Dance With Me (12 page)

“Is this all right?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she answered. Feeling the heat of him behind her and beneath her and inside her, she felt surrounded and embraced. She felt whole.

His hands explored her body with whisper-soft caresses as she rocked on him, slowly, drowning in the sensations that covered her and filled her. She felt her need for release growing, and he, sensing it, reached down between her legs to help her. Sliding a finger into her narrow slit, he rubbed her swollen bud. Massaged from the inside by the gentle rocking of his member and on the outside by his finger, the crescendo of her pleasure started. As he grew within her, she tightened around him, rocking faster.

She cried out as she came, closing her eyes.

“Don’t stop,” Alexi whispered, feeling her pleasure subsiding. He moved his hands to her hips, helping her, lifting her up and down. His eyes in the reflection were glazed, his mouth slightly open.

Panting, she rocked faster, driving herself down onto him. He gasped, throwing his head back in pleasure as he emptied himself into her. She slowed to a stop, and he bent his head forward, kissing her shoulder as he looked at her in the mirror.

“I just want to stay like this, inside you, forever,” he said.

“That would make it pretty hard to dance or even, you know, eat,” she said.

“Ah, my peony.” He smiled, wrapping his arms around her. “Always joking. But I am not joking.” Still holding her, he rolled onto his side and shifted them until they were lying in the center of the bed. He pulled the duvet over them.

Then, with his even breathing in her ear, and his member growing soft within her, she fell asleep.

Chapter Fourteen

When Sherry arrived at work the next morning, the police were waiting for her in Frank’s office. She ignored the look he gave her as he left, shutting the door behind him, but she knew whatever grilling the fresh-faced officers gave her, it would be nothing to the one she’d get from Frank when they left.

“We understand it must have been traumatic for you, miss,” Officer Lloyd, a baby-faced blond, said, his face a mask of concern, “but we need you to recount the events of the evening to the best of your ability.”

One fair, one dark, just like the Russian thugs, she noted, looking at the two and deciding how to play it. She knew exactly why the men had attacked her, and she didn’t want the cops beating her to the scoop. She also didn’t want them telling her to back off the story. Of course, winding up another corpse in the Hudson wasn’t an appealing option either.

“I think it was a case of mistaken identity, officer,” she said, all but batting her eyelashes. “I mean, you can ask the boss. I’m doing a piece on the ballet, for God’s sake. How dangerous is that?”

She rolled her eyes, and they laughed politely. She didn’t tell them about the director of the Bolshoi who’d had acid splashed in his face or the principal male who’d had his legs broken for him. Ballet was a billion-dollar business. And where big money was involved, things got ugly, no matter how pretty they appeared on the surface.

Leaving out a few important details, like the specific words of the threat, Sherry gave the police a reasonably accurate and convincingly emotional recounting of the attack. The truth was, she didn’t have to work hard to bring the emotions back to the surface. Having your life threatened and your flesh carved like an ice sculpture did something to a person, no matter how tough they thought they were.

“We’re going to have to see the wound,” Lloyd said. His quiet colleague closed Frank’s vertical blinds. “If you’d like to have a friend present…” He gestured to the newsroom.

“No, it’s fine.” Sherry pulled down the V of her shirt to reveal the X, now scabbing over but still angry and red. The dark-haired officer Fletcher snapped a picture, his expression grave.

“The only thing I can think is, they must have thought I was someone else,” she reiterated.

“Unless it was payback for a piece you wrote before,” Fletcher said, finally breaking his silence.

His partner clearly wasn’t convinced by either explanation. “Who knew you were going to be there?”

“Oh, gosh. Everybody. Frank. My colleague, Peter … everyone,” she lied.

“We asked Mr. McCall. He said he didn’t know you’d be there.”

“Really? I thought I’d told him. I mean, he knew I was working on this ballet piece, of course,” she hedged.

“You were seen entering the event in the company of Alexi Davydenko and Sergei Antonov, both Russians.” The blond consulted his phone. “Can you describe your relationship to these men?”

“Well, first, Alexi is Ukrainian,” she said

“By birth, perhaps. He has Russian ancestry.”

“Does that matter?” she asked.

“It does seem like a strange coincidence that the men you arrived with were Russian, as well as the men who attacked you.”

“Did I say they were Russian? I said they sounded like they were speaking Russian.”

