by Holly Rayner
Salim
There was nothing quite like a visit with old friends to set Salim’s head on straight. And Calista was one of his oldest. He considered himself extremely fortunate that, these days, she happened to live in a mansion in the outskirts of Madrid.
He was less lucky that her latest husband was constantly buzzing around, as were a few of his friends. Not that any of them were unpleasant people, but it kept him from being able to talk to Calista about the situation he now found himself in. As a confidant of many years, since he was at school, he at least knew that she had experience with this kind of thing.
Even if it had been many, many years since he’d needed this kind of advice.
It wasn’t until he found himself in the kitchen, twisting orange peels into drinks, that he got his chance.
“You know we have people for that,” Calista said from the doorway. Looking at her now, she looked the way she did back at school. A little less bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, maybe. But steadier, too.
“I know. But they never do it just the right way.”
Calista smiled and came to join him at the kitchen island.
“Not like we used to. Remember those gin and tonics that we made when we were sixteen…”
Salim smiled at the memory.
“When we used the wrong kind of water, and they tasted completely foul?”
Calista smiled back.
“Those were the ones.”
They stood for a while, sharing the memory, before Calista spoke again with a businesslike tone, her fiery Spanish accent only accentuating her manner.
“All right, orange boy, out with it. Why are you here?”
Salim paused for just a moment before he continued working on the drinks.
“Can’t I come visit an old friend while I’m in town?” he asked.
“You can,” Calista answered. “But you don’t. And something is wrong with you. You think I can’t tell? I know you.”
This was just what he’d come here to talk to her about, but he still found it hard to broach the subject.
“I’m in town for business,” he said, instead. “But I figured I’d come by. Accept the invitation for once.”
“Oh, yes,” Calista said, leaning against the kitchen island and picking up one of the half-prepared drinks. “Your little dance venture.”
Salim’s blood rose at her calling it that. And, although he tried to hide it, he saw Calista notice.
“Oh, don’t like that, do you? This is all to do with Nikolai, isn’t it? It always is with you two.”
“No,” Salim said instinctively, before correcting himself. “I mean yes, it’s to do with Nikolai.”
“Always getting you in trouble. You’d think it would have been long enough by now that even you would have learned.”
The words she chose were harsh, but her tone wasn’t. And her meaning wasn’t, either. He’d known her long enough to know that.
“It’s all gone wrong,” Salim said, more honest even than he had meant to be. He stood, head hanging over the kitchen island.
Calista stared at him for some time, her face a mixture of confusion and concern.
“This is something new for you, isn’t it?”
Salim nodded.
“I’m guessing there’s a woman involved.”
At that, Salim laughed.
“Is it that obvious?”
Calista sipped her drink.
“Only to people with eyes and brains. And a day or two’s experience with men. So, there’s a woman. You care for her. And Nikolai cares for her? Oh, please don’t be as predictable as all that.”
Salim shook his head sharply.
“No, you’re wrong there. Nikolai doesn’t care for her. Not at all.”
Calista chuckled.
“Well, that’s better for you, I think. But then, what’s the problem? You care for her and he doesn’t. Women are smarter than you men seem to think we are. She’ll figure that out in a heartbeat.”
Salim smiled. That hadn’t been what he’d come here to ask her, but he felt reassured all the same.
“No, that’s not what the problem is,” he said. “It’s not Nikolai. It’s me. I’ve been dishonest.”
“Ooh,” Calista groaned. “Now it all comes out. So you don’t care for her.”
Again, she’d played her little game of offending him without meaning to.
“No, I do. I definitely do.”
She looked at him knowingly.
“And yet, you stand here, telling me you’re being dishonest with her. This is not a hard problem, Salimito. You’ve been dishonest with a woman you care about, so you tell her the truth.”
Salim shook his head.
“It’s not as simple as all that. I don’t know how to tell her, and even if I did, now isn’t the right time. But I don’t know if I can wait.”
“If there is one thing I’ve learned in all my time,” Calista said, “it’s that it’s never the right time to do something you don’t want to do.”
She let that rest with him for a moment before she spoke again.
“And there you have it. There is my advice to you. Now, come enjoy the afternoon before you go and ignore it.”
She picked up a tray of drinks and headed back out to where the rest of the party was waiting, expecting Salim to follow.
And follow he did. He even did his best to enjoy the calm, laid-back conversations over afternoon drinks, and give himself a break from thinking about Ophelia and how he would tell her about his arrangement with Nikolai. And, before it even got to that point, how he would extricate himself from his arrangement with Nikolai in the first place.
He half-thought he had dozed off and was dreaming when he heard his friend’s name being spoken.
“Oh, Nikolai! So good of you to make it out here. But I thought you said you were going to be too busy to join us?”
Salim’s eyes shot up to meet Nikolai’s, and the two men stared at each other exactly as long as they could without the rest of the room remarking on it.
“Yes, I had planned to be. But the business arrangement I meant to make has hit a slight snag.”
