Tease Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Twelve months later

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Tiger Starr has risen from nothing to become burlesque’s most sensational showgirl . . .

  Her life is a whirlwind of glamour, diamonds, celebrity parties and more than her fair share of suitors. She seems to finally have it all. But although she may have the talents to bring any man – or woman – to their knees, Tiger never usually lets her friends or lovers get too close. Only now, she’s finally ready to take a chance on love . . .

  But beneath all the glitz and the feathers, Tiger is hiding more than her modesty. As she prepares for the most important show of her life, it seems somebody is intent on exposing the dark secrets of her carefully guarded past.

  Unfortunatley, there’s more than one likely candidate. Is it one of Tiger’s discarded lovers? A rival showgirl? Or even her jealous sister? As her whole world starts to unravel, Tiger will have to fight for survival, by delivering the performance of her life . . .

  About the Author

  Immodesty Blaize is an international showgirl superstar. Her breathtaking performances are in demand the world over, and she has dazzled audiences across London, New York, Hollywood, Cannes, Vegas and back.

  A long time fan of Jackie Collins, Dynasty and all things glamorous, Tease is Immodesty’s first novel. To find out more about Immodesty visit her website at www.immodestyblaize.com

  For Ellen

  Chapter 1

  ‘Okay, girls, tighten me up and tie me off!’ roared Tiger Starr, clinging to the wall with both hands. The energy in the dressing room switched instantly, the nervous undertow shifting through the gears into hyper excitement and bootcamp-like efficiency. Tiger’s dressers Cherry and Brandy jumped for her corset strings. They each wrapped a length of the silk cord round their wrists and heaved smoothly in opposite directions while Cherry held her foot in the small of Tiger’s back. This was the second tightening process of the night.

  Tiger had been sitting in the corset for ten minutes already, flexing her ankles in her crystal-covered pointe shoes, whilst waiting for her internal organs to resettle themselves before going in for the last couple of inches with the corset. Her waist shrank eye-wateringly before everyone’s eyes.

  ‘Ooof,’ exhaled Tiger, bracing herself against the wall, ‘have you got that last inch?’

  ‘Yeah, just gonna tie it off, that good for you?’ replied Brandy.

  ‘Well, I can’t breathe any more … perfect …’ Tiger gasped, wriggling uncomfortably. ‘Holy cow … okay, Mario, it’s time to batten down the hatches!’ Tiger purred breathlessly to her hairdresser who was already hammering hair pins through the feet of the stuffed doves perched on her hair so that they nested firmly among her teased pink curls. She was now feeling the familiar warm tickle of butterflies in the pit of her stomach as Mario worked away at her immaculate coiffure as only a creative genius could. Tiger never liked her tension to show; only her stylist and best friend Blue could detect a faint tremble in her hands from across the dressing room.

  ‘Geev ’em a shake, darlink,’ Mario ordered. Like a good girl, Tiger shook her curls back and forth, flicking her head from side to side, testing any movement that might dislodge the birds on stage. Gone were the days of her wearing real doves. Bird shit in the hair was a price even Tiger was not prepared to pay for the ultimate in insanely glamorous accessories.

  ‘Spray!’ came her next command. On cue, everyone in the room covered their faces. Cherry paced evenly round Tiger wielding an industrial-sized aerosol can of diamond powder, spraying her liberally and smoothly. Tiger knew instinctively when to turn each limb so that every square millimetre of her was sparkling.

  ‘This is your ten-minute call,’ crackled the stage manager over the intercom.

  ‘Oh god!’ wailed Tiger. ‘I almost forgot, but I have presents for you all!’

  ‘What – now?’ started Blue.

  ‘Here. I want you to have them before the show starts! Just a little something to say thank you for all your hard work …’ said Tiger hurriedly dishing out four small giftwrapped boxes.

  ‘You’re kidding?’ squealed Cherry.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t look like this without you guys,’ she murmured softly, before passing a Fortnum and Mason bag to Blue. ‘These are treats for the crew – can you give them out in the interval, darling?’ she whispered. Cherry and Brandy had already ripped their presents open and were gasping at the expensive-looking sparkling pasties – bejewelled nipple covers – nestling in beautiful velvet-lined boxes.

