Undone by the Ex-Con

by Talia Hibbert

  But then came the grand jeté. Ava’s leap was more of a bunny hop. When she landed, her turn-out all but disappeared; instead of graceful lines rotated at a ninety-degree angle, Ava’s feet were clumsy and flat.

  Unable to take any more, Lizzie paused the music and crossed her arms, spearing the girl with a glare.

  “Ava,” she said. “What is my rule, please?”

  Ava sighed, rolling her eyes gloomily. They were heavily lined with a black kohl that did little for the girl’s pale colouring. Clearly, Lizzie would have to have another word with their mother.

  “Dance with the heart, or not at all,” Ava parroted, her tone casually mocking in the way that only a thirteen-year-old girl’s can be.

  Lizzie nodded grimly. “So you haven’t forgotten. And yet, you give me nothing.”

  “I’m tired, Lizzie,” Ava whined. “Why do we all have to take Saturday classes? Only Audrey wants them.”

  Lizzie pursed her lips, then turned to look at Alexandra. The mousy middle sister was plucking at the tight cotton of her leotard, staring down at the floor as though force of will could induce it to open wide and swallow her up.

  “Is this true, Alexandra?” Lizzie asked. “You don’t want to take part in the extra classes?”

  “Ummm…”

  Lizzie had witnessed this slip of a girl command an Arabian stallion with nothing more than a twitch of her knees. But when faced with direct human contact, Alex became a toddler peering from behind her mother’s skirts.

  Or, more typically, her little sister’s. There was a year between the two, but the way they behaved, onlookers might be forgiven if they judged Ava to be the elder.

  “Not really,” Alex admitted, her voice almost a whisper. She blushed, the poppy-red stain creeping up to her hairline, and Lizzie took pity.

  “Alright,” she relented. “I’ll speak with your mother.”

  She heard Ava’s satisfied murmur of “Yesssss,” across the bare floor. Then the little terror said, louder now, “Can we finish for the day?”

  Resigned, Lizzie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine.”

  Ava clapped her hands excitedly.

  “But first,” Lizzie added, “we must allow Audrey her turn.”

  “Oh, alright.” Ava walked over to the room's mirrored wall, leaning against the barre as she prepared to watch her sister. Alex scurried off too, leaving Audrey—the eldest, at sixteen—to stand alone.

  Ah, Audrey. The real reason that Lizzie was here, in this grand house’s private studio, tutoring three pampered sisters in the ageless art of ballet.

  Audrey was a principal in waiting.

  Audrey was a star.

  She stood tall—or as tall as a girl of five feet and three inches could stand, her body an elegant, never-ending line. Her little feet were tucked neatly into fifth position, the posture appearing effortless. But it was not. Lizzie knew that every muscle in the girl’s body was engaged, straining, put to use for the ultimate human purpose: beauty.

  Her body humming with anticipation, Lizzie reached for the stereo and started the music one final time.

  The violins began their cheerful tune, and Lizzie watched as—with every movement, every look, every breath—Audrey’s body told a story so convincing that the studio transformed.

  Gone were the blank walls and floorboards of the purposefully ascetic space. In their place lay rolling hills of summer grass, and never mind the harsh winter they all knew waited outside. No; it was July, it must be, and here was Audrey: not a wealthy, sheltered girl who’d never known a day’s labour, but a blushing shepherdess chased by her first love. She chasséd and Lizzie saw dandelion seeds floating through hazy sunlight. Next came the pas de bourrée, so joyous in its precision, like the geometry that allowed a church spire to touch the sky’s very soul. The glissades were light as air. And the grand jeté— oh, that clever girl. À la Don Quixote—Lizzie hadn’t told her to do that. But it was perfect, of course it was, even if she faltered slightly at the landing. After such a feat, Audrey deserved to slip.

  There. The opening sequence was done. Next would come—

  “Isaac!”

  Lizzie jumped, the sudden cry startling her out of her dreamlike state.

