The stage was dark, illuminated by one muddy light from the rafters. At the edge of the stage, she slid her feet out of the gold, glittering pumps Pandora left. It was the first time she’d worn Pandora’s prized gift. A gift that conferred not only the nymph’s leading role in the show, but the assumption of her burdens.
Roseâtre would not let her adopted Tribe down.
Barefoot, she padded across the silent stage. It was unusual not to find Anthony waiting for her, his arrestingly beautiful face twisted into a frown of disapproval. Censure and admonishment coupled in his words when he decried her lateness.
And she was late. Nearly fifteen minutes so.
Controlling her arrival time was all that was left to her. She would wrap her fingers through the reins of time and hold them tautly.
Where the hell is Anthony?
Her gaze skated over the stage. The silence hung in the air like a thick, heavy curtain in the unrelieved shadows around the spotlight. Perhaps Anthony is tired of the games. Or better, maybe someone kicked his ass out of the Arcana Royale.
The pleasant thought was interrupted by a bump of regret, a curious twisting sensation in her belly. Shame?
No.
Disappointment.
The honest, strange emotion curled through her, pins and needles of ice and heat. She’d dreaded seeing his smug arrogance. Yet she couldn’t wait to drink in the raw, primal beauty that made up his body.
The mass of contradiction knotted within her chest until her heart was left to thump in the uncomfortably small space that remained.
Where is he?
Hands on her hips, Roseâtre surveyed the stage. She saw no great tigers lounging. No flicker of movement betraying her tormentor’s location. She swallowed the urge to call out, to request his presence.
The lonely silence was punctured by the low, distant thump of a drum. A solitary cadence. A heartbeat of sound intoned against the backdrop of a throatier saxophone. The music of their show, Seduction of a Maiden.
Even the title sent shivers cascading down her spine. The storyline called for the tiger to stalk her in the darkness. A flicker of movement drew her to the side of the stage. In the darkness, a tail twitched.
Her heart thudded, a fist bumped against her ribs. The scent of moisture warned her of the misty vapor rolling onto the stage. The great tiger hunted in the primal mist, searching for the forbidden maiden, determined to make her its mate.
Unease spiked in her blood. The great, white tiger prowled from the darkness. The throbbing music thudded against her skin. The maiden was supposed to be innocent yet coy. Aware of her allure yet naive to the depraved desire that sent the tiger on the hunt.
Anthony must have taken a page from Stan’s book and planted himself in the darkened lounge to watch the show.
The tiger continued to wind through the mist, appearing and disappearing, his masculine threat enhanced by the fluidity of his movements.
And this cat was definitely a he.
Despite working with a female all week, the show demanded the presence of the male cat, the sheer size and masculinity vital to the performance.
Fine. If the bastard wanted to watch, let him watch.
Stretching her arms up to the ceiling, she was rewarded by a pour of misty, cool vapor. The sound of running water splashed against the backdrop of the pulsating music. The jungle waterfall, the sanctuary of the forbidden maiden, was the opening scene.
Roseâtre curled into the roll, bowing down to the imaginary pool and cupping it with her hands. She lifted her arms to pour the water over her head. Her palms turned to the faux sky of the stage rafters as she stretched.
The scene opened at dawn.
The time of awakening.
The half-forgotten sun a distant promise on the horizon. The muddy gray light tinged to red with hues of orange. The Chariot of Apollo beginning his lazy charge to claim the day, spearing the sanctity of Artemis’s milk-white light and chasing away the shadows of Phoebe’s blanket of stars, the mystical and wondrous world of intellect, for the animalistic needs of day.
Roseâtre rolled her hips, letting her muscles stretch by degrees and go lax. She was free of the burdens of leadership and the eyes of others. Free to revel in the state of a natural goddess.
The show called for nudity and she paused in her imagined water play to strip the black leotard from her shoulders, urging it down until it pooled at her feet.
A light kick sent it swishing away in the darkness.
Leaving her alone. Vulnerable. Innocent.
The cadence of the music shifted, a subtle increase to the drums. The deep, pounding bass alerting the audience that danger lurked all around the maiden, but Roseâtre embraced the part, playing her role and dancing into the misty vapor. Unaware. Untouched. Unprepared.
The slide of a tail along her bare thigh surprised the maiden. The intimacy incited a startled desire from both the maiden and the woman playing her part. Wild, unrepentant heat flooded her body and she dropped to crouch against the stage, bare breasts pressed to her biceps as she covered herself, modest and inhibited.
As though parted by the hands of fate, the great tiger strode out of the shadows. The red and orange hues of the stage lights brightened, illuminating the silver white of the beast’s body.
Clinging to her role out of desperation, Roseâtre lifted her head and met the tiger’s hungry gaze.
They were at eye level. And he was huge.
It had to be her imagination, but she could swear the deep blue eyes were hot with lust and intrigue. They roamed over her, demanding and assessing.
The tiger wanted.
The racing cadence of throbbing drums stopped, leaving only the splash of water behind a lonely flute to serenade their character’s first encounter. Roseâtre’s maiden peeked from the water, to gaze at her solitary audience as he posed magnificently on the shore.
And by the gods was he magnificent.
Ancient enemies or not, this male would command the attention of even the most aged of the Amazons. Virile. Strong. Powerful.
Desire.
Roseâtre discovered that the maiden’s intoxication was not hard to fabricate. She edged forward, extending her arm, baring her nakedness to the hard heat in those blue eyes.
Fire blossomed in her belly, flaring into a bonfire of raw, aching need that spread, consuming every inhibition against submitting to this lord of the jungle. But in this moment, on this stage, in this play, the maiden, seduced by curiosity, would expose her nakedness.
After all, the tiger was merely a creature of the jungle. Not a man.
The Amazon in her approved of the idea. Approved so much that Roseâtre could barely discern the purely feminine desire entangled with the innocence of the maiden she was supposed to be playing.
As if impatient with her slow approach, the tiger eased forward, head butting against her hand. His whiskers stroked her palm as his head rolled against her fingers.
The role forgotten, Roseâtre stroked the noble brow, feathered over the satiny softness of his ears. Intrigued by the invitation, the tiger continued to crowd closer, until his great face rubbed against her cheek.
A shudder of pure, undiluted lust speared through her. She climbed to her knees, allowing the tiger to rub gently against her chest and the fur rasping over her nipples was electric. She couldn’t help the sharp gasp, the jerk of inner muscles squeezing against an imagined thrust.
The maiden wanted to feel the soft, silky fur pressing against her most intimate places.