A Dance too Far

by H L Day

  Amusement over Noel's rant fueled the smile on my lips. "That's one hell of an overactive imagination you've got there."

  He shook his head. "Nothing to do with imagination. Stories I've heard. You've heard of Bratva, right?"

  I shrugged. "Vaguely. Russian organized crime, right?"

  "Right. And Valentin's... mentor"—I frowned at the pause, wondering what word he'd been going to use before changing his mind—"is rumored to be a member of Bratva. He certainly has both the money and the entourage to suggest it's true."

  I started the music. "How do you know all this?"

  Noel stopped halfway to the door, his eyes darting to the only other person in the sound booth at that moment. Given that he was wearing headphones and not looking our way, Noel must have decided it was safe to continue with what he'd been about to say. "Unlike you, I do my research. Just... take my advice, Max. Please."

  I kept my eyes on the stage, offering only the merest glance of acknowledgment to my friend. "You don't need to worry. Even if I was interested, it's not like I'm going to get anywhere near him, is it? Or that he's going to have any interest in the hired help."

  He nodded, seemingly placated. "True."

  With him gone, I was able to turn my full attention back to the stage. I knew nothing about dance, especially ballet, but even I could tell that what I was witnessing onstage was something special. The other dancers had been good, but this guy—Valentin—was something else. It was easy to see why he was the star of the show. Every movement. Every twist. Every turn was pure beauty in its precision, his muscles flexing and bending effortlessly in ways that could only have been the result of years of hard practice. He was strong, yet graceful. Aggressive, yet playful. The contradiction provided a contrast at the same time as it fit seamlessly together. My concentration waned as I found myself caught up in the beauty of the dance, my fingers occasionally managing to fumble at buttons I was meant to be pressing.

  He pirouetted across the stage, each movement as perfect as the last. Then with one last death-defying leap in the air, landed as if he'd barely left the ground, the routine came to an end. As he stood stock-still in the middle of the stage, an officious-looking man, presumably the theater director, applauded while saying something in a language that had to be in Russian.

  Valentin didn't bother to offer any response to whatever feedback he'd just been given. His head suddenly turned, his gaze sweeping over the sound booth where I stood. I fought the urge to step back out of view, the searching gaze having a strange effect on me. "The music was wrong. It needs fixing." His voice fit him perfectly, English with just a hint of a Russian accent to add richness to the sound.

  Fuck! My heart jolted, my mouth going dry. He was right. I'd been so transfixed by his performance that I'd messed up some of the transitions, way beyond anything I could put down to first-day teething problems. I didn't know whether it was guilt for not doing my job properly or the fact that he was looking straight at me causing it, but there was no doubt that I felt unusually out of sorts. I opened my mouth to say something, but he was already turning away, apparently not interested in any sort of explanation.

  He left the stage the same way he'd entered, my eyes automatically dropping to the muscled tightness of his ass. An ass you could crack walnuts with. And an ass that I'd give anything to get better acquainted with. I had a serious case of lust bubbling through my veins.

  * * * *

  The rest of the day passed smoothly. I seemed to have gotten away with the mistakes I'd made earlier when my cock had momentarily taken over from my brain. Either they hadn't been as obvious as I feared, or they just hadn't had time to come and speak to me about it. I needed to make sure it didn't happen again. Valentin had only danced once. The word on the street from the few people I'd chatted to during my breaks that day was that he was on partial medical rest, so an understudy had stood in for him during the rest of the rehearsal. It seemed a good gig to me. Come on. Dance for five minutes, and then get the rest of the day to do whatever it was that contemporary ballet dancers did during their downtime.