  She turned to find Ava and Alex barreling into the arms of a huge man, one she’d never seen before. His face was obscured as the girls leapt at him; even Alex had abandoned her usual shyness for a whoop of excitement.

  Lizzie stared, stunned by the spectacle. Then she turned back to Audrey and found the girl standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor, which was once again plain wood. No rolling hills of verdant grass here. And no effervescent shepherdess. Audrey was just a teenage girl now, small and distracted—and longing to join her sisters, if the look on her face was anything to go by.

  Defeated, Lizzie gave a dramatic sigh. “Go,” she said, waving her hand towards the gathering by the wall, as though it were beneath her notice.

  Audrey gave her a grateful smile and—bless her—a lovely curtsy, leaning into each delicate motion. Then she ran off like a puppy in a leotard.

  Good Lord.

  Lizzie crossed her arms and took her time cataloguing the scene. The girls were gushing over this mysterious man, and now that they’d stopped hugging him—as though they were his darling daughters and he some naval officer of old, returned from a round-the-world trip—Lizzie could see his face.

  It was… Interesting.

  He had the kind of tan that was hard-won, a breath away from burning, as if he’d been forced to stay overlong in the sun. Though where he’d come across sun in England at this time of year, Lizzie couldn’t fathom. His hair was sandy and his eyes were some light, piercing shade—blue, or green, or grey, perhaps. She couldn’t tell from this distance. But men with coloured eyes were trouble. Her own notoriously charming brother was proof of that.

  His colouring wasn't unusual in a white man, though. His face, however...

  She supposed, when studied bit by bit, there was nothing especially disturbing about it. His eyes, his nose, his mouth—they were all present and correct, situated in a perfectly ordinary fashion. But the lines of his features were blunt and harsh. His brow was so very foreboding, and his mouth was almost… cruel, somehow. Firm and unyielding. His nose had been broken at least once, clearly; it was slightly crooked, with a bump in the bridge. Somehow, she doubted it had occurred by accident

  He was tall, though not unusually so—with the girls crowding around him as a measuring stick, she could see that. And yet, he seemed intimidatingly huge. Perhaps it was the breadth of the shoulders, or the way his biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of his plain, white T-shirt. But more likely, it was the air of danger that hung about him like cologne. He seemed like a man who cared little for anything in this world and was very aware of the power that gave him. She hadn't spoken a word to him, yet his mere presence set Lizzie on edge—not only because he was so obviously coarse, but because something about him made her... Aware. Aware of her body, aware of the air in her lungs and the blood in her veins, but most of all, aware of him.

  She didn't like that. She didn't like that at all.

  Grinding her teeth, Lizzie hurried over to the place where she’d slung her bag, her satin slippers padding softly against the floor. She rifled through the holdall until she came up with an oversized hoodie and—oh, yes. A carton of orange juice. She’d better drink that.

  Her discomfort mounting, Lizzie slid on the hoodie and zipped it right up to her chin. She'd danced before thousands wearing next to nothing, but this man's presence made her leotard and leggings seem indecent, somehow. Feeling slightly more secure beneath her hoodie's thick fabric, Lizzie popped the straw into her juice. She took a breath. She took a sip. And then she turned her attention back to the mysterious newcomer and his adoring fans.

  “Behave,” he was saying, and his voice was low and raw and rough as gravel. Its easy cadence sent a thrill through her belly—and now she was really pissed off. Because how dare
this rude bastard burst into her class, distract her students, ignore her, take up all that space with his ridiculous shoulders—frankly, it was impolite of him to be so very solid—and then, to top it all off, have the voice of sex itself?

  Oh. Now she was thinking about sex in public. Yet another reason to despise this man.

  “I’ve interrupted,” he muttered, and Lizzie wanted to shout, Yes! You have! But he wasn’t talking to her; he was talking to the girls. And at his words, they erupted into a chorus of No!s and Don’t be silly!s that made Lizzie grind her teeth. Even Audrey was smiling at the man with adoration. Audrey, for goodness sake!

