What must he think after that pronouncement? That she was a frigid freak, most likely. Or maybe that she was even more screwed up than he’d heard. Because, really, what grown woman didn’t date?
One who’d been burned by love.
But not every guy was like Billy. And maybe, just maybe, she’d matured enough to know a good guy when she saw him. She’d been so young back then. So naive and gullible. But she’d learned her lesson, hadn’t she?
She met Gregory’s gaze, and her stomach quaked at the intensity of it. The memory of their kiss came back to her so quickly and vividly it took her breath away.
His smile was slow and seductive and meant just for her.
For one crazy moment she thought he must have read her mind. Or else his mind had wandered to the same place.
She gave her head a little shake and turned her attention back to her friends, forcing a smile though she had no idea what they were going on about.
Gregory was her boss, and even if he wasn’t, he was out of her league.
And if he wasn’t?
The fluttering sensation in her chest was so foreign she almost didn’t recognize it. How long had it been since she’d felt anything close to hope?
* * * *
It was late afternoon the following day when Gregory finally reached the end of the files Tamara had pulled for him.
She was sprawled on the floor opposite him in the tiny office above the theater as she had been all day. At some point, she’d thrown her hair up into a topknot that reminded him every time he glanced her way of the fact that she’d been a ballerina.
He could see her long, slender neck bent over a stack of papers, her brow furrowed in concentration. A few wisps of hair had escaped her bun and were hanging around her face, framing her delicate features.
His throat closed up for a moment with some unknown emotion. He couldn’t place it, but it was overwhelming in its intensity. Some mix of yearning, regret, and hopefulness. All he knew was it was more emotion than he was used to dealing with, so he did what he did best—he focused on business.
“What did you do with last year’s tax statement?”
Tamara pointed to a stack of papers to his left. Running a hand through his hair, he asked, “Did the former owner just not believe in computers or what?”
She shrugged, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “He was a bit of a technophobe.”
“Wonderful.”
Shifting so she was sitting upright across from him, she gave him a winning smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it all sorted soon enough. I’m sure you’ll be able to turn this place around in no time.”
Was she kidding? His father’s cynical voice from their call that morning rang in his ears, and he stared at her for a long moment before realizing she was being serious. He found himself smiling back.
“I appreciate your confidence,” he said. “But as the proud new owner of this delightfully dilapidated theater, I think I’m the one who’s supposed to be giving pep talks to my team.”
He looked around pointedly at the “team” of one, and she burst out laughing, a sound he wished he heard more often.
“The next pep talk is all yours, oh noble leader.” Her grin was contagious, and for a brief moment he caught a glimpse of the young girl he’d once known—innocent, sweet, defenseless. Whatever had happened to her to make her so guarded and afraid—he wished he could go back in time and save her.
He nearly laughed out loud at the thought. Who the hell did he think he was? A knight in shining armor? If only his father knew what he was thinking. The shock would kill him. After a lifetime of telling him he didn’t care enough, wasn’t committed enough, wasn’t good enough—he’d be stunned if he found out his only son had suddenly developed a hero complex.
He did laugh then—a short, humorless laugh filled with all the bitterness his father brought out in him. He should never have taken his call this morning; now his day was tainted by his voice.
Tamara’s voice interrupted his dark thoughts. “What’s so funny?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.” When she didn’t look away or change the topic, he told her a version of the truth. “I was just thinking about my father.”
She tilted her head to the side. “What about him?”
How much did she remember about the old man? Or, more importantly, the way he’d always criticized him? It didn’t matter. The past was the past.
Except one part of his past was here, watching him. Waiting patiently for him to explain.
“I was just thinking how hard my father would laugh if he could see us now.” At her frown of confusion, he added, “See me now.”
“Why?” Honest curiosity filled her eyes, and though he opened his mouth to make a flippant remark, he found herself telling her the truth.
“Because he thinks I can’t commit to anything—namely women and business endeavors, but I’m pretty sure his assessment covers all aspects of life.” He forced a smile to lighten the mood. “I bet he wouldn’t even trust me to have a pet.”
“But why?” she asked. “I thought you were really successful.” He watched with amusement as color filled her cheeks at the blunt remark.
“I’ve done well for myself with the trust money I was given,” he admitted—though it wasn’t much of a secret. “But my father never fails to point out that my success was built on money I inherited. I didn’t exactly build anything with my own two hands.”
“Maybe not, but it’s not your fault you were given an advantage. And the fact that you took that money and made it flourish says something. You could have just accepted the money and sat back and lived like a spoiled prince for the rest of your life.”
Gregory found himself temporarily stunned by the compliment. When he realized he was grinning like an idiot, he gave his head a little shake and got back on topic. “I wish my father saw it that way.”
“How does he see it?”
