Dance With Me (8 page)

Holding a lock of her hair in his hand, he brought it to his mouth, kissing it. “You are much, much more beautiful.” His eyes were soft as he looked at her.

Sherry felt a pang of something in her chest. She opened her mouth to tell him about her new assignment, but what came out instead was, “Tell me about your tattoos.”

A shadow passed over his clear green gaze. He rolled onto his back. “What is there to tell? They are just tattoos.”

Raising herself up on one elbow, she moved closer to him. “Come on.” She ran her fingers over the swirls of dark ink on his chest and shoulders. “Each of these babies represents hours of pain. You can’t tell me there isn’t a story behind every one. Like this one.” She traced the delicate lines of a howling wolf that extended from his left hip up to the middle of his ribcage.

“It is a wolf,” he said.

“I can see that. But why did you get it?”

“I like wolves. No other reason.” He looked at her. His eyes held the same expression as they had when she first met him, guarded, trying for neutral, but now that she knew him, failing miserably. “Sometimes there is no other reason. And maybe you don’t always have to be working, Sherry. Digging, digging under the skin.”

She took her hand back as if she had been burned. “I’m sorry. I guess I thought since you had been inside my head, I could be allowed inside yours.”

He sat up. “How have I been inside you? Only physically. What happens in here,” he touched her head, gently, “only Sherry knows. But Sherry must know what goes on in here, and here.” He touched his head, then his chest.

“I…” She started to contradict him but then stopped. He was right. “I’m sorry.”

He lay back, brushing his hands through his hair violently. “Ah, no. I’m sorry. I don’t want to start a fight with you. I fought with Sergei already today. My performance tonight, it was not my best. There is a lot happening at the company, things I didn’t expect. A lot of stress. And I’m … I’m just tired.”

“No. You’re right. I’m not being fair.” She folded her arms under her head, looking at the ceiling.

“How about I tell you about one of my tattoos, if you tell me about these.” He laced the fingers of one hand between hers. “Your nails are so short. And you are always hiding them. Like you are ashamed of them. Or you can’t resist them.”

“Very observant, Mr. Davydenko. Maybe there’s a future for you in reporting.”

He laughed, running a finger over their stubby tips. “You bite them. Why?”

“Correction: I used to bite them. These are practically talons for me. It’s been a hundred and, what, nine, ten days now since I quit.”

She could feel his green eyes watching, unblinking, like a cat’s, as he waited for her to continue.

“I don’t know when I started. When I was too young to remember, I guess. When I’d get nervous or stressed. It was something physical I could do to make the feeling go away. Plus it drove my mother crazy. Added bonus.”

“And what happened one hundred and nine days ago?”

“I broke up with my ex. I shouldn’t have been going out with him in the first place. He was married. I knew that. But it didn’t seem important. He was a journalism prof at Columbia. Funny, sophisticated, sexy. Most of all, convenient. Didn’t make many demands on my time. I figured, if she didn’t know, who was getting hurt, right?”

Sherry glanced at him. His expression was unreadable. Taking a deep breath, she continued.

“But then his wife showed up with a picture of their kids. I didn’t know about them. Suddenly, the whole thing felt sordid. Greasy. I ended it. And I figured, if I’m giving up one bad habit, might as well give up two.”

He didn’t tell her that what she had done was all right. But his eyes were gentle as he brushed his lips over her fingertips. There was no judgement in them.

“Your turn,” she said. She ran her free hand over the plane of his stomach to the delicate Cyrillic lettering on his hip. “That one.”

“Ah, good,” he said. “An easy one. That is a quote by Nureyev. It says, ‘You live as long as you dance.’ Perhaps ironically, I got it when I was thinking of giving up ballet. Now I never can, or I will look like a fool.”

He looked over at her, a sleepy, little-boy smile on his face. “I will tell you about the rest of them one day. I will tell you everything. And you will tell me everything, Sherry.” He touched her cheek. “My peony. My flower. You will open for me, and let me see inside.”