“Lourdes de Francesca, an employee of the Hyatt Regency who was threatened by the men identified them as Russian.”

“The bathroom attendant? Please.”

The dark haired officer interrupted. “I hate to say this, Ms. Wilson-Wong, but you are acting like a victim with something to hide.” He gave her a level look. “Now. What is your relationship to Alexi Davydenko?”

She sighed, crossing her arms and looking at the floor. What was her relationship to him? She thought of his gentle kisses waking her that morning. On her neck, on her belly, on her thighs. “You have to understand that if my boss finds out, it will be trouble.”

“You’re involved with him.” The blond said.

She nodded.

“How involved?”

“What, you want me to tell you what base we got to? Come on. We’re involved. Sexually. Okay? I don’t see what that has to do with anything. He had nothing to do with the attack.” She glared at him.

“You’re an attractive woman. Jealous lovers have done worse.” The blond shrugged.

“Not even a possibility,” she said.

“What about Sergei Antonov?” The brunet asked. “What is your relationship to him?”

“Nothing. I interviewed him for the piece I’m doing. That’s it. We arrived together because Alexi’s his, what? Protégé?”

The officers exchanged glances. Lloyd tapped something into his phone.

“Thanks, miss. We have all that we need for now. We have your contact details if we need anything more. And if you think of anything, please call.” Both men nodded and gave her grim smiles. The blond handed her his card.

“Wait.” Sherry put a hand on his arm. “Frank doesn’t need to know about Alexi.”

He looked at her, his blue eyes piercing. “There’s no reason for us to share that with him at this point. But as a reporter, you should know that secrets have a way of surfacing. I always think it’s best if you are in control of the way that happens.”

She nodded in acknowledgment.

“We’ll be in touch, miss. And once again, we’re sorry to have to question you about this.”

She leaned against Frank’s desk and watched them leave. Within seconds, Frank was back, closing the door behind him. He stood with his back to it, arms crossed, staring at her.

“What?” she asked. “Are you going to give me hell for doing my job? Would we be standing here if it was Peter who got attacked?”

“No. Because it wouldn’t have happened to Peter!” he shouted, his arms flying up. “Jesus, Sherry. What are you doing? Pissing off the wrong people, that’s what. Flying too close to the sun. You know there’s a right way to approach this kind of investigation and a stupid way. Right now, I’m pretty sure you’re choosing the latter.”

“Oh, like you’d think an investigation into a ballet company would be dangerous? Like you’d tippy-toe around it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go stomping all over it in my goddamn combat boots like you are!” He ran a hand over his head. “Jesus, Sherry. I’m worried about you, is all. Yes, we could get sued. There is that. But in all my years heading this paper, none of my staff has been etched into like a freaking piece of wood. Threatened, yes, usually with litigation. This is different. This means you’re dealing with people who don’t play by the rules.”

“This means I’m close to the ugly truth.” She stared at him intently.

“Well, yes,” he conceded.

“This could be huge, Frank.” She grabbed his upper arms. “At first I was thinking, someone at ABC is lining his pockets. Living large. Maybe a few someones. But after what happened last night? No. This is much bigger. I think the boys in Brighton Beach are involved.”

“The Russian Mob?” he asked. His eyes glowed. He could feel it, too. The truth, lying under a thin layer of dirt, just waiting to be exposed. His eyes refocused on Sherry, and the fire dimmed.

“I want you to drop it.” His voice was flat. “I’m pulling the piece.”

“What? No! Are you crazy? I am this close.” She held up her hand, her thumb and index finger showing an inch of space between them.

“Yeah. This close to dead. Forget about it. You know, Sherry, I have a daughter your age. Wisely became a kindergarten teacher and moved upstate with her techie husband instead of following in my footsteps. She’s pregnant with my first grandkid now. A boy, they think.” He shook his head, his eyes faraway and an honest-to-God genuine smile on his face.

“Um, congratulations,” she said. The Frank vault had opened. She stared inside in wonder.

The smile snapped off his face. “When I think of those men. Threatening you. Hurting you. Sherry, I know you think you’re one of the boys, and I do my best to treat you like one, but damn it. You’re not. You’re vulnerable.”

Righteous anger rose in her chest. “You don’t think those guys could have carved up Peter just as easily? They were like Peyton Manning. Like fucking walls of muscle.”

“But they wouldn’t have. Because Peter knows how to be subtle. Sniff around without raising anyone’s suspicions.”

