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I smile to myself, the gears in my head turning in perfect harmony.
Well there's an idea.
Looks like I might owe Charlotte a thank you—though I'd much rather drop dead and die than admit it.
* * *
“This is a most generous offer, Mr. Nicolaevich,” the director general says, continuing to shake my hand vigorously. He's a stout little man in his late seventies, his ugly brown suit expensive but ill-fitting. He perfectly encapsulates my opinion of the art world—stuffy, elitist, and out-of-touch with reality. “We would be more than happy to have your company as a sponsor. We can talk details in my office, if you'd like—”
“No need. As I've said, my brothers and I are happy to make an annual contribution of one million rubles. In exchange, you'll promote the limousine division of our transportation company through appropriately displayed logos and banners at your functions.”
The director general smiles wide. “Of course, of course. I'll have the paperwork—”
“Send it to my office. I'll have it signed and returned.”
I check my wristwatch. It's getting late. I wanted to take care of this over the phone, but it's surprisingly difficult to get an appointment. I frankly don't have the patience to sit around waiting for someone to return my calls. The fastest way to get shit done is to show up in person, demand to speak to the person in charge, and get straight to the point. If all else fails, mentioning large sums of money always tends to grab people's attention.
“It's a pleasure to support the arts,” I mutter stiffly.
“Won't you at least stay for a tour?” the director asks me. “It's only right that I show such an honorable patron around. I think dance rehearsals are underway, actually.”
I'm tempted to say no. I've done what needed to be done. There are a million other things I have to take care of as the Bratva's second-in-command, not to mention the pressing issue of finding the damn rat who's been stealing from us. But I guess I have to lay the groundwork here. A representative from a taxi company showing up out of the blue to offer a sponsorship deal… That'd look suspicious any day of the week. I have to at leastpretendto be interested in this place in case anyone starts asking questions.
I force a smile. I don't think it translates very well because the director shrinks back a little. Sometimes I wish I had Andrei's confidence or Roman's easy air. “A tour sounds great,” I manage to say through gritted teeth.
The building is an architectural marvel and has a rich history that dates back to the late eighteenth century, but I've never been particularly interested in that sort of thing. The humanities are subjective. I'd much prefer the cold hard truths of math and science. There are no surprises—just the way I like it.
He shows me to the main theater, points out where our company logos will be placed on banners. I get to see the props room, the service elevator backstage, the pit where the orchestra sits as the dancers or opera singers perform. I nod along, my interest fleeting.
That is, until we go downstairs to one of the many practice rooms.
We step in quietly. A pianist is tinkering at the keys playing the first familiar notes of Tchaikovsky'sDance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. It's bright in here, so much so it kind of hurts my eyes. The air conditioning is on despite the fact that we're in the middle of winter, likely to help the dancers keep cool. A handful of men and women dressed in mismatched athletic wear stand off to the side, some seated against the wall as a ballerina moves across the room in time with the music.
Or more accurately,floatsacross the room.
Everything happens in slow motion. I see her hair first, bright like starlight. Then the shape of her lips, pulled into a wide smile as she twirls in place. She moves like she's made of water, flowing with the elegance and grace of a gentle stream. Even though her brow is covered in sweat, she looks elated to be here. She's mid-spin when our eyes lock. Nikita.
The one who took my breath away.
Maybe I doowe Charlotte a thank you, after all.
“You…” She breathes, her chest rising and falling from the exertion of her routine. Her look of momentary surprise transforms into a sweet smile. “Hi.”
It takes a lot to leave me speechless, yet she's somehow done it again. I can hardly believe my luck. What is she doing here? Why is she staring at me like that? Well, I’m asking myself a dumb question considering the many hours of frantic lovemaking we burned back at my cabin that night. Clearly, I made a lasting impression.
“Do they know each other?”
“Who is he?”
“Hey!” comes the shrill voice of an older woman at the front of the room. She claps her hands together harshly, louder than a gunshot and just as startling. She's the instructor, I assume. The ballet master, or whatever the proper term is supposed to be, dressed from head to toe in black. If I didn't know any better, I'd mistake her for a mourner. “What do you think you're doing? I didn't tell you to stop, Nikita.”
Nikita.
Her name echoes around inside my skull. It's beautiful, just like her. Mesmerizing and lovely and delicate. Nikita looks like a princess, her hair up in a bun with a thin white skirt wrapped around her waist. Every inch of her is beautiful. Slender and lean, but incredibly strong. I like the dips of her collar bones, the length of her neck, and the curve of her hips. The sight of her milky skin makes my mouth water. I’d missed every inch of her, more than I thought I would, and I’m only realizing this now upon seeing her again. Clearly, she made a lasting impression on me, too.
The gorgeous ballerina before me chews on the inside of her cheek, addressing the ballet master. “I'm sorry, I—”
“I distracted her,” I speak up. “It was my fault.”