Sherry thought of the ABC piece and had to look away. “Well, it isn’t all beautiful, as you’ve seen.”

He curled around her, pulling her into him, spooning her. “Of course not. Like me. But no more looking now. No more questions. Now, we sleep.” He burrowed his nose into her hair. Within moments she felt the slowing of his breath, the loosening of his muscles that told her he was asleep.

She lay wrapped in his embrace for a long time, before she, too, drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Chapter Ten

Drifting on the edge of her subconscious, Sherry heard a metallic sound, a clinking. Like chains rattling. Like a sword slipping into its sheath. Like a key in a door. The sound of heavy male heels falling on the hardwood, too crisp and real to be a dream. With a clutch of panic in her chest, she opened her eyes.

“Well, well, well.” Sergei stood with his arms crossed. “Isn’t this a pretty picture?” He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers, a suit jacket draped over shoulders. Above his smirking face, his white hair was artfully tousled to appear fuller than it was.

Clutching the duvet to her chest, she sat up. “What are you doing here?” Her mind was racing. This was not good. She had already anticipated a challenging interview with the choreographer. This would put her at a distinct disadvantage right from the beginning.

He leaned against the wall and examined his nails. “I might ask you the same thing, my dear, but I suppose I can see for myself. You conduct a very thorough investigation.”

Beside her, Alexi stirred and reached for her with his eyes closed, a sweet smile on his face. “Mm,” he muttered. “I must think about something for the windows. The light is too bright.”

“Alexi!” Sergei spoke sharply, a string of harsh syllables that she could only assume was Russian, and from the look on Alexi’s face as he sat up, not a cheery good morning. He rolled out of bed and started dressing, his expression part anger, part guilt, part petulance.

As he dressed, the words flew back and forth between the two men. Sherry watched them. She might not have understood their words, but their body language spoke volumes. Sergei attacked. Alexi defended. Sergei softened his tone. Alexi responded with stony silence, filling his duffel bag. Putting a hand on his shoulder, the older man’s tone softened still further, cajoling. Alexi nodded his head.

“
Da
,” he said.

Sherry knew that one, at least.
Yes.

Sergei clapped a hand on Alexi’s back, pulling him in for a hug which the dancer returned, a sheepish grin on his face. The choreographer slapped his hands against Alexi’s cheeks, smiling and saying what she guessed was the Russian version of “Atta boy”.

Turning to her, the residue of the grin still on his face, Alexi said, “I’m sorry. I have to go. I’m late for class.” He sat down on the side of the bed and pulled his boots on. “After the performance there is a party. Fundraiser. Black-tie. Will you come?”

She looked from him to the choreographer standing at the window, looking out, ostensibly to give them their privacy. Why didn’t Alexi tell him to leave? Why was he acting like the prodigal son?

“Uh. I don’t know.”

He slipped a hand under the duvet and pulled her naked body closer to him. “That is not the right answer.” Bending his face to hers, he planted little kisses along her jaw. His hand moved from her waist, up to her breast, cupping it as he stroked her nipple with his thumb.

Eyes still on Sergei, she shivered. “Okay, okay.” She was no exhibitionist, but something about how he was touching her with complete disregard to the other man in the room was arousing. Disturbing and arousing at the same time.

Triumph was in his eyes as he kissed her lips. “Good. Meet me in my dressing room. You have something to wear?”

“I thought I’d go like this.”

He laughed, throwing back his head. “I would like to see that.” He was the confident, sexy man again. So gone was the petulant little boy being scolded by his father that she almost doubted he’d been there. But there was Sergei at the window, standing guard, like a parole officer.

Alexi leaned in for another kiss, long and deep, his tongue sending sparks down to her core, igniting a fire that would have to wait to be put out.

“Goodbye, my flower,” he said, with regret. Then he was gone, through the swinging door, his boots clomping down the hallway, the apartment door clicking shut behind him. And Sherry was alone with Sergei. He turned to face her. Backlit by the sunlight pouring in through the windows, she couldn’t see his expression, but the tone of his voice was mocking.