Yet again, he contemplated deflection. He could think of any number of quips to make light of the topic and move on to something else. But he found himself compelled to tell her the truth. It must be something in those eyes. They were too guileless and way too perceptive.
“The way I made my money was in quick turnovers and hedging bets.”
“So?”
He ran a hand through already mussed hair. “So, these ways of making money are what my father likes to call ‘fly-by-night.’”
Her lips quirked up in a half smile. “What does that mean?”
“That I’m flaky, shallow, unable to commit, can’t see things through, not serious enough for real business, don’t know the meaning of hard work—”
She cut him off as he recited his father’s list of poor attributes. “And are you those things?”
The question was so simple, he laughed again. “No,” he said slowly. No one had ever asked him what he thought on the subject. He barely asked himself anymore. “I think I have it in me to see things through, in relationships and in business.”
She tilted her head to the side again, and he could practically feel her eyes searching his face. “So that’s what this is about for you?”
For one moment he was so transfixed by the intensity of her gaze that he couldn’t figure out what she was referring to. For a second there, he thought she was talking about her. About them. But that wouldn’t make any sense—there was no “them.” Maybe there had been a chance at some point but not any longer. And her next words confirmed she wasn’t thinking about relationships but about The Ellen.
“You need to make this theater a success to prove to your father that you’re serious,” she said. It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact. And somehow when she put it like that, it sounded ridiculous. Juvenile. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. Still, he couldn’t deny it.
He gave her a short nod. “What do you
think, Tamara? Do you think I have what it takes to see this through?” He’d meant it to sound teasing. He’d intended to lighten the mood. But the question came out far too serious, and he tensed as he waited for her answer.
Her smile eased the tension in his body, and warmth flooded him at her words. “Of course you can,” she said. “I know you’re capable of it—you always have been.” Her eyes sparkled with laughter. “Maybe you just need the right project.”
He couldn’t bring himself to reply. His brain was too stunned by the thought that flashed through it, unbidden and unwelcome.
Maybe I just need the right woman.
Chapter 7
Something in the air had shifted, Tamara would have sworn it. One minute they were talking about the Oompa Loompa’s terrible filing system and the next they were sharing secrets. Well, he was sharing, at least.
There was a vulnerability in his eyes when he talked about his father that made her heart ache on his behalf. She remembered his father and the two of them together. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine that his father pushed him too hard and was too critical. But to hear Gregory admit it was a different story.
He was confiding in her. The knowledge was heady and endearing. Somehow it put them closer to equal footing. Now she wasn’t the only one with baggage and a past; he had his issues too. And he was sharing them with her.
The silence that fell between them was thick with tension. Not uncomfortable, but nerve-wracking. Like there was more going on under the surface… She just had no idea what she was missing.
She never had been any good with subtext. Maybe that was why she’d always gravitated toward black-and-whites.
The work for the day was done, and she filled the silence by coming to a stand and dusting off her jeans. “Okay, well, um… I guess that’s all we can do for today. I’ll tackle that stack over there in the morning.”
He stood too, his hands tucked in his pockets. “Sounds good. But before you run out of here, there’s someplace I want to take you.”
“Where?”
He smiled in lieu of an answer. “Just tell me this—are you free for the next few hours?”
She studied him with open curiosity but gave in with a nod. “Yeah, I’m free. Where are you taking me?”
He took her by the hand and pulled her after him. His obvious excitement at whatever surprise he had lined up was contagious.
* * * *
Tamara’s whisper echoed off the walls of the Metropolitan Opera House lobby. “Gregory, what are we doing here?”
She tugged her oversized, puffy winter coat closer around herself, hoping to hide the pilled sweater and faded jeans. Only some ushers lingered in the lobby, but she was fairly sure she sensed their disapproval as they looked in her direction. Pulling on his sleeve, she whispered again. “What are we doing here?”
She’d asked the same question when their cab pulled up in front of Lincoln Center and again when an usher met them outside the main doors with a pair of tickets in hand.
Now, as Gregory led her into the packed theater, he turned to her with a smile. “We’re seeing The Nutcracker. I would have thought that was obvious by now.”
“But…but…” Too many questions tried to come out at once as she followed him down the aisle toward their seats near the stage. “But this has been sold out for months.” Of all the protests and questions, the most logical won out.
“I made a call,” he whispered. Leaning down, he quietly asked the elderly couple at the end of the row if they could squeeze past.
He had made a call. Of course. As if that answered anything. The lights dimmed as they took their seats, and the rest of her questions were put on hold as the orchestra started up and the curtains rose.
Tamara couldn’t tear her eyes away as the first ballerinas poured onto the stage. This. This was everything. It was why she’d left home at sixteen. The beauty, the elegance, the transformative power.
