She was alone in the vast bed, but she could hear movement nearby. Sitting up, she glanced around the room. She’d noticed little besides the giant bed and it’s velvety coverlet last night. Now she could appreciate the room’s clean lines, its dark, polished wood and the simple sumptuousness of it. It said a lot about the man who slept here. He liked his luxury—there were touches of it everywhere, from the cut crystal of the light fixtures to the electronic pad that clearly controlled the window shutters—but it was muted, not ostentatious. It fit with what she knew of Henry.
Which was, admittedly, not much. However, the smell of coffee was wafting into the bedroom and her belly rumbled at the prospect of breakfast. She crawled to the end of the bed and swung her legs down.
Hadn’t she been wearing shoes? She distinctly remembered Henry’s gruff ‘leave them on’. But her feet were bare now. She wiggled her toes. Shoes were not a priority at the moment. Clothes might be good though. The door that led from the bedroom to the sitting room beyond was closed.
All of her clothes were out there. She couldn’t just waltz out completely naked. What if he had guests? She scanned the bedroom. He had to have something she could cover up with. Her eyes lit on the rumpled pile of his clothes. Perfect. She pulled his boxers up over her hips. They were much too big for her slender frame, but if she tucked and rolled them... By the time she got them to stay up on her, they resembled short shorts more than boxers.
She found a button-down shirt and pulled it over her head, relishing the feel of the shirt’s fabric on her breasts. The sleeves were still half rolled up. She repeated the tucking and rolling process on them too. There, that was as suitable for company as she was going to get without her clothes. She ran a hand through her mussed hair and opened the door.
The sitting room had been reorganized, the rug unrolled and the loveseats back in place. There was no sign of her clothes. Blood surged into Sophie’s cheeks at the idea of a maid finding her pants and shirt and bra strewn all over the stylish room. There was nothing she could do about it now, though, so she squared her shoulders and turned toward the terrace, following her nose toward the heavenly scent of coffee.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling at Henry. He sat at the cafe table, reading the newspaper. He was fully dressed in a dark blue suit, minus the tie, and his hair was still slightly damp. Sophie was an early riser. You had to be when you were a dancer. She wasn’t wearing a watch, but she’d guess it was no later than seven, and here he was, dressed for the day.
He looked up at her, dark eyes roving over attire. He didn’t smile, but she saw the slightest twitch of his lips and the heat flaring in his gaze. It seemed he enjoyed watching her walk in for breakfast in his clothes. She shivered with desire, plucking at the hem of the shirt, which nearly reached her knees. “I hope you don’t mind. My clothes seem to have disappeared.”
“I don’t mind at all.” He motioned her to sit. “And I apologize about the clothes. Regina sent them out with the wash. I’ll get them back to you as soon as I can. In the meantime, there’s something for you in the dressing room. But please, eat first.”
Sophie spooned some mixed fruit onto her plate and snagged a piece of toast while Henry poured her a cup of coffee from the French press. She popped a bit of melon into her mouth, chewing the sweet flesh slowly while she added cream and a bit of sugar to her cup. “Thank you.”
They sat at breakfast like that for several moments—Sophie enjoying fruit and toast with her coffee, Henry reading the paper. As she munched on a bite of toast, studying his handsome face, she thought of the words he’d said the previous night and sudden understanding broke over her. “Oh! It’s Italian.”
He looked up from his paper at Sophie, eyebrows raised. She flushed. “Last night. You were speaking Italian. You said you were from Argentina. I guess I expected Spanish.”
Henry nodded. “My mother’s mother was Italian. She used to speak it with my mother, and I picked it up. I do speak Spanish as well, from my father’s family. But I prefer the Italian for...” He grinned, the dimple his cheek flashing. “You know, don’t you, dolce?”
