Josephine Baker's Last Dance by Sherry Jones

Author:Sherry Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books

BY THE TIME their tango had finished, Josephine didn’t care whether Count Abatino was real, fake, or imaginary. The press of his hand to her back, of her breasts to his chest, of his cheek to her cheek, of his thigh against her thigh as they moved on the crowded floor, all made her body and mind yearn for one thing only: this man in her bed as soon as possible.

But first she had the throbbing heart of Paris at night to present to her friend. She’d promised Bessie they’d paint the town red, and so off the three of them went in Josephine’s snakeskin dream, her chauffeur André driving them up and down the Champs-Élysées, to the bulldyke bar Le Monocle in Montparnasse, to Le Chat Noir in Montmartre, and, finally, back to Le Grand Duc for breakfast, to end the night, as always, with Bricktop.

But Bricky wasn’t in her usual good mood when they walked in. She looked at Pepito as though the sight of him made her queasy. Josephine felt, for a minute, like she’d lost her way. Had she failed to see something, a deformity of some kind? Slender, elegant hands; sleek, dark hair and mustache; slight figure barely taller than she; deep-set eyes as black as coal; nice smile with a crooked front tooth.

“Your handsome man looks familiar.” Colette’s shrewd eyes followed Pepito and Bessie to the dance floor.

“That’s Pepi,” said Elsa Maxwell, giving him the same breathless looks every other middle-aged woman had sent his way this evening. “He comes to my tea garden every afternoon and dances with the wealthy widows. I’m told he’s a gigolo, but I don’t mind—he’s very popular.”

“He’s an Italian count,” Josephine said. “And a dance instructor.”

“He doesn’t speak English, does he?” Elsa said. “Maybe I’ve misunderstood.”

Josephine smiled, feeling like the cat that swallowed the canary. She had understood Pepito perfectly before he’d said a word.

After an obligatory dance with Bessie he took Josephine in hand, steering her through the fox-trot, Charleston, shimmy, and the Brazilian samba to the Argentine tango, Josephine jazzing up each dance with moves of her own. The floor cleared and a crowd formed around the perimeter to clap and cheer. Josephine laughed, giddy, the room spinning although she’d hardly drunk a drop. She was dancing with an Italian count, and her blood was racing like music in her veins. This would be Pepito’s night if he wanted it, and tomorrow night, and the next.

As he turned her this way and that, his hand sliding across her bare back, their legs intertwining, flashbulbs popped like fireworks around them. Josephine turned her face to the left and the right, striking poses. By the time she found the photographer, though, he’d stopped taking pictures. Bricktop stood next to him, a restraining hand on his arm. What the hell? La Folie du Jour wasn’t doing well, and the publicity might help. She didn’t have time to think about it much, though, not with all the footwork and handwork and eyeball work and heavy-breathing work she and Pepito were doing.

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