Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease

by Tatiana March

  “There was a security guard on duty,” Crimson pointed out.

  “He’s been cleared of negligence.” Nick accepted the mug Crimson was holding out to him and paused to take a sip of the scalding, black coffee. “The guard did his first round as soon as his shift started at ten o’clock. He has to press a button at the back of the factory hall to record the time. His next inspection was twenty minutes away.”

  “The smoke alarm went off. That would have brought him over sooner.”

  “By then, it might have been too late.” Nick put down the coffee, searched his pockets for his phone. “I want to get Hank before he goes to bed. Will you wait while I talk to him?”

  He raised his gaze to Crimson. As their eyes met and held, a hunger rose inside him. Hunger to conquer, to let passion wipe out all other thoughts. Hunger to wrap himself in her feminine heat.

  The recreation of a warrior. He knew from experience how a surge of adrenaline and testosterone in a male, be it from warfare, or from taking part in dangerous sports, or from dealing with the aftermath of a disaster, demanded a release. And throughout history, men had used the comfort of women’s bodies to satisfy that need.

  Hesitant, Crimson nodded. “I’ll wait.”

  Nick had to turn away from her to concentrate on the call.

  ****

  Crimson watched as Nick spoke on the slim silver phone. Every now and then, he lifted the coffee to his lips and took a sip before returning the mug to the countertop with an absent clunk. His hair was ruffled, his white shirt rumpled, and his leather shoes streaked with dust. She guessed that he had dressed in a suit and tie to impress the insurance people.

  He ended the call with a tired goodnight, put the phone away, and turned to her. A shiver crept over Crimson at the predatory look in his eyes. Nick took a step toward her. Without thinking, she took a step back. He followed. Slow. Deliberate.

  While trawling the web, Crimson had learned that at six foot two Nick Constantine was unusually tall for a racing driver. The height had made it difficult for him to fit in the small cockpit of a racing car. His lean frame must have helped, it occurred to her now, slim hips that only widened to a classic V-shape at the chest and shoulders.

  “Afraid of me, Crimson?” he asked quietly.

  “No.”

  “Afraid of yourself?”

  She was going to tell him no, but honesty won. “Yes.”

  He advanced in silence, and she retreated, until he had her backed against a row of cabinets. “Candy floss. I never realized how tempting it can be.” His voice was hoarse. She told herself it was from the smoke in the factory, and from talking all day.

  “Nick—”

  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Yes you are, if I let you.”

  “Then don’t let me.” He curled his hands around her ribcage, lifted her on her toes, and lowered his head. Crimson could see a muscle tug in his jaw, could feel the tension that vibrated through him. “Then don’t let me,” he said again, his lips brushing hers. He dipped his head the final fraction of an inch, and covered her mouth with his.

  Helpless to resist, Crimson kissed him back, deeply, fully, clinging to him. Every fantasy she’d ever had of Nick Constantine before she had even met him rushed through her senses, reality and make-believe tangled up in a wild burst of emotion.

  Behind her on the counter, the coffee machine sent out a hissing burst of steam. A droplet bounced from the hotplate, searing her skin. She flinched and emitted a frightened cry. Nick broke the kiss, glanced around, found the explanation. Not pausing to talk, he swung her around, reversing their places, his back against the cabinets.

  His mouth found hers again. His hands slid up her sides, settling over her breasts. Through the thin fabric of her leotard, her nipples strained against his palms. He flicked his thumb across the peaks. A long, slow shiver travelled the length her body, making her tremble in his arms, a reaction that drew a gruff sound of satisfaction from Nick.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Don’t fight it. Don’t fight me.”

  He grasped her by the waist, lifted her up and found an uncluttered stretch of surface along the countertop. Propping her to sit up on the edge, he eased into position between her thighs. Then he bent his head again and resumed the fierce, drugging kisses. Pleasure swirled inside Crimson, an electric sensation humming in her veins. A pulse beat through her, lazy and urgent at the same time, centering somewhere low in her belly.

