‘And spin around, Millie Mouse, just like that.’ She claps as my little body turns in the air, and in my mind I am every bit as graceful as the ballerinas I saw on stage earlier that day.
I leap into the air and she gasps, then shakes her head in apparent wonder. ‘How did you get to be so clever, darling?’
Euphoria fills me, and love too. I am a ballerina, and my mother is proud of me, prouder than ever before.
* * *
Ballet is moving. I’m not so insecure about my masculinity that I can’t admit it. I think only an idiot would deny the transformative powers of this art form. There is something magical about motion and music set so perfectly together, a kind of earthly nirvana. While some companies leave me stone-cold, the MBG never fails to capture my imagination. As the final dance finishes and prima Marietta Kostroyva takes her curtsy, I turn to Millie. Her cheeks are wet with tears.
Ballet is moving, but I hadn’t expected to see her so moved, nor the way my own emotions would respond to that sight.
‘Hey.’ The word is hoarse. ‘You okay?’
She nods jerkily, but doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘That was so lovely.’
I nod, unconvinced.
She wipes her cheeks and smiles brightly, looking towards me as she stands. ‘Thank you.’
I reach for her hand, braiding our fingers together. ‘I’ve made a dinner reservation but we can just order in if you’d prefer?’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Her eyes lift to mine.
I don’t feel reassured, but I nod. My driver is out the front when we step out. The restaurant is only a few blocks away though and I look down at Millie. ‘Would you like to walk or drive?’
She breathes in deeply, the balmy New York air warm and sultry. ‘Walk, of course.’
I take a second to direct my driver to the restaurant and come back to Millie. All sign of her tears are gone, but some sixth sense alerts me to a sense of emotional ambivalence inside her. ‘You like the ballet?’
‘I haven’t been in years,’ she says, beginning to walk. I take her hand in mine, ignoring the lurch of desire that practically incapacitates me. ‘Since I was a little girl.’
I suspect she has more to say on the matter, so I wait patiently.
‘I used to want to be a ballerina.’ She pierces me with eyes that are awash with feelings I cannot begin to untangle. That I wish to so badly it surprises me.
‘You’d have been an excellent ballerina,’ I hear myself offer, and squeeze her hand to make it clear my rejoinder is just a light-hearted joke.
‘Why, thank you. I think so,’ she says and laughs back. We walk in silence for a while, and then she says under her breath, ‘I was thinking of my mum.’
My heart drops at this admission of her grief, and at my corresponding desire to wipe it away somehow.
‘I was remembering my mum,’ she corrects. ‘And how I used to want to be a ballerina.’ She smiles reminiscently. ‘I remember twirling around our veranda, spinning with my arms high in the sky, convinced I was every bit as graceful as the ballerinas I’d seen on stage.’ Her sigh is carried away on the light breeze. ‘My mum would watch me and applaud, telling me I could do anything. Be anything.’
Her words layer over me and for a moment I think about what that would feel like—that kind of support and love. ‘When did you decide you wanted to be a doctor?’
She shrugs, coming to a stop as we reach a busy crossroads. ‘I was young. Ten, maybe?’
‘You didn’t think about combining the two? Becoming a doctor who dances?’
She shakes her head, a small laugh escaping her pink lips. ‘I think by ten I’d hung up my ballet slippers for good.’
‘I don’t know, Millie. You’d look pretty damned good up on stage.’
She blinks at me, a small frown on her face, and then she looks away. The pedestrian light goes green; we cross the road together. The restaurant is halfway down this block. I gesture to the doorman. The queue snakes about a hundred metres in the other direction and I see by her look of recognition that she’s heard of the restaurant. Viola is a celebrity haven, famous the world over, but that’s not why I chose it. At least, not completely.
Millie wants to experience new things, and I figure it’s not the kind of place just anybody can get into any time they want. I wanted her to have this. Plus, the food is second to none on this side of the city.
