The Virgin’s Dance_Older Man Younger Woman Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

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  The Virgin’s Dance (Older Man/Younger Woman Romance)

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Virgin’s Dance Extended Epilogue

  Dance of Love (A BDSM Romance)

  Old Habits (A Doctor’s Romance)

  Dressing The Billionaire (An Office Romance)

  Dancing at a Distance (A Daddy Next Door Romance)

  About The Author

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  The Brady Files

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  At work, I’m one man; at home, I’m the complete opposite…

  That’s because at home I can wash up after getting filthy.

  The dirtier, the better, has always been my motto when it comes to sex.

  I’d had a lull in my sex-life since I began working at WOLF. That lull was about to end.

  Veronica and I met in the lobby at WOLF. She was interested in becoming an intern, and I was just plain interested in her.

  Voluptuous, tantalizing, gorgeous, you name, this chick had it. She had it all, in spades. So I took her in. Got my boss to hire her on to intern under me.

  She would be under me, all right. All day and all night too.

  If I could get her to get past her fear of intimacy with the man who was her boss.Me …

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  The Virgin’s Dance

  (Older Man/Younger Woman Romance)

  By Michelle Love

  In the cutthroat world of contemporary ballet, young principal dancer Boheme Dali is already a trailblazer. The first Indian American woman to become principal at a major New York ballet company, Boh hides the tragedy of her past as she works tirelessly to become prima ballerina and make her mark on the world.

  What she doesn’t expect is to fall in love. But when world-renowned photographer Pilot Scamo, heir to a vast fortune, comes into her life, she discovers a soulmate and a creative partner like no other.

  A passionate, sensual affair begins as Boh and Pilot begin to work on a project which will bring them both plaudits and fame, but at the center of it all are two people, both traumatized and damaged, who discover something beautiful.

  Soon enough though, dark forces swirl around the happy couple, and a serious of tragic and horrifying events threaten to destroy their happiness. Can Boh and Pilot’s love survive everything working against them and can they find their happy ever after?

  New York City

  September

  She stood on the roof, looking down at the stream of diamonds and pearls, the headlights and taillights of the cars flowing through Manhattan’s streets. She liked the way it moved like a flood of sparkles beneath her, like the theater lights flickered when she was dancing.

  Her feet scuffed along the concrete wall that surrounded the roof. It had been so easy to get up here. She smiled. Normally heights would make her stomach knot up and her legs shake, but not tonight. No, tonight was a command performance, and she was ready. She stood en pointe, ready to begin as the music in her head began to play.

  Glissade, jeté, pas de bourrée, brisé. Along the wall to the far corner of the building. She had chosen this particular building because of its significance to her. To him. She could have gone to the ballet company’s own building in Tribeca, but no, this building was her choice for her final performance.

  In this building, three floors below her, he was fucking his latest whore. She counted—this was his sixth since the divorce, since he’d left her with nothing. Fuck you, Kristof, just fuck you. She’d enjoyed posting the letter to the New York Times, detailing Kristof’s ill-treatment of her, the drug-taking, the philandering. Fuck him and fuck that ballet company. She was the prima, she would always be the prima …

  She stood, en pointe, at the corner of the wall, and spread out her arms gracefully, her fingers perfectly placed, preparing for her grand jeté.

  The big leap.

  She smiled, bent her knees, and took off.

  ©Copyright 2018 by Michelle Love - All rights Reserved

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights are reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  Chapter One

  New York City

  One year later

  Pilot Scamo closed his eyes and counted to ten, willing his phone to stop buzzing. Don’t give in to her, don’t answer the phone. To his relief, the phone fell silent, and he breathed out a sigh.

  Looking up, he saw a table of young women staring at him and giggling. He smiled at them, and sure enough, a moment later, one of them dared to come over.

  “Mr. Scamo?”

  He stood and shook the young woman’s hand. “Hey there.” She flushed red with pleasure. He posed for a selfie with her and signed her notepad. She thanked him and went back to her table.

  He was used to the attention. His name was well-known in celebrity circles now, thanks to his skill behind the camera.

  Pilot Scamo, the son of a billionaire Italian city banker and an American feminist, was nearly forty now, but age had not withered his incredible looks. Intense green eyes, dark olive skin, and an unruly mop of wild dark curls meant he was catnip to women—and men—and people assumed he would be someone who slept around.

  His ex-wife always assumed he was fucking the models and celebrities he shot for Vogue and Cosmo and so she had taken a myriad of lovers in their fifteen-year marriage. Pilot? Not once. He had been steadfastly faithful to Eugenie, even as she screwed her way through her Upper East Side friends’ husbands, then his friends, his colleagues … even his ex-best friend Wallis. Wally had been drunk, and devastated afterward, but Genie had crowed in Pilot’s face.

  Her cruelty had been her own way of loving him.