  Nick reached between her legs, probing, teasing, tempting. In a moment of clarity, Crimson realized that the only thing stopping him from taking her there and then, on the kitchen counter, despite the presence of servants and mothers in the house, was the simple fact that het leggings and the one piece leotard offered no easy access.

  With supreme effort, she shoved him away. “I can’t do this.”

  Startled, Nick raised his head. His breathing was harsh, his eyes opaque, his body quivering with need. “What is it, Crimson?” he asked with thinly veiled impatience.

  “I…” She bit her lip, the tremors of arousal ebbing as she made an effort to pull back from the precipice. “I looked you up. You have a terrible track record with women. I get the impression that you’re angry. Angry at the world. Angry at women. And you make them pay for it.”

  There. She’d said it. Nick’s dark brows drew together. His body grew rigid.

  “I see.” His voice was so soft the words almost seemed to hold a menace. Expressions battled on his face—incredulity, acceptance, and finally guilt.

  “Christ,” he said. He stepped away from her and ran both hands over his face, now darkened with evening stubble. “Maybe once I did. But that’s past history. Way, way, past. Listen…” He reached out to take her hand. “I was engaged once.”

  “I know. Marcela Ballard.”

  He gave a slow, measured nod. “It ended badly. Very badly. And I admit that, for a while, I hit back at the world. I went wild, seduced every woman I could, not caring what they wanted, or who got hurt. But it only lasted a couple of years. And now…well, at my age, let me tell you, sex is a lot more satisfactory when there’s some emotion involved. Friendship, at the very least.”

  “Let’s be friends and have sex, is that what you’re proposing?”

  “No. Let’s have sex and find out where it takes us.”

  At least he is honest, Crimson thought. No phony declarations, no sugar coating. Nick reached out his other hand, cradled one of hers between both of his and rubbed the back of her fingers. Soothing. Tempting. It was that small, practiced gesture that did it. Gave her the strength to withdraw.

  “I don’t think so, Nick.” She spoke in a cool tone, free of emotion. “I’m cautious by nature. When I was a kid, people looked down on my family. I learned to be defensive. Then, at ballet school, and on tour, the setup is competitive. It’s hard to trust anyone when the people who are your closest friends might stab you in the back.”

  His eyes held hers, dark and burning. “A thousand times, I’ve thought of that day in the boardroom. Can you really tell me that you don’t think about it, wonder what it would be like between us if we made love again?”

  “That’s just it.” She slid down from the counter. “You were angry at me that day. What will happen if we have an affair and it’s over before the end of December? Will you no longer want to help me because it’s too awkward to hang around? Or will you try to humiliate me, like you did on that day, making me feel that I paid for your time with sexual favors?”

  “Do you think I bear a grudge against you?”

  “You bore one a long time with your father.”

  Nick flinched at the words. A grim, stony expression settled on his face. “You really don’t trust me, Crimson, do you?” he asked.

  “No, I guess I don’t,” she replied.

  “And you think it’s not worthwhile to take the risk to find out?”

  “No, I guess I don’t.”

  Nick gave a small, surprisingly nonchala
nt shrug, as if to say, c’est la vie, that’s life, you win some, you lose some. He started walking away, then paused, halfway to the kitchen door, and turned back to look at her. His face showed signs of exhaustion, but there was an arrogant twist to his mouth as he raked his gaze over her, up and down, and then said, “Don’t be too proud to let me know when you change your mind.”

  Crimson was left staring after him, irritation crawling all over her.

  Why did it seem that in every argument someone else got the last word?

  ****

  Nick couldn’t sleep. He’d drunk half a bottle of the best Napoleon brandy money could buy—or cognac, as Soames called the stuff—but his turbulent mind refused to settle. Was he really the bastard Crimson had made him out to be? Did he bear a grudge against the whole world? Should he have crawled back to his father, begging to be loved?

  Something niggled at the back of his mind. The raspy, tearful voice of Esmeralda Mills. Did you know about Bobby?

  Know what?