She begins to move past the door, to the queue, but I pull on her hand, smiling at her before guiding us to the door. Damian pushes it inwards with a, ‘Nice to see you again, Michael.’
I nod in agreement, leading Millie inside.
She spares only a brief glance for the restaurant, preferring to study me instead. I’d rather be back in my apartment than here. I’d rather be alone with her, giving into this mad crush of desire and making her mine all over again.
We’re seated at a table near the arboretum. Plants grow to our side, weaving above us.
‘Okay,’ she says after a moment, and I suspect she’s fighting laughter. ‘You can stop now.’
‘Stop what?’ I order a bottle of wine and relax back in my chair.
‘All this!’ She gestures around the restaurant. ‘It’s just a bit...you know. Extra.’
‘Extra?’
‘Too much!’ She is exasperated, but happy. I like happy much more than the sight of her with tears on her face.
‘You’re not hungry?’
‘No, I’m starving,’ she demurs. ‘But this restaurant is... Alice Caswell is over there, I loved her last movie.’ She thumbs her finger towards the window, pointing to one of the most famous actresses in Hollywood. ‘And Emily Coleman just walked in. With Sam Baccio.’
‘Really?’ I tease, and turn around.
‘Don’t look!’ she hisses, reaching over and putting her hand on mine. Desire flicks in my gut.
‘Too late.’ I grin, lifting a hand, waving at Emily and Sam.
‘Oh, God, what are you doing? They’re coming over.’
‘They’re friends.’
‘Of yours?’
‘No.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Of Alice Caswell. Yes, of mine.’
Millie’s jaw drops and I reach across the table, drifting my thumb over her lips, my eyes searing her with promise, before I stand up to greet my friends. I introduce them to Millie and, despite the fact she was star-struck a second ago, she shows no sign of that to Sam or Emily. She is relaxed and funny. And completely, spell-bindingly breathtaking.
‘We could join you,’ Sam suggests, his eyes lingering for a second longer than I like on Millie.
I shake my head. ‘We’re just having a quick dinner. I’ll catch you another time.’
‘So good to see you!’ Emily kisses my cheek and waves at Millie. ‘Nice to meet one of Michael’s many women.’ She winks, her parting shot born of amusement rather than malice.
I resume my seat, scanning Millie’s face for any hint of reaction. There’s none, which is how it should be, but my ego—which she’s been so good for—takes a little dip at her apparent unconcern with Emily’s reference to my ‘many women.’
‘Well, Mr Hotshot, point made. You are quite clearly way out of my league.’
I don’t expect that. I lift my brows, skimming her face. ‘You think I want to make some kind of point like that?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘But, seriously, I just wanted...a one-night stand with a hot guy who seems to know his way around female anatomy. All this is just so... OTT. I mean, what are you doing this for, Michael? Why not just have sex with me and be done with it?’
Her question is valid. I brush it aside. ‘I do everything with one hundred per cent of my attention. This is no different.’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad I leave for Paris next week. I don’t think I could keep up with having one hundred per cent of y
our attention for too long.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘TELL ME ABOUT THEM.’ Sitting in the back of his limousine, watching New York glide past, I am full of celebrity, delicious food and the kind of night fairy tales are made of. Except this isn’t a fairy tale, and there’s no happily ever after for Michael and me. That certainty allows me to relax into this moment and enjoy myself. With no relationship experience, I understand on some instinctive level that wondering where dating someone is going to end up could be incredibly taxing. Having that worry removed is...refreshing.
Appealing.
Addictive.
‘Who?’
‘The women,’ I say with an exaggerated purr, glancing at him out of the corner of my eyes, seeing the way his expression tightens.
‘Oh, come on,’ I tease. ‘I’m not jealous. Just curious.’
A muscle jerks at the base of his jaw and I wonder if I’ve strayed into territory outside the bounds of what this is. ‘You don’t have to answer,’ I retract immediately, the night’s fairy tale quality disappearing without my consent.