  But, even now, three years after he’d finally had enough and divorced Genie, she still kept him on a string, using his kind nature against him, always playing the victim, the narcissist in her unleashed. She had been desperate to cling to him, proud to be on the arm of such a beautiful man, the envy of every woman.

  Her cocaine habit had grown out of control, and now the rail-thin blonde was heading for some sort of crisis. But God help me, I can’t be part of it, Pilot thought now. He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. Nelly was late, of course. His old college buddy, now the publicist for one of America’s most prestigious ballet companies, was irreverent, gossipy, and the complete opposite of Genie—the two women loathed each other and made no secret of it, and
so he hadn’t seen Nelly for nearly seven years. When she’d called him out of the blue and arranged a lunch at Gotan on Franklin Street, Pilot had been delighted.

  He saw her now, barreling through the door, her messenger bag knocking a glass off a table, her musical laugh as she apologized to the server who came to help. Pilot grinned as he watched Nelly charm the young man, then she was hugging Pilot. “Gorgeous boy, how are you?”

  Pilot kissed her cheek. “I’m good, thank you, Nel. Glad to see you again.”

  They sat down and Nelly unwound her scarf from her neck, studying him. “You look stressed. Maleficent still bugging you day and night?”

  Pilot had to laugh. Nelly’s disdain for Eugenie was biting and hilarious—or would be if it wasn’t so on the money. “You know Genie.”

  “Unfortunately.” Nelly grimaced. “She showed up to one of the company’s benefits the other day with a dude who could have been your mini-me.”

  A curl of unease crept through Pilot’s body. Jesus, really, Genie? She was determined to humiliate him at every turn. Nelly noticed his expression and her own softened. “Hey, for what it’s worth, she was a laughing stock.”

  “That doesn’t help.” Pilot blew out his cheeks and fixed a smile on his face. “But let’s get back to you. It’s so good to see you, Nel.”

  She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You too, Pil. God, you get better looking every year—if only I was born liking dudes, I’d do you sideways.”

  Pilot snorted with laughter. “Sideways? How exactly would that work?”

  “You dare to question me?” Nelly grinned. “How’s work?”

  Pilot’s smile faded. “Slow. I have an exhibit coming up at MOMA, to benefit the Quilla Chen Foundation … Grady Mallory offered it to me, but I haven’t got anything. Not anything.” He tapped his head. “Nothing is going on up here; the juice isn’t flowing. I spend my days just wandering around the city, hoping something will trigger an idea.”

  “Hobo.”

  Pilot smiled. “Brainless hobo, at the moment.”

  “Well, I may be able to help.”

  They were interrupted then by the waiter who took their order, grilled cheese for Pilot, a cauliflower and tahini sandwich for Nelly, a lifelong vegetarian. As Pilot sipped his coffee, he raised his eyebrows at Nelly. “So?”

  “The Company is struggling,” she said matter-of-factly. “Since Oona’s suicide, and the crap in the paper about Kristof, our funding has dropped significantly.”

  “I read about that … so that stuff about Kristof isn’t true?”

  “Oh, no,” Nelly shook her head, “it’s all true. He is a junkie and a cheating asshole, but he’s also a genius artistic director. Really, he couldn’t be more clichéd if he tried, but Oliver Fortuna is determined to keep hold of him.”

  “Who is Fortuna?”

  Nelly smiled. “Our founder. God bless him, he’s wonderful, and he’s intensely loyal.” She sighed. “Too loyal, sometimes. Anyway, I digress. We were talking about ways to up our profile without referencing Kristof’s past, and a photographic exhibit of our dancers, shot by one of the best photographers in the work—you—would be a great start. Then, we’re working towards a major performance of work, called La Petite Morte. Kristof is putting it together—it’s an excerpt from erotic ballets with a dark twist.”

  Pilot was nodding, but he wasn’t enthused. “I’m happy to help but it’s been done, recently too.”

  “Wait until you see our dancers—there are one or two of them who transcend ballet. That’s all I’ll say now because I want you to find your muse in our company. Pilot, you were the first person I thought of for this—I’ve seen you get that glint in your eye when something or someone inspires you.” She squeezed his cheek, grinning. “Trust me on this—you will find it at NYSMBC.”

  Later, as he walked home to his penthouse flat, he wondered about the job. The New York State and Metropolitan Ballet Company. He knew very little about dance, but Nelly had been their chief of publicity for many years, and he’d occasionally photographed their shows for them.

  Kristof Mendelev was another matter. Pilot’s dealings with the man had only ever been negative—Mendelev had been one of Eugenie’s myriad lovers and had boasted about it whenever Pilot had been to one of their functions. He knew the ex-ballet dancer was loathed by his colleagues, but like Nelly had told him, Kristof was a genius on the ballet stage. Feted by every major ballet company around the world, Kristof knew his worth.

  “He’s the reason we’re struggling cash-wise,” Nelly had told Pilot. “His salary is six figures, but he has to submit to weekly drug-testing. That’s the one unbreakable condition of his employment. So far—he’s clean.”

