Wicked After Midnight(51)

A glow ahead made my feet move faster, and I soon stood in the most opulent room I’d seen yet in Paris. It was the elephant’s belly, the glowing copper hung with velvet and silks like a maharaja’s palace, with expensive furniture pressed close to the curved walls. The floor, at least, was flat, the wood boards new and polished and covered with sumptuous rugs. A painted screen broke the space up into two distinct rooms, and I would have bet everything I owned that a bed was on the other side of it. But there was no one else there; it was empty. And not a single sniff of Bludman rode the air. No Cherie.

Not that kind of prison, then. Unfortunately.

“You’ll stay here tonight. Outfit’s on the other side of the screen. Best get ready.”

“Get ready for what, Auguste?”

His smirk was pitying and a little leering. “What do you think, mademoiselle? Being a star ain’t free.”

With a faux-courtly bow of his head, he ducked back into the elephant’s leg, leaving me alone. Unnerved but still amped from my performance, I went to the gramophone on a small table and pressed the button without checking to see what music waited on the disc. Having grown accustomed to Casper’s masterly playing in the caravan, I was generally disappointed by popular music, but I needed something soothing. The song that started after a mechanical buzz was slow and sleazy. I was flipping through the other records when I heard footsteps on the copper stairs. I gasped and ran behind the screen.

Oh, what a bed. Round and covered in a mound of pillows, it was clear that only fools would sleep on such a sexy piece of furnishing before they’d completely exhausted each other. All around the bed, the copper walls were painted with bright blue skies, pink-tinged clouds, and daimon children dressed as cherubs with mechanical wings and crossbows. Hanging from a hook on the wall was a delicate wire hanger, and hanging from that by two pathetic silken strings was the slinkiest, most nonexistent dress I’d seen since waking up in Sang, half-dead and craving blood.

A foot landed on the wooden boards with a creak.

“La Demitasse?” a cultured but unfamiliar voice called gently.

The breath caught in my throat. Who was it? Surely not the duke. Or was it? And not Monsieur Philippe, thank heavens. But that left an awful lot of rich, horny men in tuxedos who might have bought their way into my life.

“Just a moment, monsieur,” I called, keeping my voice low and light.

“I’ll pour the wine, chérie, while I wait.”

The offhand use of my best friend’s name was all it took to propel me into motion. Every man I got close to here was one more suspect on my list, one more possibility. With my sharp sense of smell, I would know immediately if he’d been near her. And that meant that I had to slither into the dress on the hanger and make nice with whatever silver-tongued predator had landed on the doorstep.

My hands were numb as I untied the skirt and undid all the layers of my costume. I almost missed the impenetrable armor of a corset, but in this case, every breath was welcome. The gramophone music buzzed and wheedled, echoing off the metal and filling the room with the promise of sensuality. After checking that the gentleman’s back was turned, his hands busy with cutting the wax and uncorking and pouring the wine, I stripped off my costume and kicked it under the bed.

The male form I’d seen had been utterly unremarkable in every way. Darkish hair, slimmish figure, the same black tux required of every visitor to Paradis. His hat sat on the table beside him, and a long coat was draped possessively over a chaise. Before he could turn around, I tugged the dress down over my head, the soft cotton and filmy lace whispering over my bare skin. I kept on the new bloomers Blue had made for me, this pair in black lace with foamy layers of ruffles. A full-length mirror by the bed showed a slight rumple at the waist, as the negligee wasn’t designed to conceal anything, but I wasn’t about to go into this unexpected meeting without underwear on.

I was a fool for being at all surprised. I had been warned in different ways that being a star came with certain requirements, including spending time with the customers, who paid heavily for the privilege. But I had never agreed, in writing or in words, to barter my body or sexual favors of any sort. No matter what the gent in the other room might have been thinking, no matter what he thought he had paid for, no matter how Sylvie defined “anything,” I didn’t owe him shit, and I wouldn’t forget that. I’d tease the hell out of him, but I wasn’t going to be a whore. Not now, not ever.

The cork popped. Liquid gently gurgled.

“The wine is ready, mademoiselle. Won’t you join me?”