Sophie licked toast crumbs off her lip and wondered how long it would take her to get him out of that suit. Suddenly he was standing beside her and touching her chin, drawing her face up until she looked into his eyes. The obsidian depths sparkled with desire. His thumb brushed her lip. He held out his other hand. Sophie took it, letting him draw her up and into his arms. She slid her hands around his neck, pressing herself against him, running her fingers into the hair at his nape. He leaned down, brushing his mouth against hers.
“Day dreaming about me already?” He nipped at her lower lip. She looked at him through her lashes, unable to stop the flush of her cheeks from deepening.
“Since our first dance at the studio. That night, when I went home...” She trailed off, unable to confess the scope of her dream.
“And was I as good as you imagined?”
She slapped at his chest, but laughter bubbled up her throat as well. “Better, actually. It turns out my imagination is severely lacking.” She fiddled with his lapel. “What about you? Did you think about me?”
Henry squeezed her tightly against his chest, leaning down to nibble her earlobe. “I went home that night and relived that dance in my head several times. Although, in my version, your assistant never came in and interrupted us. I kissed you, like I’d wanted to.”
She sighed as he slid his mouth back to hers and kissed her, deep and sweet. When he lifted his head she smiled. “I’m torn between finding that charming and upsetting. I was imagining you naked.”
“Do I seem like the kind of man whose fantasies end at a kiss?”
Sophie took in a quick breath. “Well, it’s romantic that it started there then.”
He leaned down, rubbing his lips against hers. “Ma tutto comincia con un bacio, dolce.”
“What does that mean?” she murmured against his mouth.
“It all begins with a kiss.” His tongue emerged to tease at her lips. Sophie melted against him, clinging, as he explored her mouth. His kisses were as addictive as any drug. He gave her one and she immediately wanted more. When he lifted his head, she stood on tip-toe to chase his lips, sucking the full lower one between her teeth.
“I like it the first way better. Remind me to thank your grandmother.” She tugged playfully at his lapel. “You make it sound almost as if she raised you.”
A door might as well have slammed shut, Henry’s hot gaze went cold so quickly. His arms tightened the slightest bit around her, and then he let her go and stepped back. “You should probably go. I have meetings all morning.”
He was checking his watch, gathering up the cell he’d left on the table. Anything but meeting her eyes. “Henry?” Sophie’s head throbbed with the sudden change in his tone. Was this what whiplash felt like?
Henry glanced up at her quickly, gaze barely touching her face before darting back down to the cell phone’s display screen. “The dressing room is through the bedroom. Regina put a dress in there for you. I’ll meet you downstairs in the foyer.”
She watched him disappear around the terrace corner, mouth agape. What had just happened? Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about his family. But he’d gone from playful and affectionate to cold and distant so fast her head was still spinning. She was still trying to adjust emotionally as she stepped into the dressing room.
Sophie barely noticed the opulent bathtub. Normally, she would have admired it and possibly filled it with warm, soapy water so she could soak for hours. But Henry had made it clear that it was time for her to go. She found the dress he’d mentioned hanging from an armoire above her shoes.
He’d taken them off her. She knew it. At some point during the night, Henry Medina had slipped off her high heels. It was a tender gesture completely incongruous with this sudden shift to an all-business demeanor. He was acting as if they’d shared a cab, not a night of soul shaking passion. Bewilderment settled over Sophie
as she tugged the soft fabric of the dress down over her head.
In other circumstances she might have marveled at the perfect fit, the way it bared her slender arms, hugged her breasts and hips, and flared dramatically down to her knees. She might have admired the bold pattern. It would be a good dress to tango in. But she filed all that away for another time, hastily pulling it on and slipping into her shoes. Her hair-tie was gone.
Had Henry slipped that off her too? Did he run his fingers through her light hair, watching her as she slept? Sophie sighed. Who was that other Henry, the one who did those things? If only he was here, instead of this brusque man who was hurrying her out the door.
Her purse was here too. She snatched it up almost angrily. Not almost. Beneath the confusion, a small cauldron of resentment was beginning to boil. She stalked to the stairs, determined not to be brushed off like some one-night stand. Even if she had sort of acted like one. Well, that changed now.