  He looked up and finally—finally—seemed to notice her. His gaze settled on Lizzie with all the weight of a boulder, and she felt her cheeks heat. Had she really wished that he would acknowledge her presence? She’d changed her mind. All she wanted was for him to go away.

  But he didn’t, of course. No; he stood there as though he owned the place, studying her with calm insolence. “Friend, Audrey?” He asked with a jerk of his head.

  Well! Lizzie felt her jaw drop. Which was absolutely mortifying. Just as quickly, she schooled her expression into careful boredom—but inside, her fury burned bright. A friend? Of the girls’? Audrey was sixteen, for heaven’s sake!

  “No, silly,” Ava giggled. “That’s Lizzie. She’s our dance teacher. You’d know that if you ever came to see us.”

  “Ah,” he replied. He wasn’t smiling, not really—he hadn’t since the moment he’d come in. But his lips twitched, and his face was so severe that the expression might as well have been a grin. “She’s very young, to teach you.”

  Good Lord. That was absolutely outside of enough. Lizzie knew her cheeks had always been plump, but she was twenty-five years old!

  “Girls,” she snapped. “Class is dismissed.”

  The three of them blinked at her, no doubt startled by the harshness of her tone. But Lizzie couldn’t help it. She was uncertain, uncomfortable, adrift—and that was one thing she could not abide. Regardless of who it belonged to, this was her studio. She was its mistress. And no stranger was about to walk in here and steal her hard-won control without feeling the sharp edge of her tongue.

  “You may leave,” she continued.

  The girls’ eyes dimmed as they responded to her words. Hurrying towards the centre of the floor, they lined up neatly like China dolls before curtseying. Then they pattered out of the studio together, one pink little piglet after another.

  Leaving Lizzie alone with the big bad wolf.

  He surveyed her as though she existed solely for his perusal. His air was infuriatingly, effortlessly arrogant, as if he didn’t realise how utterly he took up every inch of the room. And yet, she sensed a rigid control in his body that most probably wouldn’t recognise. To the average person he might seemed perfectly relaxed, completely at ease—but she saw the way his muscles were coiled, ready to spring. She saw it, and she wanted to know why.

  That was how she recognised him, in the end. Not by his face, which had graced enough front pages to enter the nation's consciousness—but his body. His posture. His aura. It had been strong enough to shine through on grainy tabloid photos. Now, confined to this little studio, its intensity was a slap in the face.

  Here stood the nation's beloved criminal. Their dark angel.

  Isaac Montgomery.

  Four

  Isaac leant against the wall, dragging his gaze over the iron-jawed beauty on the other side of the room.

  She was an interesting character.

  At first glance, she'd blended in with the girls. But it hadn't taken more than a second for him to realise that she most certainly a woman. A woman with searing eyes and a cut-glass accent who stood as though wearing a crown.

  She was actually wearing nothing more intimidating than a grey hoodie with PARIS HOUSE printed along the bottom right hem. Her hair was scraped back into a severe bun, dark and gleaming and bigger than his fist. She was drinking from a child's juice carton, for Christ’s sake—and still, he felt as if he should bow down before her. Not because she was anything special, he told himself; simply because the air of control that she wore like a cloak demanded it.

  But Isaac had never responded well to demands.

  They faced each other as though preparing to duel, each eyeing their opponent with no little curiosity. The woman was bold, he'd give her that. Most people struggled to meet his gaze; she crashed into it with her own, fierce and defiant. Her plump lips spread around her straw like a kiss, and despite himself, Isaac watched. Closely. Even felt himself entering a mental danger zone as his imagination took over—it always had been overactive—and replaced the straw with the image of his...

  Ah. She bit.

  Hard.

  For a moment, a smirk sharpened the smooth lines of her face. Then he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a studied blandness that in some circles might seem polite.

  But Isaac knew exactly what nothingness meant. He often used it himself.

  And he knew how silence could become a weapon.

  Well, call him a lamb to the slaughter. Because as the quiet stretched between them, Isaac found himself desperate to reign it in.