  I need a stiff drink, Esmeralda had said when they talked two nights ago. Fine. He’d supply one. Nick lifted the bottle from the bedside table, sloshed contents inside to check the level. Plenty left, even for two people. He swung down his legs, got to his feet and picked up the solitary glass before heading out. At the door, he turned back, put the bottle and glass down while he pulled on a pair of jeans. Better safe than sorry, in case he had to live through a Mrs. Robinson moment after all.

  He sauntered down the corridor to the Sunrise Room, so called because of the wide balcony that opened up to the east. “Esmeralda,” he said in a loud, theatrical whisper. “Are you decent?” He wasn’t exactly slurring his words, but his voice was thick. “Can I come inside?” he asked, and then barged into the room without waiting for an answer.

  The curtains were not drawn, and moonlight spilled in through the French doors that led out to the balcony. On the bed, a long shape huddled beneath the covers. It didn’t stir. “Esmeralda,” he chanted. “Wake up.” He crashed to sit on the bedside, located a safe place to pat and tug—a crest beneath the covers that he was pretty sure was a shoulder—and proceeded to ruin someone else’s restful night.

  “Uh…hmm...” In the faint light of the moon, a pair of blue eyes blinked furiously at him. The round face crumpled into a confused frown. “Nick?” The eyebrows that had been plucked into thin arches rose to high heavens. “What are you doing? What time is it? Is Crimson all right?”

  “I’ll be damned,” Nick said softly. “I believe you’re a good mother, Esmie.”

  “Of course I’m a good mother,” she replied with a good natured outburst. “But I’m too old to take you on. You’re stuck with Myrtie. Although…” Esmeralda scooted up to a sitting position, leaning against the headboard. “…I believe she’s a good mother, too.”

  “So she is,” Nick agreed. “But she likes to hide it.”

  Esmeralda opened her jaws in a massive yawn that she made no effort to disguise and choked out muffled sounds, “Whah can I do foh you, young Nicholas?”

  He lifted the bottle. “I’ve brought you a drink.”

  “That’s very generous of you, but…” She glanced at the bedside alarm. “It’s a quarter past two in the morning.”

  He lowered the glass with a clink to the nightstand and sloshed a few fingers of brandy inside. “I want you to tell me about Bobby.”

  “Damn.” Something flashed in Esmeralda’s eyes. “Now?”

  “Now,” Nick said.

  Esmeralda pointed at the glass. “I’ll need more than that.”

  Nick filled the glass to the brim, watched as Esmeralda took it and downed the contents in a few determined gulps. A shiver racked her, making her ample frame shudder and jiggle. She expelled a noisy sigh, then simply said, “Bobby was LD. Learning disabled. I thought you knew.”

  “No.”

  “It was a secret, of sorts. Bobby’s mother—”

  “Tamara,” he cut in, somehow compelled to say it.

  Esmeralda glanced up, held out the empty glass. “Yes. Tamara. Her family belonged to some kind of an ultra strict religious sect. Hellfire and damnation and all that. Tamara was only eighteen when she had an affair with a married man. Her parents claimed that Bobby was the way he was because he’d been conceived in sin. That almost crushed poor Tamara. Her family didn’t throw her out on the streets when she fell pregnant, but they insisted that his condition was her fault. She had sinned, and Bobby paid the price.”

  “Jesus,” Nick muttered. Marcela had been a devout catholic, so he’d had his own brush with the power of religion, but Marcela’s faith had been positive. God loves you. The Lord forgives you. It had not been about punishment for sins, real or imagined.

  Esmeralda sighed. “Tamara left home when Bobby was two. She got a job as an office cleaner, working at night while her little boy slept at a neighbor’s house. That’s how she met your father. He was working late and she came to dust his desk. They got talking. He said he fell in love with her because he’d never met anyone who needed him so much. Your mother never really needed him the way Tamara did.”

  She did, Nick wanted to say. She just didn’t know how to show it.