“I believe we were supposed to speak later, Miss Wong, but since the fates have conspired to bring us together, perhaps now is just as good?”

She nodded. It was hard to look professional and in control when you were naked in bed. “Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

“By all means,” he said, not moving. She could feel him staring at her.

She stared back. “You can wait for me in the kitchen.”

“Of course.” He moved toward the door, taking his time. “I will make tea, Russian style.”

Sherry made a face as the door swung shut behind him. More tea.

Dressing quickly, Sherry focused on the questions she wanted to ask Sergei. So he had seen her practically naked. So he knew that she was sleeping with Alexi. Sherry had fallen on her ass professionally enough times to know the only thing to do was get up and act like it hadn’t happened.

She raked her hands through her hair, gave herself a silent pep talk in the mirror, took a deep breath and pushed open the door with a confident smile. Sergei was sitting at the tiny kitchen table, two tulip-shaped glasses of tea and a bowl of sugar cubes in front of him. He dropped three into the small glass and stirred.

“I like it very, very sweet.” He smiled a knowing smile. “Like Alexi. We have many things in common, you will find.” He gestured to the stool opposite him. “Please.”

Picking up her glass by the rim, she took a sip, wincing at the astringent taste. She added three cubes and stirred. Sergei nodded his approval.

“Good girl,” he said.

She gave him a hard, flat stare. “Mr. Antonov, I know you are a busy man, so I’ll get straight to the point.” She put her phone on the table and swiped it open, ready to click on the recording app.

Sergei placed his hand on hers, stopping her. “You wondered why I was here. I will tell you.”

Sherry pulled her hand out from under his, not saying anything.

“You see, Alexi, for all he looks and acts like a man, is still a boy. He still needs guidance. Protection.”

“Protection from what?” she asked.

He waved his hand in the air. “Oh, everything. Himself, mostly. But also those who are jealous, who want to see him fail. Predatory women hoping to ride to success on the tail of his comet.” He flashed her a cold smile.

She didn’t take the bait. “What do you mean, himself?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Alexi was chosen for the Royal Ballet feeder school when he was just thirteen. He was dancing regularly in the corps at sixteen. Made principal at nineteen, the youngest male in the history of ballet to become a principal dancer.”

“It sounds like he had to grow up fast,” she said.

“In some ways, yes, he grew up fast. But it was like starting a girl en pointe too young, before the bones in her feet have developed fully. It can be done, but the pressure on those young bones? There is always damage. And she will not be as strong as the girl who starts when she is mature.”

She nodded, her questions forgotten. “That’s why he left the Royal.”

“He was doing six or seven lead roles a year when he was still just a child, really. Barely old enough to own his own flat. And he was doing it all alone. It was too much. He was cracking under the strain. He just wanted to be normal, but he had been dancing for so long, he didn’t know how. That’s when the tattoos started. The drugs. The partying. The cutting. When I met him, after he walked out on the Royal, two days before opening night of
La Sylphide
, he was almost broken beyond repair.”

Sherry felt a tug in her chest, picturing it. Alexi, his strong body hiding such fragility inside. “You fixed him.”

He shrugged with false modesty. “It was so obvious that his behavior was a cry for help. Like him, I started young, but I had my family and my mentors to support me. He had no one.”

“And now he has you.” Sherry examined his face, searching for the micro expressions that give away so much. “So what do you get out of this relationship?”

“What does a father get out of his relationship with his son?” The corners of his lips tilted in a smile, but his eyes were hard.

“In this particular case? I’d say much needed funding. He’s a ballet rock star. You brought him to the ABC because it’s a sinking ship and you’re hoping he’ll plug the leak.”

“It is only natural to support the company that is putting clothes on your back and food in your belly when it is going through a difficult period.”

“I’ve seen the figures. This is more than a difficult period. The lease is due for renewal and from what I can see, ABC stands a good chance of losing it. Then what? A warehouse in Queens? Not very prestigious. Not what the donors on Park Avenue want to see their dollars going into.”

“We will renew the lease.” All trace of a smile was gone.