‘It’s fine.’ He shakes his head. ‘No big deal.’
‘You date a lot?’
He looks out of the window. ‘I fuck a lot.’
I frown. ‘Yeah, okay, but dating?’
He’s not looking at me. Frustration bubbles inside me. I unclip my seat belt and, in the spacious limousine’s rear, push up to straddle him. I cup his chin with my hands and drag his face back to mine.
‘Sit back down,’ he says seriously.
‘I want to sit here.’ I feel his hardness beneath me and smile slowly. ‘And I think you want me to sit here too.’
‘Yeah, sure, but I’ve told you, your safety matters to me.’ He presses a kiss to my lips then shifts his hips, unceremoniously toppling me off him.
‘Hey!’ I have to scramble to avoid falling into the footwell. I’m more than a little annoyed.
So is he, evidently. ‘Sit.’ He looks pointedly at the seat beside him.
I purposely ignore him and take the one diagonally opposite. Out of touching distance.
He stares at me and shakes his head, and I feel petty and childish. Emotions zip through me, coming out of nowhere. Uncertainty and doubt. I turn and stare out of my own window, unseeing.
‘I don’t have time for a relationship,’ he says after a moment. I keep looking out of the window. ‘And I’ve...seen how problematic they can be. It’s not for me.’
‘Problematic, how?’
He’s quiet for a moment. ‘Any kind of dependence is a problem.’
I turn to him then, and the determined set of his features hits me like a blade. ‘You don’t like to get too attached to anyone.’
‘Or for anyone to get too attached to me,’ he agrees.
‘This is a control thing?’
‘No. It’s a me thing.’
‘Why?’
He shakes his head tersely. ‘I don’t know, Millie. Do you really have to psychoanalyse me?’
‘How old are you, Michael?’
His expression tightens. ‘Thirty-five. Why?’
‘So, at thirty-five, you’ve never had a relationship. That doesn’t strike you as unusual?’
‘No.’
He doesn’t want to talk about it now; that much is patently obvious. I settle back in my seat and look out at New York as it blurs past me, but my mind is throwing questions forward—questions about Michael and his life, and, despite the fact I’m leaving Ireland soon, I find I want to know the answers. I want to know, just for the sake of knowing. It doesn’t occur to me there’s danger in that.
* * *
The view of Manhattan from his penthouse is spectacular. But I saw it last night. I’m done being a tourist. I’m done with everything that’s not him and me.
‘So you’re thirty-five.’ I tilt my head to the side. ‘No girlfriend. No wife. Parents?’
His eyes glitter, dark and mesmerising, in his handsome face. He’s stripped out of his jacket and the white bow tie sits loose around his neck. ‘My mother died ten years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’ My sympathy is instant. ‘You didn’t say.’
He shrugs. ‘Why would I?’
‘I guess when I told you about my mum? You know, the fact we’ve been through the same thing?’
He presses a button on his coffee machine and black coffee pours out. ‘We haven’t, though.’
‘Losing our mums, I mean.’
‘No loss is the same. No grief can be compared. You’ve just buried your mother; the pain is fresh, her absence is something I imagine you’re still dealing with every day.’ His perceptiveness makes my heart hurt. ‘Not having my mother in my life is a part of me now, as much as my nose or my eyes. I accept it as my reality. I don’t grieve her in the same way I might have when it first happened.’
I know he’s a brilliant litigator but, listening to him speak, I comprehend the orator he is, the persuasive way he has of putting words together that is compelling and unique.
‘I don’t know if I ever won’t feel this.’ I press my fingers into my chest and, to my chagrin, tears moisten my eyes. He looks at me with sympathy for a moment, then slides the coffee towards me. I shake my head. It would keep me awake all night.
‘On second thought,’ I murmur, taking it from him, sipping it slowly.
‘Everyone’s different, like I said.’
‘How did she die?’ It’s a blunt question, but I don’t apologise for it.
