Chapter 6
Audience with a Queen
F or a queen, Cleopatra looked decidedly ordinary, except for her height, which was remarkable, Ottilie thought. Of course, there was little doubt society would regard this woman as gorgeous. Cleo had an otherworldly gracefulness to her, gliding about like the dancer she was, head poised, her swan-like neck perfectly straight.
And yet, even as an abstract notion, Ottilie couldn’t bring herself to find Cleopatra beautiful. She was also well aware this was a “her” problem because Ottilie truly found very few people attractive.
“Interesting,” Cleo said. “Very interesting.”
“Hmm?” Ottilie regarded her. “I’m sorry, what is?”
“Monique said she was sending a friend over who wanted the showgirl experience…or at least some photos of one for a friend . That is always a lie; the friend is them. Well, I expected the usual: Someone awestruck. Or, someone at least…interested.” Cleo gave a curling half smile. “Are you even here willingly? Is this a hostage situation?” She laughed then, long and hard. Her waist-length raven hair shook, as did her gold-coin-laden brassiere. Her bosom… tinkled .
“Sorry.” Ottilie was usually so much better at feigning interest in social settings. “I’ve only been in Vegas a few days. I flew in from Europe. I’m a little jet-lagged. You are, of course, a most impressive individual.”
Cleo snorted. “So much conviction.” She clutched her chest. “Come now, tell me the truth: why am I not dazzling you with my razzle?” Cleo’s grin was cheeky.
“I really do have a friend with an interest in dancing. It’s not me, though.”
“Oh, I actually believe you. And I think Monique was enjoying herself a great deal sending you to me. She knew.”
“Knew what?”
“How I love women who are outside the mold.”
Ottilie frowned. She was the most mold-fitting woman in existence. At least, that’s what she projected to the world. Cleo should not have been able to detect otherwise.
“Now, come on through, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the showgirl family.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Ottilie said. “I’d be happy just to take a photo of you.”
“Nonsense. That’s not the full showgirl experience! Besides, you’ve presented me with a challenge, and I do love a challenge.”
“A…challenge?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll have you respecting everything showgirls are before this rehearsal is out.”
“I respect them now,” Ottilie tried. In truth, she hadn’t given the profession much thought.
“Do you, though?” Cleo clucked her tongue. “You don’t know anything about us.”
“That is true.”
“Exactly.”
“But I can appreciate the hard work it takes to dance professionally while knowing little about it.”
“Perhaps. Now, then, how do you know Monique? Do you know how rare it is for her to ask me for a favor?”
“Is it?” Ottilie asked in surprise. “I barely know her. She treated my neck, asked me to breakfast, and offered to solve my showgirl problem.”
Cleo’s gaze raked her. “Well, well. I wonder what makes you so different. That is out of character.”
It was? “How do you know her?”
Cleo led her to a stage. “I’ve known her forever. I lured her to Vegas, you know. Well, sort of. She came for business and fell in love with my world. Oh, those were wild days. It was all a lifetime ago, though.” She turned to the dancers in the background and clapped her hands. “We have a guest for today’s rehearsal,” Cleo announced to the room. “Ottilie.”
Bored, impassive faces of more ordinary (to Ottilie) women stared at her.
“And you will treat her well because Monique has sent her.”
That earned some suddenly awake looks. Apparently, Monique’s name carried a certain weight. Surely Monique hadn’t…plied her trade to all these women?
Well, what if she had? It really wasn’t any of Ottilie’s business, was it?
One of the young women in the auditioning dancers’ group craned her neck for a better look at Ottilie. The blonde all but crawled up the back of another dancer to check her out, expression cool and assessing.
What was that about?
* * *
The rehearsal proved to be surprisingly interesting. The women were all tall—obviously—but their legs made up most of their height; their torsos were disproportionately small.
Cleo’s lead dancer, a blonde named Sahara, was helped into a set of wings attached by way of something they called a “backpack.”
The woman’s fixed smile faltered the moment it went on.
“This weighs sixty pounds,” Cleo explained, turning back to Ottilie. “All the feathers are real—ostrich, goose, and duck. I saved this backpack from one of my old shows.” Her expression turned wistful before she returned her attention to the dancers and clapped again. “From the top!”
Cleopatra glanced at the separate auditioning dancers’ group, who were watching, rapt. “Pay close attention to the kicks,” she called to them. “I’ll test you on what you’ve seen a little later.”
The more they rehearsed, the more Ottilie could see the high level of skill. Not just the moves, but the balance. Coming down stairs, twirling, keeping perfect pace with the others. What interested her most was that although Sahara was the lead dancer, and clearly talented, she did little actual dancing herself. Probably not surprising with sixty pounds on her slender back.
