through the sheer force of his incredible masculine beauty.
Boasting a silken fall of auburn hair and wide, dark eyes, Ian also sported carved cheekbones and full, sumptuous lips; a mouth made all the more sumptuous when pursed in a kiss.
Sweeping her up in his arms, Ian pressed that succulent mouth to hers as he cradled her to him. Their hands clenched between them as their tongues entangled, their bodies clinging in a passionate clench that made their hearts race.
The pace steadied as Ian massaged her shoulders with warm, nurturing hands; his lips continuing to woo and coax hers as his hands mimicked his movements.
Finally Moira broke away, cupping his face in tender hands.
“Well blessed good eve to you too Guvna.” She chuckled in spite of herself. “How are you Ian?”
She trembled as he took her in his arms once again, staring into her eyes with a raw, bare hunger that shook her to the core.
“I’m desperate for you,” he growled, running his fingers through her soft dark hair as he buried his head in her neck. “Why have you never returned to the theater?”
Breaking their clutch, Moira took Ian’s hand and lead her lover to the prized floral settee that marked the center of the room. Motioning for him to sit, she once again took his hands in hers and fixed him with a sincere gaze.
“Ian, I really look forward to seeing my novel produced on your stage,” she nodded. “And I would indeed like to spend more time with the Ballet Noir cast, one member in particular.” She nudged him with tender affection. “Only you must admit, Ian, that my last visit to Theater Satine was,” she paused, grasping for the right words, “just a mite unorthodox.”
Ian shrugged.
“Well I suppose one would call an impromptu fit of orgiastic ecstasy, coupled of course with a blatant show of erotic vampirism, to be just a bit unorthodox,” he twitched his lips, obviously trying to suppress his laughter.
“Yes, just a bit,” Moira grinned in spite of herself, adding with an awkward gesture, “I may need just a bit more time to adjust to your way of living.”
“Perhaps this will help.”
Reaching into the deepest pocket of his long, black velvet coat, Ian withdrew a small rectangular card, handing it to Moira with a mysterious smile. “This is our proposed lobby card for the new production.”
Moira’s eyes flew wide as they beheld a miniature work of art; a miniature painting with a border of roses, that depicted two performers interlocked in what appeared to be an intimate dance.
She immediately recognized the title of the show, “The Phantom Lover”; she ran her fingers across the scarlet block letters that formed this title on the face of the beauteous canvas.
Next she touched the image of the male dancer depicted on the card; one that bore an uncanny-and very becoming-likeness to her own Ian.
“You’re beautiful,” she breathed, her fingertips seeming to memorize every curve and line of his face.
“Thank you,” he chuckled, gracing her cheek with a grateful kiss. “I fear, though, that my beauty does not equal that of my leading lady.”
“Really?” Stiffening beside him, Moira reluctantly shifted her gaze to the image of the phantom maiden; the one who would portray Micheline, the heroine of The Phantom Lover.
She immediately recognized the woman’s full-figured form, as well as her fair skin, wide dark eyes, and long ebony hair. Furthermore, this dancer posed in a scarlet-hued dress that looked eerily similar to her favorite frock.
“Ian,” she breathed, “You’ve found my twin! This woman not only likens my heroine,” she trembled in spite of herself, “She mirrors me, in every way.”
Ian smiled, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.
“She is you, love,” he whispered in her ear.
Eyes flying wide, Moira turned to pen Ian with a disbelieving stare.
Then she started laughing. Hard.
“Me, a ballerina?” She howled. “I fear I couldn’t dance if you dropped a flock of fire ants into the deepest reaches of my petticoats.”
Ian laughed.
“Since I met you, love, I find it difficult to dance-or do much of anything else-with anyone else.” He squeezed her shoulders, nipping her ear with an appreciative tongue. “I asked Bethelyn if she would allow you to dance the lead, and she immediately agreed.”
Moira shook her head.
“That’s lovely Darling, but really,” she arched her eyebrows, “as I so ably demonstrated the night we met at Theater Satine, I’m a writer-not a dancer.”
She took in her breath as Ian swept her in his arms; burying his head in her neck and coating its nape with ardent kisses.
“I’ve taught you many wonderful things since that night,” he growled, his hands enclosing her waist. “Did you not enjoy those lessons?”
Moira answered him with the flush of her cheeks and the swiftness of her breath.
“At least a bit,” she gasped out, giggling as he reached up to rub her breasts through the surface of their confining cloth.
“I thought as much,” Ian winked, adding more seriously, “Really though Darling, I did notice a great deal of grace and ease in your movements that night at the theater-along, I might add, with a healthy dose of sensuality.”
“Well I wonder why that might be,” she tweaked his nose. “I was never asked to dance that much at society balls, so I could never ascertain my talent.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I could try my luck on the stage.”
“Wonderful!” Ian applauded, adding with the sly waggle of his feathered eyebrows, “Care if I try my luck with you, lass?”
Moira rolled her eyes.
“Behave!” She graced his shoulder with a playful slap. “We should at least have dinner first. To the dining room with you, you beautiful rake!”
Across town another woman tossed restless in her bed; her movements rousing her golden haired lover from the depths of the deepest sleep.
“Bethelyn?” His silky reams of golden hair falling soft across his forehead, Noel-a male ballet star and one of the leading draws of Theater Satine-opened his angelic blue eyes to greet a new evening.
In the light of the bright luminous moon that shone forth through a nearby window, Noel’s bronzed, golden haired perfection was truly a sight to behold; yet Bethelyn could manage only a small smile as she turned to address him.
“Good eve, my beauty.” She ran the back of her chubby hand down the length of his carved cheek. “Did you sleep well?”
“You didn’t.” Noel frowned immediately, running a comforting hand down Bethelyn’s back. “You look as though you haven’t slept at all.”
“Why thank you, young man.” Bethelyn rolled her eyes. “Did I not teach my young men at Theater Satine to sing a woman’s praises at all times?” She slid a single condemning finger across Noel’s perfect lips. “Only words of glowing praise should pass those lovely lips.”
Ignoring her scolding words, Noel wrapped his arms around his lover and tilted his head against his.
“What troubles you, my lady?”
A sighing Bethelyn sank in his arms, running a soothing hand through the strands of his long blond hair.
“This morning I had a meeting with Zelda Martin, the investor behind many of our shows,” she explained. “I asked her to fund the production of The Phantom Lover, and she agreed-with one condition.” He sighed. “She wants Ian in her bed.”
“Ian?” Jerking upward, Noel shook his head in a show of utter shock. “He is in love with Moira.”