  ‘Jeez! Come on, guys, this is no time for unwrapping!’ bellowed Blue impatiently. ‘Chop chop!’ he clapped his hands together loudly. Cherry and Brandy hurriedly put down their gifts, snapped to attention and swooped to collect all Tiger’s pre-sets.

  ‘Stilettos.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Diamond g-string.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Bath towel.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Fans.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Dress.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Liberace coat.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Let’s go!’ and off they whisked towards the stage with military precision, grinning from ear to ear. A wave of excitement surged through Tiger Starr as they left the dressing room and she hopped up en pointe in anticipation, her arches like taut little semi-circles in her ballet shoes. These were precious final minutes to psyche up for her opening night.

  ‘Mario, get outta my hair,’ she pleaded as the Italian hovered about her, pushing more pins through her curls. Tiger was purely focused on channelling her energy, and she couldn’t care less about hair grips right now. Pre-show anxiety was a feeling Tiger had trained herself to embrace, and feel comforted by. Nerves gave her a mean adrenalin hit, which always gave her the edge when she made her entrance. Tonight she most definitely wanted her show to go that extra inch – for she had all her chips riding on this one.

  Tonight her first number would be her infamous ‘reverse strip’. Inspired by the late, great, burlesque star Lili St Cyr, with whom Tiger’s grandmother Coco Schnell used to perform, it involved Tiger actually putting her clothes on, rather than peeling them off. People travelled miles to see the spectacle, especially as from the audience’s vantage point, Tiger – ever the tease – never quite showed everything. Of course there was always the hope in people’s minds that tonight her bath towel might slip just that little too much, and occasionally an overzealous fan would convince himself he had caught a rare glimpse of ‘landing strip’, but in reality Tiger’s diamond-encrusted merkin was always firmly in place to preserve her last bastion of mystique. As far as Tiger Starr was concerne
d, that was the art of the true showgirl – to be mysterious, otherworldly and untouchable for mere mortals. If that meant people thought she grew diamonds down there, then that was just perfect.

  For the show’s big finale Tiger would lay on her pièce de resistance, playing the part of a 1940s femme fatale vixen on her giant vintage glitter telephone with spinning dial, accompanied by the ‘Starrlets’, her gorgeous troupe of sparkling, leggy chorus girls who paraded, slinked and kicked in exquisite symmetry around her. For Tiger’s final dénouement, the Starrlets all posed on stuffed black panthers that had been automated to rear up and roar for the crescendo, baring their porcelain fangs. It was a camp fantasy that made Lawrence of Arabia look like a low-budget student pilot.

  Tonight, standing in her dressing room, Tiger was as radiant and as ready for her close-up as ever. ‘Blue, honey, whaddya think?’ she asked her stylist with puppy dog eyes, reaching for a compulsive squirt of Chanel No. 5. Before each show Tiger would seek Blue’s approval as a matter of course; not that she really needed it, but Tiger was curiously modest about her considerable charms. If only she saw in the mirror what others saw, she would realise that she could make a bin liner look like haute couture.

  ‘You’re stunning, darling,’ answered Blue, giving Tiger the once over. ‘I must say the boys are looking breath-taking tonight,’ he sighed, ripping his eyes away from the sight of her incredible tits to smile at her reassuringly. Slowly he surveyed the towering glamazon standing before him. He took in her firm caramel skin, her miniscule waist spreading into full rounded hips. She had legs that could only be described as a masterpiece – long enough to reach her armpits, with powerful thighs strong enough to crack a pistachio nut. Her large, pert breasts, dressed with the most eye-wateringly expensive diamond-encrusted nipple tassels had the kind of delicious weighty bounce to them that was the preserve of only the most natural of assets. Her make-up accentuated her striking features, making her lips even more pillowy, her eyes more cat-like. Even her hair, cascading into her trademark powder-pink curls, looked as if it would have smelled of delicate rose powder. Put simply, she dazzled.

