Dance With Me (10 page)

She moaned as he pulled out and pushed in again, each thrust sending a ripple of sensation through her. He plunged into her harder and faster and deeper, over and over again until she felt herself starting to come. As the shimmers of pleasure expanded out from her core, she tightened around him and he came, his eyes closing, his mouth opening in a groan as he arched into her.

His thrusting became a gentle rocking that slowed to a stop. Still inside her, he opened his eyes and looked down at her, smiling a sweet and satisfied smile. Putting his hands on her ankles, he turned his head to kiss one calf and then the other.

“Did you like that?” he asked.

“Well worth the wait.” She gave his smile back to him.

They cleaned up quickly at the sink and were just finishing dressing when the door rattled.

“Alexi,
votrapis
.” It was Sergei.

All Sherry’s worries and doubts came flooding back with the sound of his voice, bringing with them something new: guilt. Sergei had his suspicions about where her investigation was going. If he shared them with Alexi, how would he feel about her? How did she feel about herself?

Alexi answered in Russian, pulling the jacket of his tuxedo over his white shirt, his bowtie hanging loose around his neck. Unlocking the door, he held it open for his mentor.

“Ah, Ms. Wong. We meet again,” he said, seeing her. His gaze swept her from head to toe, a smirk firmly in place. “You look even lovelier with clothes on.”

She glanced at Alexi to see his reaction, but he was looking in the mirror, fidgeting with his bowtie. Sergei brushed past her, speaking in Russian. Standing behind Alexi, he reached for the black strip of fabric, and speaking all the while, manipulated it into a perfect, crisp bow. Alexi looked at Sergei and grinned, the smile a favorite son gives his adored father. She felt her stomach clench.

Sergei turned to her, dusting off his hands. “There. I’ve had years of practice. He will learn.”

“I’m sure,” she said, dryly. Alexi was still looking in the mirror, fixing his hair, oblivious to the tension between her and his mentor.

“You understand that the donors have all been waiting to meet our Alexi. He will be very busy. I hope you will be able to amuse yourself, Ms. Wong.” Sergei stretched his smirk into an approximation of a smile.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about me.” She returned his mirthless grin.

The smile dropped from his face. “Oh, but I do, Ms. Wong. I do.” His eyes were two burning coals.

She felt Alexi behind her, putting her coat over her shoulders, but her eyes didn’t leave Sergei’s. She had to show him that she wasn’t afraid of him, whatever it was that she really felt.

Sergei’s gaze flicked up to Alexi, and his smile returned. “Come. The car is waiting.”

Not taking her eyes off Sergei, she looped her arm through Alexi’s. After all, possession was nine-tenths of the law. “Lead the way,” she said.

Once they were settled on the wide leather seat of the Town Car, she found herself shunted to the side again as Sergei lectured Alexi in Russian. His arm stayed around her the whole time, though, and he kept giving her little squeezes and glances to let her know he hadn’t forgotten about her.

Observing the two men, she could see their relationship was not much different from a wayward son and his overbearing father. She thought back to her first encounter with the two of them arguing in the studio. At the time, she had misread the power dynamic, thinking Alexi, the new rising star, was playing the diva card against a stodgy choreographer on his way to retirement. She could see now she’d had it all wrong. Alexi was like a teenage boy being told to mow the grass when he’d rather play video games. He might complain, but he’d eventually do what he was told. He, sometimes grudgingly, respected Sergei. What was more, he loved him.

That was only natural if what Sergei had told her was true, that he had rescued Alexi from isolation and his own self-destructive impulses. The question was, if it came down to a choice between his mentor and her, who would he go with? If his behavior in his apartment that morning was any indication, Sherry didn’t like her odds.

And how about you, Sherry, baby?
she thought.
If it’s a choice between this beautiful man who makes you wetter than Singapore in monsoon season and a chance of having that Pulitzer Prize on your non-existent mantle, what will it be?