“Sure. The donors will see to that. You have some impressive contributors.” She surreptitiously clicked on the recording app. “According to my research, the ABC received forty million dollars in donations last year. That’s in addition to the take at the box office and the regular subscriptions, which bring that total up to a hundred million. That’s not chump change. And yet, somehow, ABC is in the red.”

Fire burned in his eyes. “You have no idea how much it costs to run a ballet company,” he said.

“Actually, I do.” She smiled, clicking open another app. “Salaries, eight million. Ten million for the stage at the Lincoln Center.  Four hundred thousand for ballet shoes. Fifty-five thousand for bandages, cotton wool, and assorted painkillers. The list goes on. Fifty-five thousand! Whew. That’s a lot of bandages. Or maybe a bit of creative accounting? But it still doesn’t come near to a hundred million dollars.”

She pushed her glass aside, folding her hands together. “That leaves about fifty million unaccounted for. Give or take a few hundred thousand. For tights or whatever. Where is that money going, Mr. Antonov?”

For a moment he just looked at her, a cold dagger of a look. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

“Ah. I can see why Alexi didn’t tell me about you. Usually, he tells me everything.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “What he eats. If he drinks. Who he fucks.”

Standing up, he swallowed the rest of his tea in one gulp. “He has been with many women, you know, and told me about every one of them. In great detail.” He was standing next to her now, uncomfortably close, not that she’d let him know that. His cologne was sweet and cloying, like pipe tobacco.

“We have even shared some of them.” He ran the back of his hand down her cheek. It was so disturbingly like Alexi that she shivered, flinching away from his touch. “But he has kept you a secret. Because you are dangerous. Our Alexi has a self-destructive streak, you must know.”

He picked up his jacket from the back of his stool and flung it over his shoulders. “It’s a good thing I am here to protect him.”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Sherry said, uncertain of the truth of her words, even as they left her mouth. She didn’t want to hurt him, but that was not exactly the same thing.

“No, of course you won’t.” He laughed. “You saw him in there.” He nodded his head toward the door leading to the bedroom. “Like a puppy. If I tell him to do something, he will do it. And if I tell him not to do something,” he put his hand on her chin, his fingers tightening like a vise, “he will not do it. It is that simple.”

Sherry wrenched her chin out of his grasp. “That’s a very expensive suit, Mr. Antonov. Bespoke, I’d say. And your watch. Tag Heur. Are the missing millions going into your pocket? Buying you custom-made Italian loafers and a nice dacha outside of St. Petersburg? I wonder how Alexi would feel if he learned you brought him over to grow your retirement fund. I wonder if he’d be so willing to do what you tell him then.”

The smile faded from his face. The look he gave her was pure ice, colder than a Siberian blizzard. “Watch yourself, Ms. Wong. A dangerous woman walks dangerous paths herself.” He started toward the door.

Accustomed as she was to dealing with angry subjects, she felt a thrill of fear, not that she’d let him see it. She took a casual sip of her too-sweet tea. “Big words from a choreographer,” she called after him. “What are you going to do, pirouette me into submission?”

With his hand on the door he stopped and turned to look at her over his shoulder. “It’s not me you need to worry about.” Another wintry smile and he was gone.

Dumping the rest of her tea into the sink, Sherry washed and dried the glasses and Ikea teapot and put them away in the near-empty cupboard. A no-caffeine headache was starting, a gentle throb in her temples that would reach hangover proportions if she didn’t get her Starbucks fix soon, but both the reporter and the new lover in her demanded that she explore Alexi’s apartment first.

The kitchen was a bust, containing little to reveal anything about the man who used it other than he didn’t really. Basic cookware, plain white dishes and utensils, barely used. A cupboard holding boxes of tea, sugar, and a few packages of random dry goods with Cyrillic script on the labels that she couldn’t begin to decipher. In the fridge, a jar of horseradish, pickled beets and a bottle of Moët with a ribbon on it. In the freezer, a surprising absence of vodka. Just bags of ice and a collection of ice packs in various shapes and sizes.