  Pilot had told Nelly he would happily photograph the dancers for the company but he didn’t hold faith that it would be the key to unlocking his inspiration. When he got home, he checked his voicemails. Grady Mallory, just checking in. Pilot deleted that message guiltily. One message from his mom, Blair, asking him to call her. Three from his younger half-sister Romana, herself an up-and-coming photographer, and finally, seven messages from Eugenie, each more hysterical than the last.

  Don’t give in to her. Don’t call her back.

  Pilot sighed and flicked through his contacts, pressing the dial button. After a second, he heard her voice—and smiled. “Hey, little sis,” he said, his tone warm and loving, “what gives?”

  Chapter Two

  Boheme Dali battered her shoes against the stone wall, trying to break them in. She thought she had done so last night, hours of bending and stretching the shoes, but, as always with new shoes, they’d wrecked her feet after only one ballet class.

  She looked up as a female voice called her name, and smiled. Grace Hardacre, one of the guest performers this year, came to sit down by her in the corridor outside the studio. “Hey, Boh.”

  “Hey yourself. How’s mentoring going?” Grace was mentoring an apprentice of the ballet company’s in addition to performing with them.

  Grace smiled. “Lexie is incredible,” she said warmly, “and such a sponge. I tell her one thing and she gets it.”

  Boheme smiled. She remembered what it had been like to be an apprentice, even one with her talent; she was still put through the ringer by her tutor, former prima ballerina, Celine Peletier, who was now her champion and a formidable teacher at the company. It had made her the dancer she was today.

  Grace nodded at her shoes. “The one constant in ballet—painful shoes. New?”

  “Yup.” Boheme grimaced as she saw blood in the toe of them. “God, Liquid Skin, here I come.” She dragged the tube of liquid bandage from her bag.

  Grace looked sympathetic. “Ouch.”

  Boheme shrugged. “But necessary. Anyway, what brings you over here?” She sucked in a breath as she applied the liquid to her toes.

  “The douche wishes to see me about the workshop. I think he wants me on his side about what ballets he wants to do.”

  “Ah. They’re still fighting over The Lesson?”

  “Yup. Liz thinks it’s misogynist and too violent, whereas Kristof says that’s the point of the whole sex and death thing he’s got going on.”

  Boheme rolled her eyes. “I hate to say this, but I kind of get where he’s coming from.” She bent over as far as she could and blew on her toes.

  “Me too, but Liz argues Mayerling or La Sylphide cover the same ground.”

  “Well, she’s right, but isn’t that point of this workshop? We’re doing three excerpts from three different stories.” Boh sighed. “Well, whatever. It’s not like we haven’t plenty of tragic ballets to choose from. Although I have to admit, I’m relieved not to have to do Romeo and Juliet again.”

  Grace chuckled. “You’ve always hated that one. People love it.”

  “It’s not a love story,” Boh said, “it’s a stupid teen angst story.”

  “Philistine.”

  “Boring.”

  They both laughed and Grace help Boh get
to her feet. “Come on, let’s grab something to eat before we go home.”

  Boh and Grace shared a walk-up apartment in Brooklyn and had done so since they were both in the corps de ballet. Now that they were both senior dancers, they could have afforded their own places, but they enjoyed living with each other and saw no reason to change.

  They ate at a small diner on the way to the subway, then huddled down together as the train took them home. September and the heat of the New York summer had quickly faded and as fall began, the leaves were falling and a cold wind from the north was swirling around the city.

  At home, their cat, Beelzebub, a darkly malevolent tabby, was waiting for them to feed him, wandering between their legs, yelling until Boh dumped a bowl of kibble on the kitchen floor for him. “Fiend,” she said fondly, scratching his ears as he ate his food.

  Grace had a date, and so, after commandeering the bathroom for an hour, she called goodbye to Boh, who was reading in her room. The apartment was silent after Grace left, and Boh reveled in the peace of it. She loved being alone, away from other people, the long hours of exercise and practice a strain on her introverted side

  She loved ballet, every part of it except the public side. Boh had been raised to be quiet, the silent child at the dinner table, the only-speak-when-spoken-to daughter. The youngest of five, Boh had often been forgotten by her wayward parents, who only had children because it was expected of them in their Indian American family. The moment she was sixteen, Boh had taken the money she had saved from her part-time job at the local Dairy Queen and caught a bus to New York City. She had lived on fellow dancers’ couches until she was accepted into her ballet school, then stayed in the dorm rooms, where she had met Grace.

  Now in her own place, her family a distant memory, Boh was as content as she had ever been—apart from one glaring thing. Lately, she had experienced fatigue for many days in a row. Days turned into weeks, and finally, last week she had been to see her doctor. She had anemia, probably, her doctor told her, hereditary. “A mild version, thank goodness, and we can treat you.” The doctor smiled kindly at her as she read through her notes. “I already know the answer to this, Boh, but could you see yourself taking some time off?”