He was a sculpture made flesh, beauty and power and strength, and she wanted him the way she had never wanted another man. But this was a new desire, still taking hold. Her quest for truth and recognition was as old as her need to bite her nails, and as ingrained. Watching him in thrall to his mentor, she tucked her hands under her thighs. She didn’t like his odds.

Chapter Twelve

Sherry stood at the bar in the Empire Ballroom of the Grand Hyatt, mentally calculating how much money had gone into the event. The florist’s bill alone had to be in the hundreds of thousands, she estimated.

The theme was
The Rite of Spring
, which a quick Google on her phone told her was a ballet in which a virgin is chosen as a sacrificial victim and then proceeds to dance herself to death. The décor didn’t hint at the grisly theme, but was instead a Van Gogh vision of spring. The ceiling was draped with billowing transparent fabric in acid bright colors. On every white-linen-covered table, curls of driftwood held carpets of moss sprouting with bright, exotic blooms. Model-esque young servers dressed in neon wisps of fabric served shot glasses of asparagus soup and skewers of lamb and mint.

Sipping her rhubarb martini and working up the nerve to ask for a Bud, she knew she looked like she had wandered into the wrong party. Pastel satin ball-gowns were the dress code for women, it seemed. That wouldn’t put her off doing her job, of course. At least she was wearing a dress.

In the distance, she could see Alexi and Sergei working the room. She figured she wouldn’t learn much by following them around like a lost puppy. She was after bigger fish, namely, a skeletal sixty-something ash-blonde fish in a mint one-shoulder. She had spotted Ninny Vanderbeck earlier not far from Alexi and was keeping her eye on the professional fundraiser, waiting. As she watched, she noticed a pattern emerging. Sergei and Alexi would approach a party, smile and talk and laugh for five minutes or so. Then they’d move on and Ninny would swoop in.

Tugging on the hem of her skirt, Sherry picked up her drink and wove her way through the tables to join a small cluster of people standing near Ninny. Some of the men in the group gave her the lascivious onceover, which made the women stare, but she just raised her glass and turned her head, and they went back to discussing yachts.

“Delightful, isn’t he? And so talented,” Ninny was saying, leaning in toward a couple who looked to be in their fifties, though with the prevalence of plastic surgery in New York, you could never really tell. Her voice was like sandpaper, rough and grating, despite her Audrey Hepburn accent.

“He seemed very polite,” the woman said, looking at her husband for confirmation.

“We’re not looking for polite. We want polite at an event, we ask the neighbors.” He grabbed a skewer of lamb from a passing server and pointed at Ninny.

“Oh, I hear you. Too much courtesy makes for a very dull evening.” Dropping her voice, she leaned in closer still. “Very dark past, though. Have you seen his tattoos?”

“Well, not all of them.” The woman laughed, a high-pitched whinny. Her husband smiled around his lamb.

“That could be arranged,” Ninny said in a sing-song. She winked, and they all burst into laughter.

Tossing his skewer on a passing tray, the man rubbed his hands together. “Nancy is putting something together for the Marathon. That’s the, what? Eleventh? Something. She handles the details, I just write the checks. Can we have him then?”

Ninny’s eyes glittered acquisitively. “Absolutely. After your generous contribution this evening.”

“How generous am I being?” He looked at his wife.

“Seventy-five,” she said.

He whistled, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I hope that includes the tattoos.” They all laughed.

Ninny put a claw-like hand on his arm. “Thanks again for your contribution, Ford. I’ll get the details of the event from Nancy’s girl. Alexi will be there, though we might have to work out something for the viewing of the tattoos.”

They all laughed again, and Nancy moved on to her next target.

Sickened, Sherry put her glass down on the nearest table.

“Are you one of the new dancers?” one of the women in the cluster she had joined asked, the yacht conversation having apparently gone stale. “I don’t recognize you. I mean, you must be in the corps, but still. Someone like you would definitely stand out.”

The other members of her group tittered or hid their smiles behind their drinks.

“Because of your height,” she added, eyes innocently wide. Sherry didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that the woman was actually referring to her Asian heritage.