“Henry,” she began, walking up to where he waited by the private elevator. “I think we should talk.”
“Of course, but not now. I really do have meetings.” He flashed her a quick smile as he ushered her into the elevator, but it was a shallow one. Flashy and handsome, but not real.
She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “Last night—”
“I agree. It was amazing,” he interrupted. “Better than I imagined. And I did imagine a lot, Sophie. You are a talented woman.” The smile he gave her at that moment was more genuine, with a bit of dimple and a brief glance from his hot black eyes. Sophie felt the blood in her cheeks and ground her teeth. She was trying to talk seriously and he was making her blush. It threw her off balance.
“Uh, thank you, but—” The elevator doors slid open. The ride up yesterday had been interminable, but this morning barely a minute seemed to have passed. Sophie blinked and stepped out of the elevator car. Henry held the door, but remained inside.
“Maurice!” he called, raising his hand to the doorman who stood at attention across the lobby. Maurice looked up, nodding courteously.
“Morning, Mr. Medina.”
“Call Sophie a cab, would you please?”
Maurice was already opening the door. “Of course, Mr. Medina!”
Sophie stared up at Henry, heart crawling up into her throat. He finally met her gaze. The look in his eyes was unreadable. His left hand rose and touched her cheek softly.
She turned into the caress, seeking his warmth. For a moment, it seemed he was going to kiss her. His head bent slightly and that odd flat look in his eyes softened. But then he froze and thrust something into her hand. “Here,” he said,“for the dance last night. And the first one.” Henry stepped back quickly and the elevator doors closed, as if in collusion with him on his swift escape, leaving her alone in the palatial lobby.
Her heart squeezed like a fist in her chest and tears stung her eyes. She glanced down at the envelope he’d shoved at her. It wasn’t sealed.
Inside was a thick sheaf of green bills. Sophie swallowed hard, thumbing through them. They were hundred dollar bills. The tears that had been threatening filled her eyes, spilling out over her lower lashes and dripping onto the envelope.
This was far more than he’d offered her for her time. What was the extra money for? Unless...
Unless, he was paying her off, like she was some whore. That cauldron of anger that had been heating in her belly cracked, spilling fury into her veins. Beneath the molten anger was the acid sting of hurt and a curl of smoking shame. She knew this melange of negative emotions well. She’d last felt them when Christian had left her on the rehearsal room floor, walking away from her.
Who does this? Why the hell would this man go through so much trouble just to humiliate her? She thought of an old joke she’d heard in college: you don’t pay whores for sex, you pay them to leave. And here she was, walking out the door as Henry went back up to his penthouse for “meetings” and whatever else he had to do. It didn’t really matter; she had to get out of this man’s life and not come back.
She flung the envelope at the elevator doors, heedless of the thousands of dollars spilling from it, and spun on her heel, the swish of the dress’ skirt around her knees only fanning the flames of her wounded emotions. If only she could tear it off and toss it after the envelope. She wished she had something else, anything else, to wear.
Get home. That’s what she had to do. She strode toward the front doors quickly, trying to hold back the tears that insisted on sliding down her cheeks. She shouldered the door open roughly.
Maurice looked around in surprise. “I’ll have a cab for you in a second, ma’am. They’re—”
“Don’t bother. I can walk.” It was more than thirty blocks and the sky was darkening with the threat of rain, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to spend one more second standing in front of this man’s building. The doorman was still talking but Sophie ignored him, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill in the air and turning her face toward home.
The walk was long, and full of time to think. She had horrible taste in men, clearly. First Christian, and now Henry. She’d thought he was different. He hadn’t been turned off by her scar or her inability to dance gracefully all the time. They’d talked, really talked. But he had given her very little in the way of personal information, she realized now. He was always vague.