  Esmeralda continued to talk. “That’s why Stephan wanted to keep Bobby’s learning difficulties a secret. To make sure those horrible comments would never reach the boy’s ears. They took Bobby to lots of specialists, Switzerland, England, but not even Stephan’s money could buy a miracle. They hired tutors for him. Even then, there was no gossip. You father had the knack of inspiring loyalty.”

  Except in his own son, Nick thought grimly.

  Esmeralda wiggled the glass in the air, inviting him to refill it once more.

  “Are you not drinking?” she asked as he poured.

  “I only brought the one glass.”

  “I won’t hold it against you if you swig from the bottle.” She took a sip and studied him over the rim of the glass. “You’ll need it. It gets worse. Much worse.”

  Nick felt a jolt in his gut. Last time he’d heard those words, it had been the lawyer, Adam Andrews, and his father’s will. Then, the warning had been true. He expected the same to apply now. Tipping back his head, he took a deep pull from the bottle. The liquid burned down his throat, smooth, fortifying, but somehow he already knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  “Tell me,” he said roughly.

  “Bobby…Bobby developed a fixation on you. His big brother Nick. A brave racing driver. He spent hours looking at pictures of you in racing magazines. Stephan got a special TV system to see European channels, and Japanese. They’d stay up all hours to watch you race. It was not often those races were on TV. Sometimes Bobby would watch IndyCar races and pick a car he liked and say, that’s my brother Nick.” Esmeralda gave a little choking sob and dashed a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “He never said just Nick. It was always my brother Nick.”

  “Dear God,” Nick muttered. Guilt settled like a stone in his gut.

  “There’s more.”

  He glanced across at Esmeralda. The moonlight softened her features. Nick could see some of Crimson in her now. The same enchanting combination of vulnerability and determination, or, in the older version, of coarseness and sensitivity.

  “Why don’t you draw your curtains?” he asked, postponing the next moment.

  “I like to see the stars at night when I can’t sleep.”

  “Go on,” he said in a low voice. “I’d like to hear the rest.”

  “Stephan told me how you fell out with him. It was Bobby’s first day at Longwood Hall, and he was confused by the new surroundings, so your father was distracting him with a ball game. He forgot all about your racing trials. And then he felt so bad about forgetting that he fobbed you off.” Esmeralda gave a watery smile. “You remember how Stephan was? He never could say I’m sorry.”

  Nick took another swig of brandy, this time swirling the liquid in his mouth, savoring the mellow taste. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I
remember.”

  “For a few months, he tried very hard to reach out to you, but you refused to come to the telephone, or see him. Then he was busy travelling to clinics abroad, taking Bobby to see doctors. And then you went to race in Europe and Japan.”

  “I came back after my accident.”

  “God, Nick. I can’t do this.” Esmeralda held out her glass again.

  Nick tipped the last of the brandy into it. “I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

  “Bobby was frantic. He was fourteen at the time, but he had the mental age of a younger child, eight or nine. He wanted to visit you in hospital. He’d stay up all night, screaming his head off. I want to see my brother Nick, he kept yelling. Stephan and Tamara were at their wit’s end. They didn’t know what to do. You were in Japan, and your mother was at your bedside, and they didn’t want to stir up trouble. They considered setting up an actor in a hospital room to play you, but decided it would be too tacky. In the end, Bobby solved the problem himself. He decided you had died. That’s why they were not taking him to see you. Is my brother Nick dead, he asked his mother. And poor Tamara, at a loss how to best protect her little boy from hurt said yes, your brother Nick is dead.”

  Esmeralda peered into her empty glass. “That’s why Stephan stopped trying to reconcile with you after you came back to America. He’d either have to tell Bobby that they had lied to him, or make up some new lies to explain your resurrection.”

  Nick said nothing. His mind refused to work.

  “There is a…memorial for you.” Esmeralda spoke softly, as if exhausted by the experience. “That maze at the far end of the formal gardens…Bobby had an uncanny skill of finding his way through it. Stephan put a little stone marker in the middle, with your name engraved on it. Not many people go into the maze, and it doesn’t exactly look like a gravestone. Bobby would sit out there for hours in the summer, talking to his big brother Nick.”