  This was what Blue lived for. He had decided many years ago that what he lacked in physical beauty, he lived to hone in others. Although as a tall, strapping beefcake with a soft effeminate accent, a striking face often diplomatically described as characterful, and a garnish of impeccably designed stubble, he was pretty hard to miss in a room himself. He and Tiger had met seven or eight years ago when Blue was the reigning queen and Fashion Editor of Below magazine. He had decided to shoot her for a ‘La Dolce Vita’-inspired story. Needless to say they had clicked as though they had known each other for a lifetime.

  Blue ended up putting Tiger on the cover. When Blue had been usurped by a bitter rival, followed by the spreading of one too many vicious rumours alleging plagiarism and an all-round lack of talent for Blue to have any hope of finding another job in the industry, it was Tiger who had come to his rescue like an angel out of the mist. She had offered him a full-time job as her personal stylist and wardrobe mistress, and Blue was thrilled to have a welcome niche in which to let his true creative talents shine, away from the incessantly fickle politics of the fashion industry. Even though Blue found joining Tiger’s hard-working team to be a thoroughly warm and fluffy experience, he had experienced one or two ‘entry difficulties’ in his professional relationship with Tiger’s manager, Lewis Bond. But over the years, Lewis and Blue had developed a grudging respect for each other. Blue now lived with Tiger in the Diana Dors wing of her Regency London mansion, as much her confidante and occasional dog-walker as her professional eyes and ears. Tiger was without doubt his best friend; an honour for Blue, knowing how cautious she was about who she allowed into her inner sanctum. Although he had also seen many times just how generous she was with anyone she thought she could lend a hand to.

  ‘Well, if Lewis doesn’t crack a smile tonight at the sight of you then squeeze me into a unitard and call me a eunuch,’ sighed Blue. ‘C’mon, Mario, let’s go sit with him out front and get him in the mood.’

  ‘Oh god, Lewis! Where’s he sitting?’ Tiger quivered.

  ‘Oh, he’s charming the guests as usual, darling. Last time I looked he was taking care of Dianne Castrelli and the rest of the Vegas scouts; stage left, four rows back.’ Blue knew that Tiger lived to please her manager. Lewis Bond was her biggest support – and her harshest critic. In fact, he was the only person in existence who could turn Tiger to ash at a glance, but then after fourteen years of working together, they understood each other like no one else.

  ‘You just do your breathing, babe, get in your head-space,’ said Blue with a comforting pat on her bum.

  ‘Oh god, I’m on edge now. Did you pop your head in on the Starrlets? They happy?’ asked Tiger uneasily. ‘You gave them their first-night gifts?’

  ‘Stop worrying, will you? Lewis’ girlfriend has got them all fired up.’

  ‘Georgia? Hmm, I’m sure she has. I bet she got Lewis fired up too while she was at it.’ Tiger tried to see the good in everyone but even she sometimes wondered what her manager saw in such an arrogant and predatory girl like Georgia Atlanta. Each to their own she supposed. She could tolerate Georgia as long as she made Lewis happy – and as long as she left her attitude at the dressing room door and danced her arse off on stage. That was all that really mattered to Tiger.

  ‘Right, I’m off. Enjoy it, darling!’ trilled Blue, clapping his hands together with finality. ‘It’s gonna be a helluva show! The Starrlets look delectable. And as for you, my darling? Well, you could just stand up there and fart and they’d be cheering with you looking like that! Hey – you okay?’ Blue stared at Tiger, concerned.

  ‘Fine!’ she laughed. ‘Now bugger off!’

  ‘But, babe, you look like you’re going to be sick. Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not – nervous are you?’

  ‘I’m just peachy,’ reassured Tiger. ‘That smoked salmon I had for breakfast must have been a little sketchy. I’m fine. Now scoot!’

  ‘Okay, my darling, if you’re sure. See you out there. Break a nail!’

