Hot water beat on her neck, and streamed down her naked back. The near scalding made Lisa feel real again, after a day of saying words the hotel put into her mouth. To be herself again, after hours of strangers calling her by a name they read on a badge, then smirking as if they knew her. The shower brought her back to life. She must be real, if so much water couldn't wash her away.

If it weren't for Claire, she thought as she dried off, she wouldn't stay at that job another day. But the day was done. The week of days was done! It was Friday night. Time to get ready for the time of her life.

She stared at her face in the mirror. A blank young woman stared back. Back in Colorado, makeup was a vanity, something bad girls wore, and she'd felt guilty sneaking a bit of lipstick. But Lisa lived in New Orleans now and times had changed.

Besides check-in procedures, Claire taught her about makeup. Claire told her she was attractive, and the right makeup would show everybody.

Lisa smoothed on foundation, to start with an even mask. Then she decorated it: enough blusher for the cheeks to look hot and sculpted under uncertain light, lavender frosting on the eyelids, glossy pink on the lips. Bright and shiny meant beautiful in 1978.

She paused before the crucial step. Mascara. When each layer went on seamlessly, that meant she'd have a good night. If she ran out of clean fingers from wiping it off her skin, that was a bad sign.

She was going to have a good night. She knew it. She smiled at her reflection; it was quite pretty now. They wouldn't know her back home.

Because she was meant to be here, where happiness might sparkle in her hands like diamonds. She'd found a job, she'd found an apartment, and she'd found Claire. And Claire had brought her to Promises.

She wished Claire were coming tonight. But Claire had a date with Charlie. Lisa shuddered. She didn't often like the men Claire dated. None of them adored Claire, as they ought. But Charlie was downright creepy. It was like she could never get a good look at his face. No matter the light, it was always in shadow.

She was cold. Time she put on a dress. It had to be a good night. It had to be her favorite dress. White like a bride, and shimmering like angel wings, but the way it clung to her breasts and hips suggested something far less innocent. The bows on her shoulders were girlish, but one tug on them might undress her completely. Her body would whisper, "I'm so naked under here," beneath her serious sweet eyes. A killer combination, Claire said.

Still she couldn't dress like this, except for the makeup. But it went with the face she created, and the part she meant to play, the role of the dancing queen.

She strapped on platform sandals and she was ready. She wanted to dance. She wanted to dance! She felt it like an itch in her feet, her hands, her belly. But it was too early to make her entrance. Girls who went this early were looking for a guy who'd spend more than one night with them. She wasn't one of those girls.

She sat on the edge of her bed and listened to classical music to stay calm. She would not give herself to a pulsing beat until she sought it at the source, at the disco. She breathed and imagined Vienna woods.

When she returned, she was pleased. It was ten minutes past the earliest she allowed herself to leave. She stood up. Her heart raced already.

Throwing open her door, Lisa nearly ran into her new neighbor across the hall.

"Hi, Lisa. Wow, you look fantastic! You're going dancing again?"

Jess worked at the diner down the street. Her uniform was hideous, much worse than Lisa's, and got sweaty, stained and pawed at. But Jess flashed a genuine smile. The ugliness didn't seem to get her down. Lisa wondered how she managed that.

"Thanks! I am," Lisa said. "You should come with me sometime. It'd be fun."

"Oh, I'd love to. I love to dance. If I wasn't so dead tired ... But all I want now is to put my feet up and watch TV."

"Maybe another night?"

"I'm off tomorrow, but I'm going out with Pete," said Jess. Pete was a cook at the diner. "He's not much for dancing. We'll probably go play pool."

Jess shrugged and laughed. Lisa smiled with her, but shook her head as she turned away. Not to dance when you wanted to, needed to--you might as well be back in Colorado. Or back in the bayous, in Jess's case.

"Another time, then," she said.

Lisa pulled up to Promises and parked. An elegant Southern townhouse, all pastel paint, arched windows and French doors, like any other in this genteel uptown neighborhood. But the others didn't have chaos spilling from them. She could feel the throb of the music from her car. How the people on the sidewalk could laugh as if they were deaf to its rhythm was beyond her.

Stepping inside, the beat body-slammed her. She nodded to the doorman, Steve, and to Wendy, sitting beside him. Wendy, the daytime bartender, was usually gone by now, but Lisa did not stop to wonder. She had to move.

Past the dark velvet wallpaper, the great gilded mirrors, and rich antique furniture. Threading through the crowd and the smoke to the back. The business end was up front: the backgammon playing, drink selling, and partner negotiating. The sex, the dancing and groping, took place in the back. Above Promise's parquet dance floor hung the great revolving ball. The glittered stream that turned faces ecstatic and movements spasmodic and final. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and swept her way to the far end of the bar.

"Hi, Tommy," Lisa said to the bartender.

"Hello, darlin'. You look gorgeous as ever. The usual?"