A pair of muscled men were always at her side to offer their arms and move her, keeping her perfectly stable. How interesting. It was so seamlessly done, if you didn’t know what you were looking at, you wouldn’t see it.
When the dancers took a break, Ottilie asked Cleo about the technical aspects: the way Sahara had been protected and moved to appear more agile than the enormous wings allowed.
Cleo gave her a curious look. “Most people are so distracted by the theatrics and glitter that they don’t see what we do.” She tilted her head. “What do you do?”
“I’m retired.”
“And before then?”
“Personal assistant.”
Cleo nodded slowly. “Were you one of those PAs who practically did their boss’s job too?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You absolutely ooze competence.”
“I was good at my job,” she said neutrally.
“You’re a careful one, aren’t you? Careful with your words. You watch people.”
“I’m just observant.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were an undercover detective. Met a few of those over the years. They always had a tell: noticed too much.”
Ottilie laughed. “No. Just a boring retiree.”
“Boring? Oh, I don’t think so. If you were, Monique wouldn’t have sent you. Boring doesn’t turn her head.”
“Or she’s just helping out someone who needed a photo of some showgirls.”
“Monique doesn’t do that either. She likes to keep a tight rein on everyone in her life. Everyone stays in their appropriate circle: colleague, acquaintance, or client; never the twain shall meet.” Cleo tapped a few notes into her phone, glancing at her dancers a few times as if to remember some stray thought. Then she added casually, not looking up, “What’s interesting is that Monique doesn’t have a friendship circle. There’s just me. I’m the only one.”
“No?” That seemed hard to believe.
“She has plenty of acquaintances, of course. She’s a popular lady: outgoing, clever, beautiful, and amusing. Everyone enjoys having her around. But she’s private and plays her cards close to her chest. She lets people in only so far. So many have tried to get close over the years, but she’s not interested. With you, though? You barely know her, yet she calls you a friend. She had to know I’d notice that.”
“She was being polite. I assure you we’re not friends.”
Cleo snickered softly. “That’s funny. Most people would kill to be called Monique’s friend. She’s just got that allure, hasn’t she?”
Ottilie supposed she did if you were interested in peopling . Ottilie was considerably more interested in retiring. And Mai Tais. Beach. Bliss. She gave a small shrug. “Well, I won’t be in Las Vegas for long, so any sort of friendship is rather pointless. She took me to breakfast this morning, and I still don’t understand why. I said as much.” Ottilie added with her driest tone, “She accused me of being interesting.”
Cleo suddenly snapped her fingers. “Oh, I see. You’re a cat!”
“A.…cat?” Ottilie peered at her. Was she being insulted?
“Yes. The more someone wants a cat to like them, the more indifferent they are. So the more intrigued Monique is and the more you shrug, the more Monique wants to know you. Pure cat.” Cleo’s smile was wide and amused. “Damn. She can’t figure you out. That must fascinate her to no end.”
“There is nothing to figure out. I’m not interested in your friend in any way, but she acts as if that’s rare and curious.”
“It is. Everyone wants a piece of Monique. Even those who hate everything she stands for still gravitate toward her. She intrigues everyone.”
“Not everyone,” Ottilie said, even as a sense of disquiet stirred within her. Was that even true? Or had Monique gotten under her skin a little too? Last night’s massage, for instance, had been more pleasurable than she’d care to admit. She eyed Cleo impatiently. “Would I be able to get a photo soon? If that’s acceptable? For my friend?”
“Yes, we can do that now. But you’ll have to be in it.”
“No, thank you.”
“Too bad.” Cleo beamed. “It’s a condition of me allowing photos with my girls.”
Ottilie eyed her pointedly, well aware there was no such condition. Cleo was obviously just amusing herself.
The things I do for Hannah.
* * *
“Is it true you’re a friend of Monique’s?” one of the backup dancers asked as Ottilie was positioned next to Sahara. Wearing purple tights and a bright-red Carrie Jordan T-shirt, the questioner looked barely out of high school.
“No,” she replied coolly.
“Oh, damn,” she said. “I was going to ask for an introduction. I was hoping she could set up my financial portfolio this year.”
Ottilie turned to look at her. “What?”
“She helps out a lot of the girls. I’m not sure if she’s taking on any new clients. I heard she’s not working full-time anymore.”
“She does investment work?” Ottilie clarified. That was the job involving spreadsheets Monique had mentioned?
“Daphne’s portfolio had a massive return last year. Isn’t that right, Daph?”
Daphne, a lithe, elegant woman wearing more feathers than seemed sensible for someone in her late fifties, agreed, “Oh, yes. I’m retiring early next year thanks to her.”