“And without finding out where the real dirt is hidden. You get someone mad, they say things they hadn’t planned to.”

“And they let out their trained dogs.” He looked at her, sadly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Or dead.”

“You think that’s what I want?” She put her hands on his arms again. “Look, Frank. Last night was horrible. But, you know, message received. Maybe not the way they had hoped. Now I know I’m on the right track. And now I know I have to proceed with caution. And I will.”

He looked at her, a skeptical grimace twisting his mouth.

“Come on, Francis. You know I can do this. Don’t shut me down now. They think they’ve got me running scared. And when the story’s out, what are they going to do? Kill me? It’s going to be too late.”

He sighed. Looked at the ceiling. Looked at her with one eye squinted, like he was staring down a cue at the eight ball. “Okay, kid,” he said at last. “But be careful.”

She restrained herself from giving a fist-pump. “You won’t be sorry, Francis.”

“I just hope
you
won’t be sorry.” He gave her a grim smile. “Now get the hell out of my office.”

All eyes were studiously avoiding her as she walked through the newsroom to her desk.
Let the rumors fly,
she thought.

Sitting down in her chair, she leaned over to smell the peonies, still lush and full in their glass vase. She inhaled their slightly spicy scent and thought of Alexi. The two of them were as fresh and new as these blooms and he was declaring his love for her. What did that mean? He was a dancer, next best thing to an actor, as far as she was concerned. All those people in the arts fell in love at the drop of a hat, didn’t they? Married and divorced within weeks. And yet…

She looked over at Peter’s empty desk. She could use his advice right now. Picking up her phone, she toyed with the idea of calling him, but found herself opening a text from Alexi instead.

Thinking about kissing your petals, my flower.

She smiled, running a finger over her lips.

He had ridden the subway with her, gotten off at her stop, and walked her to the office, despite her protests and the knowledge that he would be late for rehearsal. He had made her promise that she would go nowhere alone, not even to the bathroom. And he was sending a car for her after work. He had to perform, but he didn’t want her to make her way back to his place alone. She’d call and cancel, of course, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I’ve told the doorman not to let anyone up, even Sergei,” he said, “if I am not there. And I’ve called a few private security companies…”

“Forget it,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I thought you’d say that.” He pulled her closer, nuzzling her neck. The thought crossed her mind that it wasn’t wise to do this so close to the office, but thoughts didn’t stay long when she was inhaling his scent, feeling the warmth of his body and his lips on her neck. It was like she was a teenager again, reckless and love-drunk. She certainly had never been this indiscreet with Glenn.

“Mm. You have to go,” she said.

“Yes. Until tonight.” He kissed her deeply, lifting her off her feet as he held her closer. He set her back down gently and kissed her cheek, feather-light and turned to go.

She had stood outside the Starbucks, watching him walk away. Glide away, really. The way he moved was not like other men. Faster, more graceful. Otherworldly, almost. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she turned toward the door of the coffee shop and narrowly missed colliding with Kim.

The wicked smile on the arts columnist’s glossy lips was not good news for Sherry. “Getting the most out of your source, I see.” She held a tiny espresso cup in one hand, a brown paper bag dangling beneath.

“You didn’t see anything,” Sherry said.

“Uh, wrong. I saw you sucking face with that ballet hottie you did the piece on. Now I could be wrong, but I think balling your sources is not in the rule book. But I’m going to have to check with Frank, just to be sure.” Kim’s eyes widened in mock innocence.

Sherry scoffed. “You think he’ll believe you over me?”

Kim pouted, one manicured nail pressed against her lower lip. “You’re right. You are his little pet, aren’t you? I guess I’ll just have to do it journalist-style. Build up a nice body of evidence and let the facts speak for themselves.”

She could feel Kim’s eyes on her now, as she whispered with Ken in Lifestyles. So far Kim hadn’t ventured into Frank’s office. Maybe she never would, letting someone else do her dirty work for her. That was more her style. But it was just a matter of time before Frank knew about her and Alexi. She hoped it would be after the ABC piece was printed.

She spent some time on her laptop and phone, working out numbers and confirming them. Pretending to be an IRS agent, she called the ABC administrative offices, asking to speak to the accountant. The nervous-sounding young woman she spoke to explained that she was more of a glorified cashier and that their accounting had recently been outsourced to Hatton, Mifflin and Mulder.