No, he had to get to Liam’s party and get rid of some of his sexual energy. His new partner was not kinky. One encounter between them and she’d be scarred for life.
“Well, I’m out of here,” he said, heading for the door. ”I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? We’ll do it all over again.”
She smiled at him. Such a pretty smile. Maybe one drink? No. He needed sex, not cocktail hour with a vanilla girl. He was about to leave when the stagehand returned with one more bouquet. This bouquet wasn’t white roses or red roses, or even pink ones. It was dead roses. A bouquet of dead, blackened roses drooping amid dry sprays of baby’s breath. Petra looked at it and gasped.
“What the fuck is that?” Rubio asked the stagehand. “Why are you bringing her that?”
He shrugged and looked at the card. “It was delivered to the theater. For Ms. Petra Hewitt.”
“Take those away,” he ordered. “No, wait.” He grabbed them out of the grunt’s hand and nodded to the door. “Leave. Get out.”
Petra made a soft sound as he set the roses down beside the other two vases. “Why do you talk to people like that?”
“Like what?” he asked, rooting though the dead blooms to find the card.
She plucked it from his fingers before he could open it. “Could you please not read my stuff?”
“Who sent you these?”
They fought over the card. He won and opened the folded paper inside.
These roses are as dead as your soul.
It wasn’t signed. Ruby turned to her as she read over his shoulder. “You know who this is from?”
“Yes,” she said with a grimace. “I recognize the writing.”
“Because I would like to punch him out. Ex-boyfriend?”
“No, just some guy. He used to write me a lot of fan mail when I danced in New York.” She took the note and stared down at the print. “He’s angry that I moved to London, but really, why should it matter? I don’t even know him.” She bit hard on her lip. “I don’t know what he wants.”
“I know what he wants,” Ruby said. “He wants attention. People see you dance and they think they deserve a part of you. That they own something of you.”
“Yes, maybe that’s it.” She crumpled the offending note into a ball, but before she could throw it away, he pried it from her hand.
“You better keep this. Evidence, for protection order.”
She shook her head. “The police won’t do anything. They say he’s harmless. Just a bit too much of a fan.”
A bit too much of a psycho
, Ruby thought darkly. Petra’s eyes darted around the room as she smoothed back her hair. Her hand shook a little. He noticed these things in his partners. Shakes and trembles, signs that balance was off or concentration wavering.
“You should talk to Liam about this.” Ruby crossed to her vanity and picked up a pen, scribbling numbers on the back of a theater memo. “Here’s his number and address. He works in security.”
She ignored the paper when he held it out. “I don’t need security.”
“This person is bothering you, yes?” He pressed it on her until she took it. “He sent you dead roses. This is creepy and inappropriate.”
Ruby could be creepy and inappropriate, but he’d never sent anyone dead roses. And the note...
These roses are as dead as your soul.
He had his problems with Petra. He’d even called her a robot once, but he’d never said she was dead in her soul. That was just damn mean. That wasn’t something a fan wrote to an artist. It was something an angry lover wrote to his ex. He wondered if Petra was lying, if these roses were from someone she used to go out with. Had she broken someone’s heart?
“Your friend lives in Regents Park?” she asked, studying Liam’s information.
“Yes, big white house. You can’t miss it. Go and talk to him about this...” He gestured toward the dead roses. “About this weirdness. He can help you, give suggestions.”
“Won’t that cost money? To hire a security guy?”
“He’s not a security guy. He owns the entire Ironclad agency. They have offices all over the world.” He snorted. “He’s the one who gave Yves the money to bring you here, so I think he’ll help you with this.” Shit, he wasn’t supposed to say that. “That was a secret. Don’t tell him I told you.”
“Remind me to never tell you any secrets.”
“I’m not reminding you of nothing,” he said truculently.
She folded the wrinkled note card between her fingers, then looked at the paper with Liam’s info. “I don’t know. The police in New York never did anything, but... Maybe I should ask your friend. Do you think he’s home?”
“Tonight, no. I mean, he’s home, but you can’t ask tonight. They are, uh, very busy on Saturday nights. You call tomorrow. Sunday. I think you should call and ask his opinion what to do. He won’t mind.”
