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Excerpt
Song of the Vamp
by Megan Hussey
Chapter One
“He’s so hot.”
“He’s a pain in the butt.”
“He’s a hot pain in the butt.”
“A
pain in the butt he remains.”
“It’s a hot butt, nonetheless.”
Antonia Sinn threw up her arms in a gesture of sheer resignation.
“Okay, Lianna, you win.” She rolled her eyes dourly in the direction
of Lianna Rodgers, her longtime friend and verbal sparring partner.
“Sylvan is hot. He’s also a great singer and compelling performer.
From a fan’s point of view, he’s perfect. From a manager’s point of
view…”
“Let me guess!” Lianna interrupted, shooting Antonia what she
considered an annoyingly sardonic grin. “He’s a pain in ye olde
watoosie.”
“Watoosie?” Antonia squinted confusedly then shook her head. “I tell
you, Lianna, he’s impossible. I’ve been his manager for two years
and never can reach him during the daytime. I’m always forced to
arrange my schedule around our dinner meetings. When we meet for
dinner, I’m constantly warding off his female fans. These curious
beings have been known to push me, trip me, and order my meal for
me—usually a raw spinach salad with sharp vinegar oil and extra
anchovies.”
“And speaking of dinner,” Antonia was on a roll. “Whenever we dine
together, he always orders these icky steaks.”
“Icky steaks,” Lianna repeated, head cocked curiously.
“Icky,” Antonia confirmed with a nod. “Extremely rare and blood
red.”
In
a seeming gesture of sympathy, Lianna patted her friend’s shoulder.
Then she turned Antonia in the direction of a broad, brightly
illuminated stage that stood directly before them.
“Just look at him, Toni,” her voice lowered to a whisper. “Can you
blame those women? Can you blame me?”
Antonia shrugged as she directed her gaze to the target of Lianna’s
abject adoration. Bathed in the ethereal light of a vast theatrical
platform, the man on stage resembled a radiant angel fresh from a
heavenly chorus. His golden hair flowed like spun silk around his
broad, muscular shoulders, and his eyes shone like fine emeralds
from a bronzed, carved face.
His
visage appeared angelic, Antonia noted, but his body seemed custom
made for sin. For while his black velvet dinner suit fit the image
of a perfect gentleman, his suggestive hip gyrations and sleek,
sensual dance moves screamed of his sexual nature.
Furthermore, his musical repertoire amplified the sublime eroticism
of his performance. With original songs like Midnight Passion
and For Your Pleasure, performed in a smooth, soulful style,
Sylvan seemed to gear every song toward the female libido.
Judging from the crowd response, he hit his mark every
time. Antonia grinned in spite of herself as she saw several elderly
ladies toss their support hose onstage then squeal like hormonal
teenagers when he repaid their kindness with a wink and a kiss.
Often he went further, inviting a random woman onstage for a
‘serenade’, or as Antonia fondly deemed that portion of the show,
the ‘glorified lap dance’.
She
had to admit, though, that his ‘shtick’ was a success. Every
weekend, his exotic cabaret show packed the house at the Crescent
Moon Theater in Clearview, Florida.
She
could see that, as much as his elusiveness annoyed her, it also
seemed to fuel his success. Local columnists wrote entire articles
about his shows, sexy performances geared for women only, and about
the fact that he never granted daytime interviews; the ones he gave
sometimes after his shows proved brief and unrevealing.
These columnists even came up with a PR-friendly nickname for the
sexy, mysterious crooner; they called him The Vamp. And he
quite enjoyed living up to this sensual moniker, posing for
revealing centerfold layouts in Playgirl magazine and
culminating his shows with daring striptease routines.
His entire show holds an element of tease,
Antonia reasoned, watching as Sylvan ventured into the audience to
writhe suggestively across the lap of a middle-aged fan.
At
evening’s end, he fed their hunger—and ignited their collective
imagination. Antonia quite enjoyed this part of the show; she was
his manager, but…
“I’m still a woman,” she sighed, relaxing in her plush auditorium
seat and nudging an awestruck Lianna. “And I still have a pulse.”
She
watched intently as Sylvan now retrieved a dozen ruby red roses from
the side of the stage. He planted a light, tender kiss across each
one; a simple action that elicited oohs and ahs from
the women assembled.