  "I'm Isaac," he said.

  Her teeth released the straw, replaced once more by soft lips. She sucked, slow and delicate, the fine column of her throat shifting as she swallowed. God, he should stop looking. But he couldn't.

  Finally, she let go of the straw and spoke. Her voice was as blank as he'd always wanted his own to be. "I am Elizabeth."

  The girls had called her Lizzie. Had acted like they knew her. Could a man ever really know a woman like this? Or would learning her mind become a walk through a hall of mirrors? He didn't have the time to find out. He didn't want to know. He couldn't care less.

  She swept her gaze over him as though he were dust to be brushed aside. He watched as she catalogued every inch of him in the way those people had—and she was definitely one of those people. He saw it in her stance; he heard it in her voice; he felt it in her fearlessness. Here was a woman who had never struggled for anything. She expected the world, and through sheer force of will, she would have it.

  He knew this in an instant, and he hated her for it. And yet, once again, Isaac felt himself moved to speak. As though she could pull words from him with just a flick of her honeycomb gaze. That gaze was the exact same shade as her skin, and the effect was strange. Fascinating. Something like a sunset. Why couldn't he stop looking?

  "I..." He cleared his throat; felt rust crumble away as rarely used words prepared to emerge. The phantom taste was sharp. "I'm a writer. Mark—”

  "I know who you are," she interrupted. And how could eyes like hot treacle be so very cold? "Isaac Montgomery. You wrote Catching Time."

  He winced. "I hate that title." Why did you tell her that?

  She popped her straw between her lips and did not reply. They stood there in silence

  And she continued to say nothing else. Absolutely nothing. Why bother talking to someone so far beneath her, right?

  The thought—the understanding of what this twisted interaction really was—had Isaac clenching his fists. Here he stood, making a fool of himself, throwing words like confetti at a beautiful woman, and for what? For the chance to run his hands over the muscles of her thighs? To see how her face softened when that fancy hairdo came tumbling down? As though he couldn't find a girl on any council estate in the country with just as much beauty and far more charm. A girl who didn't think that he was shit beneath her shoe.

  He should be used to this by now. In fact, he was used to it. He simply wasn't used to caring. And holy shit, did he care. Scorching shame, a brand whose cruel touch he hadn't felt for years, burned through his abdomen. Why should this single snob, of all the snobs he'd come across, make him give a shit? His teeth clenched; his ire rose. And words fought their way from his throat before he could draw them back, powered by the force of his resentment.

  "Know me?" Never
before had his stilted speech been so screamingly obvious to his own ears. It was her fault. She was making him hear himself the way they did. She was making him feel the thickness of his own stupid tongue. He never wanted to see her again. But he already knew that he’d fantasise about her tonight, whether he wanted to or not.

  “The nation’s bad boy,” she said, tongue and teeth owning every single syllable. “Our dark angel. I’m sure you’re recognised every day, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “You read about me. In the papers.” What do you think you know? I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.

  She studied him as one might study an ant. "Are you so invested in your own notoriety, then?"

  He wanted to say, I hate it. He wanted to say, I deserve it. He wanted to say, If it weren't for people like you, there wouldn't be people like me.

  He said, "It sells."

  And she said, "It's vulgar."

  He almost choked. When was the last time anybody spoke to him like that?

  Since he'd entered this glittering, monied world, he'd become used to people who hid their derision behind smoke and mirrors. People who delighted in disrespecting him just enough to provoke a response—but not enough to seem like the aggressor.

  This woman had no problem being the aggressor. He liked her for it, almost as much as he hated her.

  Like a magnet, she drew him closer. Isaac stalked forward and was gratified to see her step back, just a touch; she felt the energy tingling between them, and it pleased him to know that he wasn't alone. He was even more pleased when she met his gaze without fear. Did this woman even know what fear was? Probably not. In fact, after that first stumble, she stood her ground. Planted her feet and set her jaw, and he saw...

  He saw himself.

  Which was entirely impossible. He was drunk on those whiskey eyes; that was all.