and dance for me?”
She inhaled, hardening her belly to steel. “Three thousand in cash, for a four minute dance, like the one I did this morning. No touching. None whatsoever.”
“Of course not,” he said. “I explained that to Gareth. However, I can understand why you might have concerns. If you like, I can arrange for a few admin staffers to stay late. They won’t mind the overtime at our going rate.”
“Good to know, I guess, but—”
“All women, by the way. And you’ll meet them. One is top-ranked in martial arts. She’d personally kick my ass to hell and back if I made one wrong move.”
How about that. But Caro hesitated.
“They’ll be right outside the office while you perform. It’ll be very safe for you. When can you come?”
“When do you want me?”
She could almost hear him smile. “Right now.”
The controlled sensuality in that voice made her toes curl inside her rain-sodden sneakers. Her dragging tiredness was magically gone. A feeling she could not name rippled through her, fierce and bright.
Hot, strong. Free. For the first time in so damn long.
She peered out into the darkness, disoriented. Tried to figure out where the bus was on its loop. From what she could tell she was on her way back toward the downtown area. “I’ll be there within the hour,” she told him rashly.
She sat there restlessly, electrified. And going nuts. Every leisurely stop, each time the door wheezed its rubbery flaps open to let people on or off, every red light made her belly clench with urgency.
After she got closer to downtown, she couldn’t stand the pace any more. She had just enough cash in her purse to cab it the rest of the way.
Phone check. The seemingly endless journey had taken fifty-six minutes. The downstairs lobby area was close to deserted. The dark, gleaming expanses of marble looked vaguely sinister. Besides security, there was only an elegant older woman at the marble counter, wearing a lightweight headset that Caro mistook for an accessory at first. Uh-oh. She would have to clear reception.
She looked up when Caro approached.
“I’m here to see Noah Gallagher,” Caro told her.
The woman’s discerning gaze flicked over Caro’s frumpy coat, hat and glasses, reminding her of the drawbacks of her disguise. It was fine on the street, a bus, a big store. But in a context like this it was memorable because it fit no category in particular. Aside from “all wrong.” The receptionist raised an eyebrow as she glanced at Caro’s duffel bag.
“I’m from Bounce Entertainment,” Caro explained. “He’s expecting me.”
The woman looked politely dubious. “May I check your bag?”
“Feel free.” Caro unzipped it on the counter.
Filmy purple veils exploded out. The woman poked at the contents: wigs, bangles, belt, jeweled headdress. “Let me call up.” She punched buttons on a wide console and spoke into the headset. “There’s a woman from Bounce Entertainment who says . . . . oh. I see.” Her expression became fractionally warmer. “Twenty-fourth floor.” Her crisp professionalism never faltered.
The office suite upstairs was quiet, but there were still people there. A white-haired lady in her sixties, glasses hanging around her neck, greeted her at the reception desk and introduced herself as Harriet Aronsen. Probably not the martial arts champ. But you never knew.
“Mr. Gallagher is waiting,” she said briskly. “Follow me.”
Caro intended to ask if she could change in the same unused office she’d used earlier, but the words froze in her throat. She followed Mrs. Aronsen, who stopped at a door and spoke into a wall-mounted intercom after pressing a button. “Mr. Gallagher? Your appointment has arrived.”