  The same blushing stagehand that provided me with coffee earlier had showed up at midday with a sandwich. I wasn't entirely sure whether it was his job or I was getting special treatment. But from the looks he gave me, I suspected it was the latter. I'd felt sufficiently human enough by that time to look him over with a bit more interest. He was cute. There was no arguing with that, but everything about him screamed innocence. The poor boy probably wanted to be wined and dined, not fucked and chucked. In spite of what people thought—or said—about me, I did have some limits. My one-night stands were always mutual, and I never made false promises. It was just that some guys chose not to hear it. Like Aaron that morning. No, he was definitely one to put on the "do not touch” list. It wouldn't hurt to flirt a bit though. It'd give him a bit of an ego boost while keeping me well supplied with drinks and food while I was working. That way everyone was a winner.

  It was nearly three by the time I finally exited the theater onto the street. I looked forward to getting home, taking a much-needed shower, and perhaps even indulging in a bit of the "hair of the dog that bit me” to eradicate the last traces of the hangover that hadn't quite gone away all day. I was about to head for Covent Garden tube station when I became aware of a familiar figure slouched against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He was in the same outfit as he'd worn onstage earlier, despite a big chunk of time having gone by since. His only concession to being outside was the addition of an open jacket to partially cover his bare chest. His feet were still bare, his toes appearing even more naked against the backdrop of the street tarmac.

  Keep walking, Max. Just keep walking. Spurred on by Noel's earlier words of warning, it was excellent advice that my subconscious was offering. It was a shame then that I didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to it. I drew to a halt next to him. He continued to stare straight ahead, either deliberately ignoring me or unaware of my presence. "I thought dancers were meant to be healthy? Isn't smoking bad for you?"

  There was a long pause while he took a drag of the cigarette and exhaled the smoke. I took the opportunity to examine his face in profile. Up close, he was equally as stunning, if not more so than he'd been onstage.

  Valentin finally answered, his voice crisp and cool, the Russian accent more pronounced than it had been earlier. "Keeps my weight down."

  He still hadn't spared me so much as a glance, as if I was of such inconsequential importance that I barely registered on his radar. I probably didn't. He didn't even know who I was. In his eyes, I was probably just some busybody of a passerby who'd recognized he was a dancer from his outfit and wanted to stick my nose into his business.

  His head suddenly swung around, his gaze cool and assessing as it swept over me. "Is that okay with you, Max?"

  There weren't a lot of situations that could throw me for a loop, but him knowing my name did. I gawped at him. "How do you... I don't..."

  His lips quirked at the corner as I floundered over my words—the son of a bitch obviously found it amusing that he'd managed to catch me off guard. He took another drag of his cigarette, the smoke going in my eyes as he exhaled. "You are the one that ruined my dance? Correct, yes? I made a point of finding out your name."

  The words felt like a slap, yet my brain chose to focus on his use of the word ruined. "Your dance was... it was—"

  "Better with the correct music transitions." He levered himself away from the wall, even managing to perform that movement with a great deal of grace. What would he be like in bed? When he'd danced, there'd been parts that were slow and graceful, and parts that were fast and furious. Which one would he be? Or would he be both, depending on his mood? Heat filtered through my body as I was bombarded with a series of arousing images.

  I needed to calm down. There was no way in hell I'd ever get to find out, so it was a waste of time taunting myself with scenarios that couldn't happen. He dropped the cigarette butt on the ground and tu
rned to face me. I was surprised to find that we were roughly the same height. He stepped closer, raising his chin and looking me straight in the eye. "What's my name?"

  "Valentin," I answered automatically, regretting it immediately as a smug smile slowly spread across his face. "I mean... you're the star of the show, right? Everyone knows your name."

  He didn't look fooled for one minute by my feeble attempt at a cover-up. "You're going home?"

  I nodded.

  He stepped closer still, and I did my best to pretend that I wasn't affected by his close proximity. What the hell was wrong with me? It must have been the combination of a hangover and lack of sleep. He leaned forward, his lips mere inches from my own. My breath caught, and the world stood still. Was he going to kiss me? If so, I didn't care that we'd only just met. I didn't care that we were in the middle of the street. I'd kiss him back, and I'd probably thank him afterward. He pulled back slightly, his nose wrinkling. "Good! You are in need of a shower. You smell like a distillery."