The blonde auditioning dancer appeared out of nowhere, raking a curious gaze over Ottilie. “Can anyone get her financial services?” she asked. It seemed as if it was just something for her to say. The insincerity dripped off her. “Where do we sign up?” Her smile was over-wide.
“All right, pussycat,” Cleo said, her gaze direct and amused as she approached Ottilie. “Your turn. Tatas primed!” She held up the phone Ottilie had handed her two minutes ago for the photo.
“My tatas are staying put,” Ottilie objected just as Sahara and Daphne, on either side of her, pushed in sideways against her and turned on dazzling smiles for the camera.
Cleo tapped the phone, then reviewed her work. She burst out laughing. “Oh, it’s a keeper. Your dancer friend will love it.”
Ottilie walked over to have a look, and yes, indeed, the showgirls looked spectacular, while Ottilie, a full foot shorter, had boobs pressed into either side of her face. Her expression was exasperated. It was too absurd not to be funny. Hannah would love it. She sighed mightily.
How had she gotten roped into this at all?
“I’m sending myself a copy,” Cleo announced, fingers and thumbs a blur over Ottilie’s phone keypad. “Sahara and Daphne have never looked better.” Then she smirked. “And I know someone else who’d love a copy.”
Ottilie sighed again.
* * *
After the photos were done and everyone was packing up, rehearsals over, Ottilie waited for Cleo in order to properly thank her. She’d considered at length what to give her in return and decided on something she might not even appreciate.
“Who is she?” Ottilie asked Cleo, subtly indicating the nosy blonde dance applicant she’d noticed earlier.
“Bella Higgins. Her parents are rich. She doesn’t need the work, let’s put it that way.”
“Can she dance well?” Ottilie asked.
“Well enough to be in serious contention,” Cleo said absentmindedly. She tapped some papers straight in a pile, then placed them into a folder.
“Don’t hire her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Bella is a sociopath trying to get her closest rivals to quit.”
Cleo’s head snapped up, and she shot Ottilie a charged look. “Okay, what ?”
“I noticed immediately she was not like the others. She was so watchful and careful, perceptive, always wanting to be at the center of where the attention was. Also, she was the one steering the conversation among the younger dancers. The topics started off innocuously enough but kept taking darker turns.”
“Darker turns? What do you mean?”
“Weirdest place you’ve ever had sex, she’d ask. And weirdest person,” Ottilie said.
“That’s not that unusual. Young people do love to discuss sex.”
“Yes, but not once did she supply answers to any of her questions. She’s a collector. She was digging out information on her competition all morning. Mentally storing it away. Perhaps as insurance or for blackmail? But she was subtle and cunning. And just by being there, collecting, she was unbalancing the group dynamic.”
“Are you sure she never answered any of her own questions?” Monique asked slowly.
“Positive. She was testing the girls for all their weaknesses, mentally noting them. It’s deliberate and calculating. I’d liken her to a velociraptor.”
“I…see.” A troubled frown crossed her face. “I’d been counting on her parents to make a donation to our cause. I suppose that won’t be happening.” Cleo tilted her head. “So, one bad apple aside, do you have a new respect for my dancers?”
“Yes.” Ottilie nodded. “Especially how they push through the pain threshold.”
“Excuse me?”
“Roman?” Ottilie studied her. “His shoulder injury? He can’t take any weight on it after only a few hours of rehearsals.”
Cleo glanced toward her male lead taking a drink in the adjacent room. “His injury was six months ago. He’s fully healed.”
“Are you sure?” Ottilie asked, tilting her head. “He’s holding his water bottle in his left hand despite being right-handed. Before rehearsals, he held it in his dominant hand.”
“How do you even know he’s right-handed?” Cleo peered at her.
“He scratched his back a minute ago with his right hand. But you already know he’s right-handed.”
Cleo narrowed her eyes for a moment, then straightened. “Roman,” she announced cheerfully, but her gaze had fixed on him like a bulldog. “Are you available to practice that lift after Sahara’s flick kick jump?”
Sahara glanced up from where she was pulling on her sneakers on the opposite side of the room, a question on her face.
“With me ,” Cleo clarified. “Just another fifteen minutes should do it.”
Roman winced. “Uh.” He hesitated. “Sure. Uh. Today, though? I have an appointment in half an hour.” He was a terrible liar.
“Never mind.” Cleo turned back to regard Ottilie. She didn’t say anything, but her disappointment was clear that Ottilie had been right.
“I’m sorry,” Ottilie said. “I thought you’d want to know.”
“Mm.” Cleo shook her head. “Fresh eyes, I suppose.”
“Yes.” With that, she took her leave.