Calista laughed, and the sound brought Salim instantly back to when they were all at school together.
“And that snag was Salim, was it?”
“Darling, what do you mean?”
Calista’s husband spoke up for one of the few times during the afternoon.
“Salim and Nikolai were always in competition with one another when we were at school. And, from what I hear, it’s only gotten worse since we’ve been out.”
There was some general laughter and discussion about old grudges, but Salim barely listened. Instead, his attention was on Nikolai, as he picked up a drink from the tray that Salim had prepared and sat down next to him.
“You’ve done well so far, my friend,” he said when he had sat down, quietly enough so that the rest of the room couldn’t hear. “Buying the company was a good opening move. I think you might get her if you know how to reel her in properly. But then, maybe that’s your weakness…”
Salim felt his skin crawl at his friend’s words.
“I’m not ‘reeling her in’, Nikolai. She’s not a fish.”
He spoke a little bit louder—he couldn’t help himself—but he still did his best to keep the volume below what the rest of the room could hear.
Nikolai shrugged.
“Not a fish, maybe, but quite a prize. But I wouldn’t go counting your millions just yet. Don’t forget, you’re heading into my territory next.”
Nikolai felt like a fly buzzing around Salim’s shoulder. But, just like a fly, Salim had a feeling that the more he tried to shake him off, the more he would bother him.
“I’m not counting my millions,” Salim said, and he knew his tone and volume were getting out of hand. “I don’t care about that any more. The bet’s off, and you should be thanking me for that, because you were going to lose, anyway.”
“Oh,” said Nikolai
, his own voice quiet and fully under control. “After next week, I think not.”
Salim wanted to get up and walk away. Calista would understand—she knew Nikolai as well as he did. But then, Salim knew Nikolai well enough to know that when he was talking like this, he had a secret to share.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “We’re not even going to St. Petersburg. We’re going to Moscow.”
Again, that snake-like smile.
“You’re going to Russia. The owner of the Moscow Ballet is an old family friend—one of the benefits of being born into the business. I wouldn’t miss your evening there for the world.”
For the first time in all the time he had known Nikolai, Salim felt nervous. In all the years they had been friends and rivals, their competition had always had a playful edge to it. Nothing had ever really been harmful. Nothing serious. But he knew it wasn’t that way with all the people who crossed Nikolai’s family in general. He’d heard rumors, and while he had always pretended, for his friends’ sake, to ignore them, they were from too credible of sources to be wholly dismissed.
For the first time, Salim considered what it would be like to actually be Nikolai’s enemy. It was not a pleasant thought.
“What are you saying, Nikolai?”
Nikolai shrugged, and Salim hated the way he was so practiced in making everything seem like it meant nothing to him, even when Salim knew very well that it did.
“I’m only saying that sometimes, in order to level the playing field, you have to burn it down.”
No, being Nikolai’s enemy was not a pleasant thought at all.
“I could cancel,” he said, as much to gauge Nikolai’s response as anything.
But he knew he couldn’t. He was trapped by his own care and ambition for the Williamsburg Ballet. The deal Tomas had struck with the Moscow Ballet had been one of the greatest opportunities that the Williamsburg Company was likely to get in the near future, and quite a skillful maneuver on the old manager’s part.
Pulling them out of it would be suicide for the company’s reputation, and would hurt everyone that Salim had come to care for.
“No,” Nikolai said, clearly knowing the facts just as well as Salim did. “You won’t.”
That was it. That was enough.
Salim stood, made a quick, curt apology to Calista, and was gone. He didn’t feel capable of fancy drinks and light conversation. Not anymore.
Chapter 22
Salim
He spent the rest of the afternoon trying to take his mind off things. He resisted the urge to call the Moscow Ballet to try and block Nikolai off from whatever he had already put in motion. He knew that messing with that arrangement in any way would be tantamount to playing with fire.
He knew Nikolai. He knew how vindictive he could be.
Instead, Salim looked over some of the research on works of art that were expected to come into the market soon, so that he could try to determine how much he might be willing to pay for them. It was a long, painstaking task, but it was one that only he could do, and he was happy for it.
He took dinner in his room, poring over the files, along with some large, rather well-made prints of the works in question. He was pleased to find himself getting caught up in the work, but it didn’t take his mind off Ophelia the way he had hoped that it would. Instead, with each piece he decided he would attempt to acquire, he couldn’t help but imagine showing it to her.
It was insidious the way she’d wound her way into his thoughts, even in such an unrelated matter. Every determination he made was as though he were explaining to her in his head, why he was choosing to go after a piece or leave it be. It was like she was right there, even though she couldn’t be. She was haunting him.
He thought of Calista’s advice. He could tell Ophelia. He could come clean about the whole thing before whatever scheme Nikolai had planned came to fruition. And, in the back of his mind, a part of him was trying to figure out whether what was holding him back was genuine concern for how the situation might affect her performance and therefore her career, and how much of it was just what Calista thought it was—him just not wanting to face the possibility of losing her.