  Then he was pushing past me on his way back into the theater, a full smile on those delightfully shaped lips, and I was left feeling like something momentous had happened when nothing had happened at all.

  Chapter Two

  Valentin

  The smile from baiting the new guy didn't last long, fading as soon as I caught sight of the twin walls of muscle waiting at the end of the corridor. Both men topped my six-foot frame by a good five inches. Both wearing equally expensive and fitted suits. To most people, they were my bodyguards, but I knew better. They were paid to keep a close eye on me, but it wasn't about protection. It never had been.

  Igor crossed his arms across his massive chest, watching my approach with an impassive stare that gave nothing away. Mikhail, however, was less willing to hide his displeasure, the angry scar down one cheek creasing as he glowered.

  I slowed down to a saunter, making them wait even longer until I reached them. Mikhail tilted his chin, the glare growing more pronounced. "Where have you been?"

  He'd spoken in Russian. They were both far more comfortable conversing in their native language. Therefore, naturally I responded in English. "I went outside for a cigarette." I smirked as a muscle ticked in Igor's cheek, the first sign that he was as annoyed with my actions as his colleague was. "I thought you were with me." I hadn't. I'd known that they weren't used to the layout of the theater and I'd taken advantage of that, slipping through a side door I'd spotted and skirting the building to reach the front of it.

  Mikhail reached out, his fingers almost making contact with my arm before he thought better of it, his hand pausing in midair and then dropping back to his side. "You think Dmitry will be happy when he hears that you were alone outside the building."

  I leaned my head to the side, pretending to give the question a great deal of thought. Apart from dancing, one of the few pleasures I got in life was winding up my two perpetual shadows. "I doubt it. But then when is Dmitry ever happy?"

  "You think we will not tell him?"

  I walked in the direction of my dressing room, knowing they'd follow. They followed me everywhere. That was the problem. They weren't the first, and they wouldn't be the last. When I was younger, it hadn't bothered me as much. But I was twenty-five now, and I still had to justify my whereabouts on a minute-by-minute basis. It was suffocating, and I'd long since grown tired of it. But what Dmitry wanted, Dmitry got. I was his prized possession and, as such, he kept tabs on me. Day and night. I sighed. "Do what you want. Tell Dmitry. Don't tell Dmitry. I don't care."

  "You are ungrateful... brat."

  That was Mikhail, always more outspoken than the silent, brooding Igor. I swung around, shoved my face close to his and switched to Russian, unable to keep the anger out of my face and voice. "You need to remember who you work for. Dmitry may need someone to do your job, but you're hardly indispensable. There are at least twenty people who preceded you, and when you're gone, there'll be twenty more after..." Something died inside me as I said the words aloud. It didn't take a genius to work out that Dmitry would have me escorted for the entire duration of my dance career. As I had every intention of continuing well into my thirties, that was a long time to have to endure. "One word from me, and Dmitry will have you replaced. So you might want to think carefully before you go admitting to him that you can't do your job properly."

  The anger faded as quickly as it had begun, replaced by a mixture of exhaustion and pain. I'd hoped the nicotine would help. It had, but only for about five minutes. Now the throbbing in my ankle had worsened again. I shifted position, placing the majority of the weight onto my other side.

  Igor finally found his voice. "Dmitry arrives next week."

  "Does he? Great!" I forced a smile, even while my heart sank. I'd been counting on having a couple of weeks to myself before he flew over from Russia. His business must have concluded quicker than he'd expected. "So there's very little point in telling him anything then, is there?"

  Neither man responded. I turned and opened the dressing room door.

  "When do you want to go to the hotel?"