‘A stroke.’
It’s a simple answer, but I feel like there’s so much more he’s not saying.
‘And your father?’
Michael makes another coffee and holds it cradled in his hands. ‘I don’t see him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t see him.’ His eyes land on mine, and I feel like something winds from him to me, an invisible string that binds us in some way.
‘You don’t get on?’
His lips twist in cynical acknowledgement of that. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Millie?’
I blink, sipping the thick, strong coffee. ‘Yeah?’
‘My father’s off-limits.’ The words are vice-like in their intensity.
‘Why?’
He lifts his brows. ‘Because I said.’
‘But...’
‘It’s a deal-breaker,’ he snaps. Then, more gently, almost like a plea, ‘Just let it go.’
I nod slowly, but I don’t like it. I dislike it more than I should. I push it aside, but I think my hurt probably shows on my face and in my voice. ‘You’re the boss.’
He drags a hand through his hair. ‘Thank you.’
‘How do you know Emily and Sam?’ I change the subject but the line in the sand he’s just drawn is a wedge between us.
‘Connor and I invested in one of their movies.’
‘No kidding?’
‘Not even a little kidding.’
‘Which one?’
‘Did you see that alien dinosaur sci-fi that was out a couple of years ago?’
‘No.’ I shrug. ‘But I saw the posters everywhere.’ I sip my coffee. ‘I take it you’re a really, really good lawyer.’
‘Barrister. What makes you say that?’
‘Apart from the fact you seem to be made of steel?’
He smiles. ‘Sure.’
‘The plane. The penthouses. The ballet. The restaurant.’
‘My lifestyle makes me a great lawyer?’
‘It makes you a highly paid lawyer.’ I tilt my head to the side. ‘And I gather that’s the same thing.’
He nods slowly. ‘Dance with me?’
‘Here?’
Another nod. My heart ratchets up a notch. ‘More seduction, Michael? Becaus
e I should tell you, between the wine and all the amazing foreplay, I’m going to burst if you don’t just take me to bed.’
His laugh is like warm caramel. ‘You’re not one for delayed gratification?’
‘I’m... I have no idea.’ I shake my head. ‘But spending all day and night out in the city has pretty much killed me.’
‘I don’t want to kill you.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, pressing the screen. Mellow music fills the penthouse. ‘Dance with me.’ The words are low and throaty, permeated with feeling. ‘Please.’
Please.
The last word I expect to hear from this man and it attaches to my spine, launching me forward, propelling me across the tiled floor. I walk into his arms and he wraps me up, holding me tight to his chest.
I breathe him in, feeling the ricochet of his heart against his chest, my own answering it.
‘He hit her.’ The words are quiet. Troubled. From deep within him. I go to pull away, to look up at Michael, but he holds me tight. He doesn’t want me seeing him as he speaks; I respect that, pressing my cheek to his chest. ‘My dad. He used to hit my mother. That’s how she died.’
I stop moving. ‘Oh, Michael. He killed her?’
‘Nothing so neat as that sounds,’ he grunts. ‘He beat her to within an inch of her life, but she lived for a month afterwards, in a coma. Finally, she had a stroke.’ And I imagine how that must have felt, growing up, seeing that, witnessing a relationship with that degree of pain and hurt. No wonder he’s chosen to be single. No wonder he’s steered clear of any kind of emotional entanglement.
‘Is he...did he go to prison?’
‘No.’ He strokes my back, and a shiver chases after his touch. ‘The police declined to prosecute. There wasn’t enough evidence.’
‘God, how can that be?’
‘He was a judge. Respected and liked. Fair.’
‘But he killed her.’
‘I know.’ He stiffens a little. ‘It wasn’t just the violence. It was everything. He took every single one of her hopes and aspirations and he ground them down into dust. He took the woman she was and berated her and belittled her until she was just a shell. He killed all of her, gradually, slowly, and finally his fists finished the job.’
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