Black Diaries

75. Clinically Clean Dancing

"Good Evening, ladies." Taking the microphone from the chief of staff, Dr. Roy Stein performed a slight bow in front of the crowd. The men watched him with sinister expressions—all except Steve and Fergus, who had the same expression on their faces as all the ladies in the room: hunger, mixed with a dreamy longing for something unattainable.

Except for me, of course. I was sure I looked perfectly dignified.

Oh, of course you do. That's why your mouth is hanging open.

Hurriedly, I snapped my jaws shut.

"I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you've come tonight to support our work." Dr. Stein's voice was low and intense. His eyes wandered over the crowd, seeming to search, lingering on each individual face for a few moments. When his eyes met mine, they seemed to darken, and linger for a precious second longer.

"Seemed", Cassy! The emphasis here is on the word "seemed"! He's charming the pants of every single woman in the room! That's his plan, the beautiful bastard!

Well if it was, it was working damn well! I heard sighs from all around me, and half a dozen women had already pulled out their wallets. Not just the guests, mind you, but also the nurses and even the cleaning lady standing guard next to the safe where the contributions were being deposited.

"To show my appreciation," he murmured, lowering his voice even more until it was hardly more than a whisper that glided down my back and tickled my skin in places which normally weren't responsible for hearing, "I will be opening the ball with one of you ladies tonight, and shall devote my undivided attention to her alone."

And again, he seemed to be looking straight at me. In my hand, I felt the nonexistent weight of my empty suitcase.

Crap!

Have you ever been on a shopping tour, buying yourself every pair of shoes you ever wanted, until you find one that is better than all the others put together, the perfect, the ultimate, the paramount pair of shoes—only to discover that you've already spent all your damn money? That's how I felt right then and there, with my empty suitcase in my hand. Only what I was missing was a damn sight more important than the perfect pair of shoes.

A dance. A dance with Dr. Roy Stein.

"The bidding," he stated with a confident smile, "starts at five-thousand pounds. "Who bids—"

"Six-thousand!" exclaimed a corpulent old duchess at the back of the crowd, gazing dreamily up at the doctor.

"Eight-thousand!" Cried a girl about forty years younger, who looked so stunning she shouldn't have had to pay good money for a dancing partner. Yet the other men in the room might as well have been dust to her. She only had eyes for Dr. Stein.

"Eight-thousand five hundred!"

"Nine-thousand!"

But even if I could, I wouldn't bid, right? The way these women were acting was a disgrace to their gender!

"Nine-thousand pounds," Jim repeated. "Going once, going twice—"

"Ten-thousand!"

"Ten-thousand three-hundred!"

"Twelve-thousand!"

Bah! I stared around the room with an expression of what I hoped was regal disdain. Trying to outbid each other as if Dr. Stein were a nice, juicy steak on the meat market? Disgraceful! Even if I had a million pounds with me and could buy him right out from under their noses, thus gaining enormous satisfaction and the chance to spend a whole dance in the arms of the most perfect man in the world, I wouldn't do it! I definitely, absolutely and undeniably would not do it, because it would be wrong, and degrading, and sexist... and... and...