“And I do love you for it, sweetie-pie. We all benefit from your keeneristic tendencies, but some of us do have a life outside of our work,” Regan said with a smile to take some of the sting out of her words and smoothed a manicured hand over her thick honey brown hair. “Hey, do you have any plans after work? It’s Friday night, you know. You should come out with me and some friends later. You wouldn’t even need to change, you look super hot just the way you are. We’re going to have a few drinks at the Point and Feather and then maybe go dancing after.”
The other girls at the agency thought Tasha was kind of boring, a home-body. They didn’t get why she never went out with them, especially because she was an attractive twenty-three-year old woman that garnered her fair share of male attention. She shook her head at Regan and gave the same refusal she did every week. “I’m going to the gym tonight.”
Regan laughed and patted Tasha on the head. Tasha swatted her hand away with a laugh. Despite an almost decade age difference, the two women had become friends. Regan was young at heart and Tasha had become more mature than her years.
“Don’t you ever do anything on the weekends Trish?” Regan asked rolling her eyes because she already knew the answer. “Like, go on a date or something? You’re too young to be hiding yourself away from life. With all that gorgeous dark hair and curvy little body, guys would die to go out with you. Or they would be if you got out once in a while!”
Tasha laughed and shook her head. “I like staying at home!” she protested. “Netflix and ice cream won’t break my heart or give me a hangover.”
Regan and Layla who was sitting a few desks over burst out laughing at the glare Tasha levelled at Regan. The one ladies’ night she’d agreed to had finished with three bottles of wine, a drunken cab ride home and a very sick Sunday for Tasha. She’d also spent the entire miserable day terrified that, in her drunken state, she’d revealed too much about herself and her past. Luckily, when Monday had rolled around the other women had treated Tasha no differently except to tease her about her inability to hold her alcohol. Tasha had been more careful in accepting invitations out.
“See you Monday then, call if you change your mind Trishy dishy!” Regan said over her shoulder, tossing out the nickname she knew Tasha despised. She strolled over to her computer to shut it down for the weekend.
Tasha waved good-bye and went back to work, barely noticing when the other two finished and left the office. She completely forgot about the long white box with her name on it.
Two hours later, Tasha completed her work, shut down her computer, locked the office and made her way to the gym where she participated in a Jujitsu class. She didn’t have a car and had time on the bus to think about Regan’s standing offer of a night out. It had been years since she had been out for a night of fun “on the town” and a small part of her did miss it. She used to love dancing. And Regan was right, she was young, energetic and good-looking. Male clients noticed her all the time. Dinner invitations weren’t exactly rare. Maybe she should consider Regan’s offer and join her one of these Friday nights.
A dark image crossed her thoughts, sending a shiver of ice trickling down her spine. Fear chilled her, freezing her for a moment. Her fingers clenched around the white box in her lap, creasing the flimsy cardboard. Tasha had to force herself to relax and remember she was safe. She closed her eyes and breathed in and out.
It had been months since she felt even a hint of approaching danger. She learned to cover her tracks well. He wouldn’t find her here in this bustling Canadian city where she could remain perfectly anonymous. Where she allowed not even a hint of her original accent to betray her heritage. Where she had so carefully erased every bit of her original self and created Trish Portman instead.
He couldn’t possibly find her here.
Chapter Seven
Tasha winced ever so slightly as familiar fingers curved her waist. A few beads of sweat dotted her hairline. She knew what was coming. Forcing her breaths to remain even and her heartrate normal she calmly brought her left hand around her body and placed it over top of the male fingers touching her.
In one smooth movement, like a dancer, she grasped the hand, spun around and shoved the palm of her right hand up under Jordan’s chin. She hooked her small leg around his much thicker one and shoved. When he didn’t move she threw more weight into the maneuver. He started to topple backwards, arms splayed, but at the last minute she pulled the move so he wouldn’t get hurt when he hit the mat.
“Wrong!” he snarled.
In barely the blink of an eye he was up. He tossed her easily on the mat and came down heavily on one knee beside her. His fist came smashing down into her solar plexus, pulling the punch so he wouldn’t shatter the bone and kill her, but his knuckles still dug painfully into tender flesh. Tasha gasped and flung her arm out to slap the mat.
Jordan pulled back and rocked onto his heels placing his hands on his knees. All former aggression replaced by his usual serene expression. Tasha lay on the mat beside him gasping for breath. She let her eyes meet his and winced slightly before laughing at the mock stern look he gave her.
Covering her face, she moaned, “Okay, okay! I give!”
He shook his head, his expression gentling, “Stop pulling your throws Portman. It ruins your form and gets you banged up more than you need to be.”
I know! I need to follow through. I just hate the idea of hurting someone.” She reached out an arm and got him to help pull her into a sitting position.
It still amazed her that she’d reached this point of easy trust with another man. Perhaps it was her years of dancing, where it meant nothing to allow another man’s hands to roam her body. Jordan’s touch did nothing for her. Not even a flutter. The day David had forced her to run for her life, her libido had turned to ash.