----------------------------
Keeper of the Night
By Megan Hussey
Prologue
Dodging the bright city lights that lined the street behind her,
Kara Neiman made her way with feverish steps toward The Velveteen
nightclub.
No one needs to know that the mayor’s wife is trying out the homey
establishment known affectionately to locals as the Bin of Sins.
She ducked her head self-consciously.
She
looked sharply upward moments later, her attention captured by the
vision of a man who stood quietly near the entrance. In all
likelihood, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
The
full moon captured the fallen angel in all his luminous glory,
rendering the bronze of his hair and skin in a radiant cast of gold.
His
eyes, by contrast, shone as dark as night as they regarded this
rogue moon, a solitary beacon that seemed to reflect his loneliness.
And his divine mystery.
“Yep,” Kara grinned for the first time that evening. “It’s going to
be an interesting night.”
* * *
*
The
smooth amber hue of an unknown liquid seemed a welcoming vision to
Kara moments later, as she sat huddled in the corner of a darkened
nightclub on the questionable side of town.
Rick and I did campaign in this area once, she slid a cautious
glance across upholstered leather booths to a shiny tiled dance
floor; the current site of intense make-out sessions and intimate
conversations.
I would have traveled to the ends of the earth to get votes for that
man, she shook her head ruefully. Until, that is, I found him
in the arms of that cutesy blonde lobbyist. She balled her fists
in a clear show of heated, repressed anger. Judging from all
those moans, sighs and exaggerated squeals, her vote is secure. Our
marriage? Not so much.
In
a sharp, rebellious motion, Kara took a hearty swig of the cool,
dark liquor that promised to soothe her ills then she recalled
quickly why she never drank.
Coughing violently, Kara doubled over the table before her and
clutched its sides tightly.
She
immediately relaxed as a pair of warm, strong hands clutched her
shaking shoulders, pulling her slowly, gently upward.
“Mrs. Neiman?”
Fabulous. Kara gritted her teeth. I’ve been recognized. With
my luck, this guy is probably a tabloid photographer. Oh well,
she sighed deeply. At least he’s a tabloid photographer with a
sexy voice and strong but strangely nurturing hands.
Finally she raised her disheveled head to greet the concerned
stranger, who she immediately recognized as the ‘fallen angel’ she
had spotted outside.
His
smiling face boasted bronzed cheekbones and full, sumptuous lips;
not to mention a pair of wide dark eyes that likened the hue of her
drink.
And I bet he tastes better, her eyes took a leisurely walk
across the breadth and length of his tall, muscular frame.
Dressed in a long, sleek coat of black leather, the man’s silken
blond hair fell gracefully across his shoulders, which seemed sturdy
and abnormally broad.
“And just how is it that you know me, young man?” she squinted
confusedly.
The
stranger chuckled. “My father ran against your husband in the last
mayoral election.” He arched his feathered eyebrows. “I’m Hayden
Halliwell.”
Kara’s eyes flew wide open in shocked recognition. “The last time I
saw you, you were just a kid,” she shook her head. “Now you’re a...”
“A
man, Kara?” His deep, smooth voice accentuated and illustrated these
softly spoken words.
“A
hunk,” Kara corrected then gestured toward her forsaken drink.
“Sorry. I asked for the strongest stuff in the house, and a single,
partially coughed up drink of it has made me painfully blunt.”
Sliding unceremoniously into her booth, Hayden faced her with folded
arms and a probing, assessing gaze. “So what brings a lady like you
to this part of town?”
Kara shrugged, and shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I suppose there’s
no use in lying about it. The news will hit the papers soon enough.”
Her voice lowered to a confidential whisper. “I caught my husband in
his office, with a lobbyist. And they weren’t debating tax
referendums.”
Sighing deeply, Hayden took her hands into a warm, loving grasp.
“I
don’t know about you, Kara,” her name rolled smoothly from his
velvet tongue, “but I grow weary of hypocrites in three-piece suits.
My needs and pleasures are far more...primal, some might say?”
The
beauty of his face, the tone of his voice, his citrus-tinged scent;
slowly Hayden lulled Kara into a pleasurable trance. One he enhanced
by the feel of his full, moist lips across the bare skin of her
hands.
“I
have a special room in the back, where people know not to bother
me,” he whispered, dazzling her with a catlike smile. “Would you
like a personal tour, Kara?”
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