Ruby had to go. Party time. “Well, it was a good night,” he said, edging toward the door. “Be careful on the way out, okay? Maybe people still hanging out. Photographers too, taking pictures.”
“I’ll watch out. Hey.” She stopped him just as he turned to go.
“Hey what?”
“Why don’t you let anyone call you Fernando? What’s wrong with that name?”
He wondered why she wanted to know. The truth was, the name Fernando made him feel like a child, not that she could ever understand about his childhood. “I prefer Rubio,” he said with a shrug. “Like jewel rubies. Deep red, dark and dangerous.”
“In Spanish, Rubio means blond.”
“I am not Spanish,” he snapped. “I’m Brazilian.” He was sensitive about his roots, his poverty and yes, even his family name. What would Petra Hewitt know about it, with her impeccable ballet pedigree? “Why you don’t go by Grigolyuk?” he asked to poke back at her. “If Grigolyuk is your dad?”
The minute he said it, he regretted it. He could tell by her expression it was a very wrong thing to say.
“Grigolyuk is the world’s ugliest sounding name, and he’s an asshole.” She was suddenly very busy, tucking back her hair, collecting her things to remove her makeup. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Have a good night.”
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “Sorry I said that.”
She didn’t answer. She was staring at the roses, drooping hauntingly on their stems, the roses that cancelled out the Wilder’s white bouquet and his oversized scarlet arrangement. She touched one of the flowers and a cascade of petals fell to the floor. “What kind of florist would create such a thing?”
“I’ll throw them away for you,” he said, picking up the vase and tucking it under his arm. He’d throw it away—right after he showed it to Liam. Shit was so fucked up sometimes. He hated all the anger and sadness in the world. He hated asshole fathers and psycho fans, and mean ballet partners like him.
Yes, he was mean to her a lot. She brought out that beast in him and he didn’t know how to handle it, except to push her away. He needed distraction and distance from her pretty smelling locks, her witchy green-eyed stare. He needed release, alcohol and partying and beautiful people. That’s what Saturday nights at Liam’s house were for.
*** *** ***
Petra watched him go with the usual feeling of conflicted longing. Why did he have to be so virile and attractive? Why so careless with her feelings? And then so sweet, worrying for her safety?
Why did he have to bring up her father, tonight of all nights?
She’d secretly wished Petr Grigolyuk would be here, secretly fantasized about him showing up backstage. She’d built the whole thing up in her head, the way he’d be awkward, as if he wasn’t sure his estranged daughter would accept him. She would have played it cool at first, but then she would have said, “I’m glad you came to see me dance.” From there, they could have started a relationship, even if it was just a friendship...
Ugh, she hated herself. When the flowers were delivered she’d pounced on them, thinking surely one of the arrangements had been from him. But why on earth would her father send her flowers after ignoring her from birth?
Rubio had gotten her flowers. Beautiful roses, tons of them. She traced the petals of one scarlet bud.
Muitos abraços
. She’d keep that card forever, just like she’d remember this night forever. If she’d ever given such an inspired performance, she couldn’t remember it, and it was all because of him, The Great Rubio, who was truly great as a ballet partner. Was he trying to make her crazy, being utterly charming and talented, and then devastating her with his careless mention of her father? Was he playing some game with her? She wondered if it had to do with his kinky, dominant thing.
Speaking of which... She looked down at Liam’s card.
Big white house. You can’t miss it.
How many friends could Rubio have who lived in big white houses in Regents Park? Who happened to be “busy” tonight? Busy hosting a BDSM party, she was sure. She never would have guessed Liam was the friend Suzanne and Hannah had been talking about. He seemed too polished and sedate for such depravities, and if he was married to Ashleigh Keaton, then she was a closet freak too.
Right now, probably this moment, Rubio was headed to this party to get his kink on. Inappropriate fantasies crowded her brain, making her feel dirty. She threw down the card and got ready to leave, wiping off her makeup, showering and drying her hair. She had to get over this sexual obsession with him. She knew it was only because of the mystery, because she didn’t know what he was into, or what he did at those parties in the big white house.
But there was a way to find out.