Ballet had been the focus of her world from the time she could walk until the day she walked away from her family and her ex. She’d given this up along with all the rest, and seeing it now… It was sweet torture. Bittersweet memories rose to the surface, but they were drowned out by the sheer joy of immersing herself in this world once again. Only six years, but it felt like a lifetime.
Her gaze drank it all in greedily—the costumes, the symmetry, and the graceful movement. She let herself forget about everything else—Gregory, the theater, the party, and her family. The music washed it all away, and in its place was a brilliant peace. The coming-home sensation she’d always reveled in when she danced.
By intermission she was breathless with excitement. She forgot to ask Gregory all the questions she’d been meaning to ask and instead chatted his ear off about the techniques, the choreography, and the orchestra. He gamely encouraged her enthusiasm, asking questions and giving his opinion, though it was clear that going to the ballet was not his typical pastime.
The rest of the ballet passed in a dream. This wasn’t escape—not like when she lost herself in movies—this was magic. She’d nearly forgotten how powerful the ballet could be. How it transformed the everyday world into something beautiful. For so long now she’d classified dancing as part of her former life and locked it away along with all of the negative experiences that had made her flee. How stupidly simplistic she’d been. There was nothing innately bad about ballet—it just happened to be linked to some bad memories. But it was also tied to some of the best memories of her life. Like the first time her mother had brought her to the ballet. They’d gone to see The Nutcracker when she was five years old, and it had been love at first sight.
She’d been hooked. Her father encouraged her love, even splurging on season tickets just to make her happy. He and her mother never missed her recitals—not once. The memories blindsided her, but the graceful movements on the stage combined with the beloved music softened the blow.
When at last the curtain call ended, the lights turned up, and the house began to empty, Tamara couldn’t bring herself to move.
“Are you all right?” Gregory asked. He was sitting beside her, giving her the space she needed.
Was she all right? She was better than all right. “Perfect,” she said, turning to face him. She realized then that they were nearly alone in the theater. “Sorry to keep you.” She sat up straight, ready to get up and head toward the aisle, but Gregory made no move to leave.
“I’m in no rush,” he said. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
She couldn’t suppress a wide smile. “I more than enjoyed myself. This…” She gestured around the theater. “I’d almost forgotten how much I loved the ballet. How much I miss it.” The last part she added softly. She didn’t want to linger on the sadness of having given up her life in ballet or the reasons behind it. Not now, when she was so utterly content and…happy. Yes, that’s exactly what this feeling was. The emotion felt like hearing a forgotten language. She recognized it but wasn’t entirely comfortable with it.
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad.” His gaze met hers, and she couldn’t look away. His eyes were warm, soft. The look was understanding. More than that… It was intimate. Her lips parted as if she were going to say something, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. The silence went on too long, giving it a heaviness—a significance. But for the life of her, she didn’t know what the silence meant.
Swallowing thickly, she finally managed words. “Thank you.”
To her surprise, he grabbed her hand, tugging her to her feet alongside him. “Don’t thank me yet. There’s one more thing I want you to see.”
She followed him blindly, allowing him to pull her along. She should be wondering about what this next surprise could be, but she found herself entirely focused on the feel of his large, warm hand enveloping hers.
It felt good. Amazing. A simple touch shouldn’t be such a turn-on. But her reacti
on wasn’t just the sexual chemistry she felt around him. There was another element to this touch.
It made her feel safe. At home. Like she belonged somewhere… Like she belonged with him. Hand in hand.
He came to a stop in the lobby, where a fair-sized crowd was still gathered. She stopped short beside him and looked up with raised brows. “What are we doing?”
A group of older women stood in a cluster near the door, most likely waiting for their car services or their chauffeurs, judging by the high-end dresses.
“Take a look at them.” Gregory said it quietly in her ear, and she shivered slightly in response. It was hard to focus on anything other than the feel of his warm breath on her neck or his scent, which wrapped around her like a cocoon, but she did her best to block him out and do as he asked.
The women all seemed to be in their late forties or well into their fifties. Some clearly had had work done, while some had had better work done that wasn’t nearly as obvious. All of them were outfitted in tasteful, elegant dresses that would make her mother proud. Their shoes cost more than her monthly paycheck. All of this was to say—they were exactly the crowd she’d expect to see at the Met. For the life of her, she couldn’t spot anything out of the ordinary.
Finally, she gave up and turned to Gregory for help. “What exactly am I looking at?”
He leaned down again so his chin was resting on her shoulder and they were both looking toward the group by the door. “Those women,” he said slowly. “Are they scary, do you think?”
Her initial reaction was a quick snort of amusement. “No, of course not.”
“Do you feel intimidated by them?” he asked. His face was so close to hers that it took all of her willpower to focus on his words and not turn her head and plant a kiss on his neck. But even with the distraction of his physical proximity, she heard the teasing in his tone and knew exactly where this was headed.
Her Leading Hero Page 9