She’d overlooked it because he made her feel desirable again. He’d danced with her, and that had been good. She’d let herself fall into bed with him because he was gorgeous and commanding and her body responded to him in a way it had never responded to anyone else. She’d known it was too fast, that she knew too little about the kind of man he was, but she’d let herself ignore it.
She was almost grateful when the clouds opened up and it began to pour. At least the cool rain bathed her heated cheeks, washing away her tears. She wished it could wash away her memory of Henry Medina instead.
Chapter Eight
Sophie counted through the box of homemade tie-on taps she used for the children’s intro tap class, making sure there were no strays. Many of the children couldn’t afford a pair of shoes just for dance, so these came in handy. She had them all wear regular shoes and then tied painted bottle caps around them. They weren’t really the same, but the younger students had enjoyed making them, and at their age it was mostly about exposing them to dance. They could get real tap shoes when they got older, if they were serious about it.
She was avoiding looking in any one of the studio’s myriad mirrors this morning. She knew she looked terrible. She’d looked terrible yesterday when she finally got back to her apartment, soaked to the skin with a runny nose and red-rimmed eyes. And that was before she’d cried herself to sleep. They’d been tears of anguish and betrayal. Some of them weren’t even for Henry. The whole ordeal recalled memories of the end of her relationship with Christian, and then she trotted out every rejection, mistake and deception she’d seemingly ever experienced and piled them all on top.
When she’d woken early this morning her eyes were puffy and her throat raw. She’d managed to reduce the swelling around her eyes with a judicious application of cold water and hemorrhoid cream (a trick from her dancing days), but she could do little about how bloodshot they were. And the sore throat remained even in the wake of aspirin and warm tea.
Her knee ached abominably, too. She shouldn’t have walked all the way home. Especially after the flare up the previous day. But she’d been so wrapped up in her volatile emotions that she’d needed to move, and a walk seemed like just the thing. She would have gone mad sitting in a cab through the morning traffic of New York City.
Sophie leaned on her cane heavily, glad no one else was around. She’d been up at first light and had been into the studio hours before Darren was meant to come in. So far she’d organized the front desk, rewritten the ad for next Sunday’s paper, balanced the checkbook (both hers and the business’s) and color coordinated the scarves she used with the children during Fr
ee Dance classes. Now she was working on the taps.
Next, she’d be buffing the damn floor, no doubt. Anything to keep her mind off of Henry. She was done with him. He was a mistake she wasn’t going to make again.
“Soph?”
She spun, startled at the sound of Darren’s voice behind her, and cried out as she spilled the box of tie-on taps across the wood floor. “Damn it, Darren, you scared me half to death!”
Darren’s eyes narrowed as he leaned back against the wall, arms locked behind him. He studied her face for a minute, evidence of her crying still apparent in her swollen eyes, before dropping his gaze to the hand that clutched at the cane. His wide mouth thinned into a white line. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Her fingers tightened on the cane’s carved metal grip. She lowered herself to the ground, gritting her teeth to keep from hissing in pain, and focused on sweeping the children’s taps together in an attempt to avoid Darren’s concerned gaze. How did he know there was anything going on? The man had an uncanny knack for ferreting out her troubles. “You’re in early.”
“Sophie. Look at me.” His voice was grim, nothing at all like his usual teasing tone.
“What?”
His brows were knit together over his eyes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Henry Medina? Because I’m worried.”
Sophie jerked in surprise. “Nothing. What, are you psychic now?”
“No, I’m not psychic. I just know how to read.”
Confusion swept over Sophie. “Excuse me?”
Darren held out a copy of a newspaper. The Post. Sophie swallowed. The headline blazing across the top of the page seemed innocuous enough.
“Nice Piece of Real Estate!” it shouted.
But below that was a picture of Henry. And her. She instantly recognized the scene. It was in the lobby of Henry’s building yesterday morning, while they were still in the elevator. He was touching her cheek, head slightly bent as if he was about to kiss her while he handed her an envelope. In a small inset was a second picture of just her as she flung the envelope at the closed elevator door.
One Last Dance Page 7