It would be better after the tour was over, Salim thought. There would be less risk involved. Of all the damage that his confession might do to her personally, he couldn’t bear the thought that he might hurt her professionally, as well. After the tour, he would come clean to her and hope for the best. When they had the time and space to figure it out without the constant performances hanging over their heads.
Until then, he just had to avoid her. It wouldn’t be like London, he convinced himself. In London, there had been no explanation. This time, he’d explained that he needed time. Hopefully, she would accept that. She had to.
He had almost come to terms with the idea that he had to stay away from Ophelia when there was a knock on his door. He’d buried himself so deeply into his work that he almost missed it. But when he answered, there was a hotel employee standing there, looking polite but efficient. He gave a slight bow.
“Señor, I was sent to inform you that Miss Ophelia Collins is waiting for you in the piano room.”
She was what?
“This hotel has a piano room?”
It was a silly question, but all he could think of in the moment.
“Si, señor. Would you like me to take you there?”
No. That was what he should say. Yes, he had told Ophelia that he would accept her kind offer of piano lessons. But not now. Not like this.
“Lead the way.”
Salim had never been the kind of man to let his impulses get the better of him. But as he followed the employee down the halls of the hotel, back toward a wing he’d never been in before, he realized that that was exactly what he was allowing himself to do. When the employee opened the door, and he walked through it, though, he found that he couldn’t regret it.
There, seated at the piano, was Ophelia. She was dressed stunningly, in a long, flowing skirt. It looked almost like one of her costumes, but toned down to fit the room and the lighting. She was breathtaking. And, when she saw him, and smiled, it was as though a physical force was trying to blow him over.
“I thought we’d agreed…” His voice trailed off, stunned as he was.
“We never agreed. You agreed. But I’m not going to let you do what you did in London.” She smiled gracefully. She did everything gracefully. “Not again. And, anyway, I spent all day looking for this. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find a beginner’s piano book around here.”
She held up the book, but Salim’s eyes were fixed on her. His plans were ruined. How had he thought it possible to stay away from here for the entire rest of the tour? What dumb part of his brain had ever thought that the slightest possibility?
“Well, if you went to all the trouble…” he said, allowing a wide smile to paint itself across his face.
He strode over to the piano and seated himself next to her, just inches away from her perfect form.
Chapter 23
Ophelia
Yes, this was better. This was right. Ophelia was certain—as she deftly went through the chapters, trying to get a sense of where Salim had left off with his lessons all those years ago—that she had made the right choice.
When she’d left Nikolai in the breakfast room, her mind had been in disarray. To try to get some clarity, she’d spent most of the morning walking around the city, uncertain where to go or what to do. Initially, she’d wondered if she should rush back to the hotel and accept Nikolai’s offer. But then, an art gallery had popped up in front of her, and she’d found herself wandering inside.
And, as she’d looked at the beauty around her, all she could think was to wonder what Salim would say about the pieces. And once she’d realized that, what she had to do became clear.
Salim was a quick learner. Even after all this time away from the keys, his hands seemed to be adept at remembering the shape they should take on the keyboard. Op
helia only had to put her hands over his to reshape them now and then, when he forgot. She almost got the sense, as they went further with the lesson, that he was occasionally forgetting on purpose, just so she would correct him.
She didn’t mind.
“That’s very good. Can you go from the top of the phrase? From that E, there.”
A good teacher would be watching her student’s hands as he played. But Ophelia wasn’t a teacher, and she found herself instead watching his face.
The concentration there was astounding. He had a focus that she’d rarely seen in others. The kind of focus that others had often told her that she had.
It was mesmerizing, and it made her want to kiss him. But it also, she was surprised to find, made her want to get up off the piano bench, leave the room, and run. The impulse hit her out of nowhere, and it took her a moment to see it for what it was.
“What’s wrong?”
Salim’s focus was impressive, but apparently not absolute.
“What? Nothing. Nothing is…” Her voice trailed off.
Now, that intense focus was set on her. And that impulse to run was all the stronger.
“This has been fun, but I think I should go.”
She went to stand, but before she could do so, she felt his hand on her arm. It wasn’t harsh, or commanding. The pressure was gentle, but firm, and the feel of him touching her was enough to keep her planted on the bench.
“Where is this coming from? You were the one that wanted to meet me here. And now you’re running away?”
It was his soft voice again, with just a trace of his accent.
“Yes, but that was before…”
“Before what?”
Before I remembered how unequal we are. Before I realized that you’ve been with all those women and I’ve been with no one. Before you realize that I’m a fraud who has only been pretending to be anything other than a little dancing machine; before you want nothing more to do with me, and you leave me here, wanting you, with my heart broken.
She didn’t realize she was looking down at the ground until he lifted her chin gently with his other hand. She looked up and into his eyes, and there it was again: that focus. But all of the conflict that she had seen in him, both here and in London, was gone.