“I’m not a dancer. I’m with
The Sun
,” she said, turning to go. After what she had just heard, she needed to get out of this room, needed to breathe air that wasn’t thick with bullshit and entitlement.

“Well, that explains the dress,” one of the men muttered, and they all burst into laughter.

Like middle school all over again,
she thought, making a beeline for the exit. Their pettiness didn’t bother her. Neither did their veiled racism. What disturbed her was the conversation between Ninny and the fifty-something couple. It sounded like this evening was about selling Alexi to the highest bidder. The way they talked about him, like he was a side of beef they were ordering for their party, it made her physically queasy. Did Alexi know about this? Sergei definitely did. He and Ninny had a system down. He showed off the merchandise, she closed the deal.

Pushing open the bathroom door, Sherry headed for the bank of marble-surrounded sinks. She turned on the cold water and wet her hands, placing them against the back of her neck and her throat. It was something her mother used to do, on the muggy days before they’d gotten AC. Good for calming yang.

As she dried her hands on a cotton towel and dropped it in the brass bin, she noticed that there wasn’t a bathroom attendant. For a five star hotel hosting an event like this, it was highly unusual. The thought had just entered her mind when the bathroom door swung open and two tuxedoed men with shoulders like football players and stony faces walked in.

“Wrong room, guys,” she said, though the pounding of her heart told her this was no mistake.

They moved quickly for men so big, one of them grabbing her and clapping a hand over her mouth, the other pulling a wedge of wood from his breast pocket and sticking it under the door. Sherry kicked back at him, landing a blow to his shin, but he just tightened his grip and bit her ear, hard.

“You do that again, I make like Mike Tyson and you lose your pretty little ear,” he said, his voice low and lightly accented. Russian, she thought. He bit down harder, and tears sprang to her eyes. She shook her head, showing him she wouldn’t kick him again. At least until she had a clean shot at his balls.

He released her ear but didn’t let go of her. The other thug, a blond with spiky hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once, approached her. Grabbing a hand towel from the counter, he said something to the man holding her, who moved his hand from her mouth to her jaw, forcing it open. The blond stuffed the towel in until she gagged. Then, satisfied that she’d be quiet, he took over for the Russian Mike Tyson, wrenching her arms behind her until her shoulder sockets screamed. She gave a muffled cry, and Mike Tyson barked at the blond, who loosened his grip.

“My friend, he is not gentle like me,” he said, moving to face her.

Sherry looked up at him. Her ear throbbed, as did her shoulders. She knew that struggling was futile and would only give the sadistic goons more reason to hurt her. But defiance burned in her eyes.

He grabbed her chin with a cruel smile. His face would have been handsome if it wasn’t so hard. Cool blue eyes shone beneath brows as dark as his friend’s were pale. “Very pretty. A very nice toy. Too bad we are not here to play, Sherry Wilson-Wong. We are here to give you a very important message.”

His hand dropped from her chin and reached inside his breast pocket, producing a switchblade. He flicked it open, its point just under her chin. She gulped, the defiance melting from her eyes, replaced by fear. Mike Tyson’s smile widened. He traced the point of the knife down the length of her throat, slowly, its sharp tip opening a thin thread of pain. Her breathing became shallower, faster.

Holding the neck of her dress with one hand, he continued the downward trajectory with the other. The knife slashed through the fabric of her dress like it was water, stopping over her rapidly beating heart. Then he grabbed the two pieces of her dress and tore them down to her waist, the fabric screaming in protest. His eyes took in her naked torso appreciatively.

“A shame.” He brushed the top of her breast with his hand. She shuddered in fear and disgust, her chest heaving. She screamed, but the gag prevented all but a muffled gasp from reaching even her own ears. The blond tightened his grip, forcing her chest out toward his friend. Tears streamed down her face.

As he grabbed her chin again, Mike Tyson’s face was serious. “I will cut you now. It will hurt, but you will not move, because if you do, my friend will hold you tighter and your shoulders will pop out. This is a pain you have never felt, I think. Much more than the knife.”