Jordan stared down at her flushed features until Tasha felt compelled to turn away. She’d been working with him and attending his classes for five months. She’d also been pulling her punches for just as long. In everything else, she’d been working her butt off. He often joked that her form was so perfect it made him, third degree black belt, feel as though he should change his own to match hers. He told her that he had never met a student with the determination and skills to excel in martial arts in so short a time. Her ability to soak in the instructions and become a lethal opponent almost from day one had stunned him. She had blushed and thanked him for the compliment.
Jordan’s repeated requests for her to work one-on-one with him, to attend championships and to weight train had been gently denied. She was too busy. She was happy learning Jujitsu as a hobby but nothing more. She couldn’t afford the lessons. So many excuses. But she knew she wasn’t fooling him. He seemed to know when she was lying.
Like that first moment he had asked why she’d wanted to study with him and she had said for the exercise. He’d known otherwise. He had stared at her a little too long, as though he somehow knew she was running from something. Knew she was hurt and afraid. She’d wanted to learn how defend herself. So, he’d given her that, hoping like hell she would never need to use it. Gently, he tucked a long silky lock of dark mahogany hair behind the small shell of her ear.
Tasha shivered slightly at the touch of Jordan’s fingers against her skin. They were usually business-like and impersonal. This felt like it had meaning. Was it time for them to take the next step? They had worked so closely together these past months. As tutor and student. Perhaps it was time for more. Though his touch didn’t cause her heart to flutter in anticipation, it was… pleasant. She could grow used to it. Didn’t she deserve more than a lonely existence?
Tasha took a deep breath and tilted her chin, letting the back of his hand drift over her skin. They sat together for a moment, oblivious of the class working and sweating around them. Jordan opened his mouth to say something, leaning closer to her so she would be the only one to hear. But before he could speak, Tasha stiffened with such suddenness that he dropped his hand and leaned away to
give her room. He thought she objected to his closeness, but the look in her eyes said something else.
She felt cold in the overheated room. Then suddenly, she felt something. Something sinister, something familiar. Could it be… him?
She sat paralyzed for a moment, fear coursing through her. She felt like throwing up and actually brought a hand up to cover her throat. She shook her head against the intrusion. It wasn’t possible. She was perfectly safe. Deciding her nerves were on edge because of her usual need for more freedom, between Regan’s constant invitations and Jordan’s pressing their relationship. Tasha smiled weakly.
“Sorry about that,” she said, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll try not to pull any more of my throws.”
Taking her dismissal in his usual lighthearted manner, Jordan stood next to the much smaller woman and patted her on the head. “It’s either that or have me believe a small fry like yourself can’t do it.” Jordan left her side to work with the rest of the class.
An hour later, a freshly showered Jordan stood tossing his keys in the air and catching them. He waited patiently until he was rewarded with the sight of a prim little ballerina exiting the ladies change room. She made her way gracefully to the space where he had just finished piling the mats away in the corner.
She dumped her purse and a long white box next to the pile of mats and came to stand beside him. She had changed from her karate gi to a black leotard with pink tights. She’d exchanged bare feet for pink ballet toe slippers. Her long hair was swept up in a tight knot on the top of her head. Only a few wisps were left to float free, which she shoved hastily behind her ears.
Jordan never got tired of looking at the mystery woman that showed up at his gym one day and begged him for lessons, no matter how she was dressed. But the ethereal woman she presented in her ballet outfit was his favourite. It was also this embodiment of her he found the most untouchable. Like somehow the dancing goddess became further out of his mortal reach.
Standing in front of him she began stretching her small, toned body while she chatted about nonsense. He marveled at the ease and lack of concentration she put into the exercises that required, what he thought, must be a master degree of concentration. At the moment, she was balanced on one foot with her rib cage and head curved back over her body, one leg up with a hand reaching back to grasp her foot. He liked to think of himself as a pretty fit guy, but this girl was on a whole other level.
“Thanks again for letting me use the gym after class.” He blinked, trying to focus more on the conversation and less on the small, perky tits she was thrusting in his direction while curving her back in a weird contorted concave position.
He grinned wickedly. “It’s my pleasure, sweetheart.”
“Ha!” she laughed. “You know you don’t charge me enough. But I won’t complain, I can’t afford more.”
“How could I deprive the prima ballerina of what clearly makes her so happy?” he joked.
At his careless words she stumbled and had to catch her balance, a pained expression crossing her face.
He knew he shouldn’t push…but… “What is it Trish? It was my mention of prima ballerina, wasn’t it? You know I think you’re good enough to be a professional dancer.”
“What do you know of ballet?” she asked sharply, her accent slipping slightly.
“Whoa,” he said, holding up his hands. “Just an opinion.”
She nodded slowly and exhaled a long breath. Forcing a smile, she completed her stretch and said over her shoulder, “Sorry, Jordan, I’m a little on edge today I guess. I just need to work off some of this energy. You have yourself a good weekend!”
Her bright, totally fake reply and dismissal should have annoyed him. Who was he kidding though? He loved everything about her. He would allow this tiny ballerina to dance all over him any day she wanted.
“Alright, you have a good night. Don’t stay too late, Trish.”