"Yes, please." Lisa put a few dollars on the bar. Within seconds Tommy replaced it with a glass of white wine and some change. One more smile just for her from his black lashed green eyes, and he moved on to the next customer. Lisa liked Tommy. His compliments hadn't stopped when she'd refused him, but his propositions had.

She always bought herself a drink right off, so a guy couldn't use that as an excuse for conversation. She wasn't here to talk.

She gazed steadily at the dance floor. She let her body move a little in place, a tiny tap of the foot, a gentle sway of the hips. It was obvious what she wanted. She'd prepared her part; she waited for a man to come play his.

A man came. He asked her to dance. She'd danced with him before, as a warm-up. She didn't remember his name. She'd never told him hers. But they knew each other. He knew a dance was all he'd get. He hoped for more from the other girls; there might be one who would go home with him, one who might look at him twice if he had another pretty girl on his arm.

He wasn't great, but he didn't embarrass her. He didn't pay her much attention. Lisa was glad of that. The rhythm beat on her, not in her. Her brain moved her feet. She ached for the song to move her feet for her instead. She closed her eyes.

They danced, and parted companionably. She sipped her wine and waited. She didn't have to wait long.

"Hi. My name's Mark." A slow cool voice, with an uptown accent. Lisa turned to see the good-looking guy she'd noticed last week, without the other girl on his arm. "Lisa," she replied.

She looked him up and down, but blushed prettily when caught, as if he had not been doing the same to her. His grin was huge.

He led her out to the dance floor, his hand light on the small of her back. She loved the manners of a Southern gentleman. His hand was warm, radiant. The blood rushed away from her head. This could be it. A fast dance number rolled out from the speakers. They found an eddy in the crowd, claimed their space, and began.

She was looser now, so her shimmy slid easily into full sway. The heat ate from her hips into her arms and legs. She sped up the tempo. He stayed with her. The man knew his body. He knew how to dance.

Lisa leaned closer, matching her moves to his. Close enough to feel his warmth without touching him. The air between them flared. Her movement went molten. The drum was her heart, her limbs were the strings, and her blood surged beyond her skin. This was it. This was what she'd come for.

To be the music. To be in her body. The music let her in, into her scary, tender body. She held it as long as she could, and his body held for her, and the music held them both.

The song ended and she fell back, as if swooning a little, settling into a hand's more space between them.

"Thank you so much for the dance, that was wonderful," she breathed into Mark's ear, barely brushing her breast against his shirt. She pressed her fingers into his hand. "Let's do it again sometime." She turned away. She could go home now, and be satisfied.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked.

She turned and looked him over again. If she did this, how long would he be good for? How long if she did not? He withstood her gaze, his eyes hot and unwavering. The flames shot her through again, the power and the song. She let the heat show on her face. They broke into simultaneous smiles. "I think I would like that," Lisa said.

They returned to the bar, the hand on her back giving her chills.

She sipped her wine while her body burned with hot and cold, pleasure and panic. She wanted to pull him to the floor for more. She didn't remember what she said. She forgot to school her eyes, to prevent what they might promise. Then he asked her to dance again. He touched her again. And did not release her when they made it to the floor, but lifted her hand in his.

They swept into an easy swing step, their bodies coming a mere breath apart, and then falling back, pendulums marking the heated core, never closing completely but never letting go. Over and over until Lisa felt it impossible that the next heartbeat did not bring Mark's lips crashing down onto hers. But he obeyed the steps of the dance. They obeyed, the two as one. It was beyond perfection.

When it was over, she drew back, flushed to her depths. She looked down; her bosom was visibly heaving, just like the romance novels said. His eyes followed hers. He stepped closer. His arms encircled her. Too close! She wanted to run, or maybe she wanted to hike her skirt and have him take her here and now. But she laid her head gently on his shoulder. His arms tightened. The dance continued, oh so very softly now. Lisa made a mental note to tip the DJ for putting on a ballad next.

Gently moving, swaying closer, inch by luxurious inch, more and more of Mark and Lisa touched. Her arms slowly snaked, her breasts pressed, her thighs rubbed. He stroked her hair. His breath tickled her bent neck. They did not miss a step.

The song ended. They stopped. They did not move apart but stood as if turned to stone. The crowd, the music, moved on around them. She couldn't bear for this to end, for life to stop being less than this moment. This was the time of her life.

But it stopped; of course it stopped. Mark inclined his head and kissed her neck and she shivered in his arms. She pulled away.

She led him off the dance floor; he followed eagerly. But she made her excuses. Leaving him sure that she was too refined a girl to sleep with him so soon, but that if she stayed in his presence any longer she didn't know what she might do, he was that sexy. Tomorrow night, she promised. She'd be back to dance tomorrow night.

He insisted on walking her to her car. She took his arm. He took her keys and unlocked her door. And then he did kiss her lips, and it felt fine, but nowhere near so fine as his hand on her back on the dance floor.