A wig from the wardrobe room, some heavy makeup and dark eyeliner, and Liam and Rubio wouldn’t know her, especially if she hid herself in the crowds. There’d be crowds there, wouldn’t there, if it was such a big house? If she wore dark, nondescript clothing and kept her head down...
No. It was a ridiculous idea. A dangerous idea, because if Rubio discovered her she’d never live down the embarrassment. Or if Liam and Ashleigh discovered her...
But he was heading to that party
right now
.
Petra groaned and put her face in her hands. What else was she going to do tonight? Go home and worry about the dead flowers? After the high of the performance?
She stared at Liam’s card, turning it over and over. It didn’t take long to convince herself this was something she
had
to do. This was the only way to get over him, to get past the curiosity and craving that dogged her. It was just...necessary. With that suspect rationalization, Petra headed for the wardrobe room before she lost her nerve.
An hour later, Petra stood outside the Wilders’ house, her knees knocking together beneath her black knit dress. She had prettier dresses, and fancier ones, but she wasn’t out to get noticed—she needed to blend in. She flicked her synthetic black hair over her shoulder, then reached one last time to be sure all her real hair was hidden beneath the tight cap of the wig. Theater wigs were great because they were designed to stay on and not slide around a lot. She’d added a few pins just in case. In case of what? In case she had wild sex with someone? So it wouldn’t come off? She wasn’t going to the party to have sex, or even to spy on Rubio. She was going to prove to herself that her fantasies were just that—fantasies. She hoped to God that Rubio was gross and unattractive while he was having sex. She hoped he had a terrible “o” face and no rhythm and a miniscule dick. She hoped the BDSM stuff was cheesy and laughable.
That’s what she hoped, but she had no idea what she’d actually see, or if she’d even get in. There were men inside the door checking people against a guest list. Crap. She’d pictured this entire thing being open and anonymous. In desperation, she huddled behind a couple and climbed the stairs with them. The doormen waved the couple through with a greeting. Petra tried to slide in after them but one of the men held out a hand.
“Good evening. Have you been here before?”
She froze. “No... I’m, uh... I’m new in town. But I know some of the people here.”
That was true. She knew Rubio and she knew Liam and Ashleigh. A little.
“Would you mind naming names?” the shorter, stockier guy asked. “Did someone invite you? Are you on the list?”
“I work with Fernando Rubio,” she said, because it was probably the only way to gain admittance. “I dance with the London City Ballet.”
The doormen glanced at each other. “She does have that look about her,” one of them said.
“Mr. Rubio invited you?” the other one asked.
She nodded, a flush burning across her cheeks. “He invited me to come check things out. He didn’t tell you?”
Please, please, don’t find him to validate my story. I’m totally lying to you.
The taller one looked at his cohort. “Should we ask Liam?”
She pushed down rising panic. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if they called Liam. She could pretend she was here for advice about the dead flowers. Although, with the fake hair, and the way she was dressed... The guys studied her, and it suddenly seemed that everything about her must be completely transparent. That she was wearing a wig, that she was lying, and that she hadn’t been invited here at all.
Just as she was about to turn and flee, the shorter one gestured her in.
“How much trouble can she be?” he said to the other guy. “If Liam has a problem with her, he can throw her out.”
The tall one grinned. “Have fun, sweetheart. Bar’s by the kitchen, play room is down the staircase. Drinks stay in the living room and no scening while intoxicated. Absolutely no drugs.”
“I don’t use drugs,” said Petra, feeling like a suck up.
Just shut up and go in before they change their mind.
She hurried into the marble-tiled foyer. The house was packed with mingling, well-dressed people, all engrossed in conversations. Her heartbeat calmed as she realized it would be pretty easy to hide in the midst of this noisy crowd. She went to the bar and asked for a vodka shot. The bartender had a thin face and white blond hair like hers, and was wearing a toga made of gold lamé. The other bartender was in full leather. Gold Lamé Toga poured her a generous shot of luxury-label vodka. “How much is it?” she asked over the din of the electronic music.
“No one pays for drinks here.” His youthful features twisted into a grin. “Your first time at the ball, honey?”