She nodded and proceeded to ignore him as he let himself out of the gym and locked it behind him. He watched her through the door for a minute as she strode gracefully to the lights and dimmed them, creating a private world. One that he didn’t belong in. He didn’t know where she came from, but he did know she was here now and he was determined to have the little dancer in his life. No matter what it took. Next week, when he saw her, he would push the issue. For now, he would leave her to her solo dance.
Chapter Eight
Tasha dimmed all the lights except for one, a spotlight. She smiled, pleased, and glided to the center of the floor. She crouched into a bow and held her hand out to an imaginary partner. Her eyes glowed in excitement and, in one lithe, graceful movement, she began to dance.
The world ceased to exist.
She was alone with her imaginary audience, captivating and seducing them with her flawless movements. She used the entire floor space, running and leaping into the air – stretching out her arms and landing gracefully. She twirled and spun, kicked and chassed. She danced as though it were her last dance, enjoying every second of it. If she could bottle freedom, this is what it would feel like.
After an hour, the demands of her body began to make themselves known. She was beyond thirsty! She landed a perfect pirouette within the spotlight and swept into a low bow. Coming back to reality, she laughed out loud in sheer delight.
It was heaven to dance again!
Tasha turned to the wall of mirrors and studied herself critically, something all dancers did. She saw a small body, curved a little more than a ballet dancer should be, but she was no longer a professional. She didn’t have to starve herself for the perfect physique. Her back and shoulders were straight, breasts high and pointed, fuller than they used to be. Her legs were long, the calves and thighs strong.
Humming to herself she tip-toed over to her things, flinching. Now that she wasn’t dancing, her poor feet were feeling the punishment of ballet shoes. She picked up her water bottle and took a long drink of the cold, soothing water. In a graceful move, she sat in the shadowy corner next to her belongings by the mats and began some stretches to stop muscle fatigue. She wanted to dance for another hour or so, but her body needed a ten-minute break.
The darkened room in a gym, located in one of the rougher neighborhoods in the city, should have felt creepy, but Tasha never found it so. She had been borrowing it for months now, having negotiated a trifling payment with Jordan, and secured the key and alarm code. She thought maybe he had a thing for her. Though she didn’t return his affections, she did feel safe in his gym, hidden from the world.
Tasha sat up straight and brought her arms over her head in a long body stretch. She twisted her legs in an ‘S’ sit and felt something bump her shoe. Curiously, she glanced over her shoulder. She had tapped the white box with her foot. It was the unopened delivery that’d been sent to the travel agency earlier in the day.
Deciding now was as good a time as any to go over the promotional material, she reached for the box. She moved her legs into a wide ‘vee’ sit and untied the ribbon holding the box closed. It was fancier than the boxes the usual posters came in. She pushed herself forward, forcing her legs further apart in the stretch.
She flipped the lid off the box and looked down.
“No!” she gasped and pulled her legs in, recoiling.
A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her. She brought her hands up to her eyes and bowed her head. “No, no, no, no,” she repeated in a horrified moan.
This wasn’t happening!
Maybe she imagined it.
Tasha dropped her hands and reached forward, desperate to prove she was wrong. Shaking fingers lifted a single white lily from the box. Only one man had ever given her flowers. And it had always been white lilies. He insisted they reminded him of his prima ballerina, his little Russian dancer. Graceful, lovely and pure.
Tasha suddenly felt cold in the overheated room.
Then she felt him.
Watching.
Stalking.
Tasha felt a
wave of nausea roll over her as she sat frozen on the floor.
“David,” she whispered brokenly.
Every instinct in Tasha screamed at her to drop the flower and run from the gym. To flee the danger that had found her, but she knew it was too late. David had finally come for her.
As if to prove her correct, footsteps, so quiet they were almost inaudible approached her from a darkened corner of the gym. She stared in horror as the specter of a man stopped several feet from her crouched form. He wore expensive black pants with a black collared shirt, buttoned most of the way, but stopping just below his throat. Casual but well dressed.
He was not a massive man in proportions, but his presence was so overwhelming he always seemed bigger. He was much bigger than Tasha. His body was solid with muscles corded beneath his skin, making his lithe strength subtle but deadly. He looked like a killer. He was a killer.
“Natasha.”
She closed her eyes against the deep, accented voice. She hadn’t heard that name since she’d started running. Her name on his lips was chilling and seductive at the same time. He had never been as accomplished as her at hiding his accent.
“Natasha,” he demanded again, much closer this time.
Her eyes flew open and she realized he was standing over her now. She moved to back away from him, away from the deadly intent now clearly visible in the lines bracketing his mouth and the dull acceptance of his gaze. He reached for her, gripping her by the back of the head, catching the strands of hair that had escaped her knot and tugging sharply.
Natasha’s lips parted in a gasp at his touch.
“Stand up,” he said in his quiet, deadly voice.
She allowed him to drag her to her feet by the hair. She used the pain to remind herself of why he’d come. She was so close to him she was able to breath in his scent, masculine and seductive. His face was several inches above hers, his eyes devouring her features. He continued to hold her loosely by the back of the head, his other hand hung with fist clenched. As though he had to stop himself from grabbing her. Or hitting her.
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