Sherry closed her eyes, trying to regulate her breathing as the tip of the knife went in just above her heart. He pressed deeper and her breath came faster with her fear and pain. He made a short incision, then lifted the knife and repeated the procedure, crossing over the first cut he had made.

Hearing the clink of steel on marble, she opened her eyes. Mike Tyson was holding a packet of salt, the kind at they have in baskets at the checkout of takeout places. He ripped it open and dumped it into his open palm. Then, cruel smile back in place, he rubbed it into the cuts he had just made. Blinding, burning pain seared through her, but she clamped her jaw down on the gag, looking back at him with pure hatred. That only made his smile widen.

He twisted her head toward the mirror. “Look,” he said. “X. To mark the spot. You will forget this little story you are writing. Or next time we meet.” He picked up the knife again and held it over the burning wound on her skin. “You understand?”

Picking up another towel, he cleaned his knife with it and tossed it at her, hitting her in the face. The man behind her threw her to the floor. When she sat up, the door was swinging shut on their heels.

Fueled by anger and residual fear, she stood up and wrenched the towel from her mouth, falling over the closest sink to throw up her rhubarb martini. Her hands on the counter were shaking. In fact, she was shivering all over, and not just because her dress was ripped wide open. She was still heaving and sobbing over the sink when the door swung open again.

“Ay, mi!” a female voice shrieked and she looked up to see a tiny, round, black-bunned woman in a Hyatt uniform accompanied by a security guard.

“Miss, are you okay?” he said, rushing toward her while the bathroom attendant chattered in distressed Spanish.

Holding her dress together at her neck with one hand, Sherry wiped her face with a towel. “Does it look like I’m okay?” she asked. Mascara trailed down her cheeks in dirty streaks to mingle with her smeared lipstick. Under her dress, her skin was sticky with drying blood.

The security guard spoke into his phone while the woman tentatively stroked her arm.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “They, the men gave me money. They told me to go or they kill me. I find the security, but is too late.” She reached into her pocket, pulling out a hundred dollar bill. “Here.” She pressed it on Sherry, but Sherry moved away from her.

“No. It’s not your fault. They probably weren’t lying about killing you.” She started moving toward the door on shaky legs, her one thought, getting Alexi and getting out of there.

“Miss, you can’t leave. The police are on their way.” The security guard grabbed her arm, but she wrenched it free.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” She pointed a shaking finger at him.

“I’m sorry, miss, but you can’t leave.” He raised his hands as if she were going to shoot him.

“Sherry Wilson-Wong.
The Sun
. They can contact me there.” She pushed open the door and headed back to the ballroom. Seeing the state Sherry was in, the peach satin-clad girl at the door tried to stop her, but Sherry pushed past her.

The lights were dim, and there was music playing. All eyes were on the dancer on the stage, a lithe blond with a tortured expression. Kat O’Gorman, playing the sacrificial virgin, Sherry noted dully. Head down, she wove through the tables, her eyes on her target, sitting at a table in front of the stage.

Putting her hand his shoulder, she spun him around. “Happy?” she asked, letting her dress fall open.

A collective gasp went up around the table.

Sergei looked up at her, and in his eyes flickered a look that was quickly replaced with concern. “My God,” he cried, hand on his chest.

Beside him, Alexi scraped back his chair, rushing to her. “Sherry!”

All around them, a collective murmuring started as people strained to see the drama unfolding offstage. Onstage, the ballerina faltered, but continued to dance.

Putting his jacket around her shoulders, Alexi steered her toward the exit. Sergei followed close behind, scolding him with harsh Russian whispers, which Alexi ignored.

He pushed open the doors and, standing in the hall, wrapped his arms around her. His voice was full of distress. “My God. What happened to you? Do we need to call the police?”

“Yes, the police,” Sergei said. “This is a matter for the police. We will leave her in the capable hands of New York’s finest.”