  As Blue and Mario disappeared excitedly to stake their seats in the audience, Tiger swiftly shut herself in her dressing room and leaned against the door to steady her wobbling ankles. Darn! She never liked anyone – even Blue who saw more than most – to see just how terribly nervous she got in the last couple of minutes. She gently reminded herself that the day the butterflies stop should be the day a true performer quits the job. Nerves were the one true mark that you really cared about your performance. She’d always thought that a performer without nerves was either arrogant or bored – or smashed – and what audience wants to see any of those on stage? As Tiger leaned at the door, she closed her eyes and used her final moments to take some slow, deep breaths, a generous slug of gin and tonic, and to channel the spirit of her idol, the queen of showbiz himself, Liberace. She would need him watching over her tonight, she thought, with the knowledge that the Vegas scouts and the entire population of London’s critics were in the audience for her grand opening. She prayed her publicist, Rex, was out there entertaining them with his usual charm.

  Rex Hunter had gone to the trouble of arranging the Royal box with waitresses proffering chilled Krug for the celebrities who were now taking their seats around him. The journalists he had stuck down in the press pit along with Tiger’s younger sister, Sienna, who had just joined his PR agency, Hunter Gatherers, as his assistant. Any hack would be cynical if Rex tried the champagne treatment on with them – there was no point trying to butter them up. No, much more subtle to leave them with Sienna, who was down there happily flashing her long legs like a trooper. Whilst Sienna wasn’t quite as gorgeous and enchanting company as Tiger – few women were in Rex’s opinion – she did at least share some of her big sister’s good genes. And she could turn on the charm – when she wanted to.

  The press were certainly out in full force tonight, Rex thought, pleased with
himself; all the dailies, the news channels, even the long leads, all waiting for Tiger Starr’s latest offering. Rex would swoop on them in the interval when most of them would make a bid for freedom to file their copy and catch the next story of the evening.

  In a way Tiger made his job easy. Her bold, sexy and unashamedly glamorous show was easily the hottest ticket in town. When Lewis Bond had first brought his new client to Rex for a PR strategy over a decade ago, Tiger Starr’s reputation had preceded her; Rex had already heard whispers of the new girl on the block who was dancing and disrobing for princes, billionaires and movie stars. Considering few people under sixty had even heard of burlesque at the time, she was certainly whipping up quite a storm. But then, Tiger Starr was no mere burlesque dancer. She was a true star as her name suggested; a bomb-shell who exuded heat on a nuclear scale.

  As Rex surveyed the press pit below, he noticed trouble in the form of one journalist, Lance de Brett. A caustic bugger on a good day, Lance had taken to sharpening his claws for Tiger’s reviews, especially over the last year or so. Rex often wondered if he was one of these men whose dick shrivelled when faced with a powerful woman – after all, attack is known to be the best form of defence. Still, Rex’s twenty years as a publicist had also taught him there were some journalists who had simply raised cynicism to an art form, and if Lance had just watched Jesus walking on water he’d have certainly given him a bad review for not swimming. A shame then, thought Rex soberly, that the bastard could still make or break a London show. Lance had given Saddam the Musical five stars in the Telegraph and the bloody thing was still running two years later. In a funny kind of way Rex was slightly in awe of Lance’s unapologetic wickedness; it had clearly taken him all the way as a journalist.

  ‘Careful! Take your foot off my dress! Who’s got my drink?’ a thick, Italian New York accent interrupted Rex’s thoughts. Turning his head, he was knocked out by the sight of the infamous Libertina Belle, being escorted by at least six waiters, literally falling over themselves to help her to her seat. Perking up, Rex was suddenly pleased he had dressed for the occasion. With a deep olive tan and thick, dark hair now sun-kissed courtesy of a recent trip to the Bahamas, along with his toned stocky frame encased in slick Saville Row tailoring, Rex had definitely noticed more than the usual number of heads turning on his way to the theatre. He just knew the effort wouldn’t be wasted on the immaculate Libertina Belle. Of course Rex didn’t normally go for actresses – too devoid of personality he had always found. But there was something delightfully raw and brassy about Libertina Belle in person, despite her astounding classic beauty and the on-screen sophistication that suggested otherwise. Libertina was the first woman he had felt pure animal attraction for since … well, since Tiger. But since clients were strictly off limits, a rule Rex adhered to steadfastly, Tiger would always have to remain his favourite secret fantasy. But Libertina … she was fair game ready to be poached.