  I reluctantly turned back. "Soon. I'll let you know. Don't worry, there's no secret back entrance out of this room, and I'm sure you're going to wait right outside? Correct?" They both nodded. I closed the door in their faces and finally allowed myself the luxury of limping. I hobbled over to the closest chair, sinking into it and pulling my sore ankle onto the opposite leg to examine it. Apart from a slight puffiness, there were no external signs that I'd aggravated the injury any further, but the increase in pain said otherwise.

  I made a call, waiting for the other man's greeting before I spoke. "Dr. Chambers, it's Valentin. I need you to increase the strength of the painkiller shots you're giving me. Either that, or I need more than one in a day."

  The doctor's sigh was audible over the phone line, as was his irritation at the request. "We already had this conversation, and I told you that would not be possible. You were advised not to dance for three months to give the injury a chance to heal. You have Achilles tendonitis. Every time you go against medical advice and dance on that ankle, you stop it from healing and risk aggravating it further. It—"

  I cut him off, knowing it was pointless arguing. "Fine. I'll see you in the morning for the next injection."

  "You need to rest it. You really shouldn't be dancing on it. These things—"

  "Thank you, Doctor." I hung up. I'd heard it all before, from more doctors than just him. The ones back in Russia had said exactly the same. It suited Dmitry to let them believe that it was my choice to carry on dancing against medical advice. As if I'd be stupid enough to risk my whole career for the sake of one show, no matter how important that show might be. I'd all but begged Dmitry to let me sit this one out, but he was adamant that wasn't going to happen. As far as I'd been able to work out, there were a multitude of reasons behind his bull-headed attitude. Dmitry never liked anyone telling him what to do, including doctors. He was arrogant enough to believe that he knew better—the need to keep control overruling common sense. Then there was the fact that he'd told me on more than one occasion that I was exaggerating the injury for attention. I suspected he thought that I'd even had a word with some of the doctors in an effort to get them to say that it was worse than it was. As if I'd do that. This was my big break. It was by far the most high-profile show I'd been involved in to date. The Royal Opera House in London wasn't anything to sneeze at. If the reviews were good, it would open doors for me across the world and finally push my name into the ranks of dancers who were so in demand they could pick and choose when and where they performed, at the same time as commanding a serious amount of money for considerably fewer shows.

  And then there was the financial aspect, and I suspected the real crux of the matter. I had no doubt in my mind that his investment in the show was very much a cover for two things: it gave him all the appearances of being a professional businessman and manager, which he loved, while offering a perfect opportunity
for the money laundering that I knew he was involved in and had been for years. One of the reasons he was so hell-bent on raising my profile and opening up opportunities in other countries was that it provided a legitimate reason for visiting and stopped the authorities from asking too many questions. He liked the attention that my dancing brought, but he liked money more. I was under no misapprehension about that. Whatever the reason, and it was probably a combination of all three, there was no arguing with him. Lord knows I'd tried, and it had simply fallen on deaf ears,

  I massaged my ankle, the pain not quite so severe now that I'd taken the weight off it. It was very concerning though, given that I'd done no more than a ten-minute warm-up and a rehearsal for my solo onstage. Fifteen minutes in total and I was still suffering for it. I fumbled in the drawer, pulling out the bottle of painkillers I'd been warned not to take on top of the injections. I unscrewed the top, tipping two tablets out onto my palm and swallowing them dry.

  I lowered my ankle to the floor and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I'd chosen to go with full makeup today, a fact some of the other dancers had clearly found strange, going by the furtive looks they'd given me. Not that any of them had dared to voice their thoughts aloud. It wasn't necessary for rehearsals, but what none of them realized was that I used makeup as emotional armor. It was the veneer I used to project the toughest version of Valentin to the world that I could. That Valentin didn't care that he was constantly accompanied by two babysitters masquerading as bodyguards; he didn't show an iota of the discomfort that it took to dance the simplest steps; he wasn't bothered that some drunken idiot couldn't even get his music right or that he only had a few days left before Dmitry's arrival. He was tougher than that and didn't let anything permeate the outer layer.