Dance With Me (3 page)

“Well, Sherry,” he said, his accent making her name sound enticingly exotic, “right now, I am the only one going through this bottle. So I will tell
you
what. I will answer your questions. But for every question I answer, you drink. And not this little drink.” He pursed his lips, mimicking her delicate sip. “Like this.” He tilted his head and knocked back the shot, draining his glass.

“Done.” She met his challenging smile with one of her own.

“But not only this.” He leaned in closer still, his gaze playing over her face. Eyes. Lips. His voice was low, teasing. “For every question I answer, a kiss.”

“A kiss?” She laughed. He had to be joking. His smile dropped, and his eyes searched hers. He wasn’t.

“Yes,” he said. “Like this.” He closed the gap between them in an instant. His lips brushed hers just for a second, feather-light, leaving an electric trail. He leaned back slowly and looked at her with that measuring stare again.

Sherry brought her fingertips to her mouth. Her heart was pounding so hard she could almost hear it. Blood and heat rushed to her cheeks. She knew she should say no. This game of his was beyond unprofessional. But Sherry wanted this story. What was more, she wanted another kiss.

She pushed her glass toward him, willing her lips not to tremble as she gave him her best cool girl smile. “Fill ‘er up.”

Chapter Four

When Sherry woke up, she was enveloped in blinding light. She knew she must have left the lights on before falling into bed last night, because her dingy one-bedroom apartment was normally shrouded in perpetual gloom, not the searing light shining through the thin skin of her still-closed eyelids. She reached for a pillow and put it over her head to block it out.
Ugh.
Her head. Both temples pulsed with the dull, insistent throb that could only mean she had drunk way too much. She pressed down on the cool, soothing fabric of the pillowcase, stroking the cotton so smooth it felt like silk, like a five-star hotel pillowcase. Her hands froze mid-stroke.

Her pillowcases were worn soft and supple, like a favorite t-shirt. It was not her pillow. And if it was not her pillow, it stood to reason that she was not in her bed.

It came back to her in painful flashes. The bottle of Grey Goose. The surly bartender who was, all of a sudden, her best friend. Alexi. Kisses like feathers becoming harder, wetter, deeper.

Tossing the pillow away from her, Sherry sat bolt upright. Fast. Too fast. Her head screamed in protest. She winced but didn’t give in to it, forcing her eyes open. The light was coming from three man-tall windows in an exposed brick wall. Other than the bed, mercifully empty, there wasn’t much else in the wide oak-floored room. An enormous mirror leaned against a wall. A jungle-wild philodendron sprawled in the corner hovering over the stacks of books around it.

“Oh, God. What have I done?” Sherry said, to her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy slits, and her hair was a black tangle. At least she was still wearing her shirt and panties, though her jeans lay in an untidy puddle on the floor, next to her boots and jacket. Her messenger bag, and with it, her phone, were AWOL.

Better to focus on what she hadn’t done. She hadn’t had sex with the subject of her story. That was good. What were a few kisses, after all? In some cultures kisses were just a greeting. A memory flashed through her mind of Alexi’s lips pressing into hers, parting them, as he breathed into her. A shiver traveled down her spine to her core. Okay, maybe not kisses like those, but still.

Escape first, deal with the consequences later, she thought, throwing off the duvet. It was down with a thick white cotton cover, same as the pillowcase, she noticed. Probably cost more than her rent. She had just slid her legs over the side of the bed when the swinging wooden door in the wall opened, and there he was. Alexi. He was wearing low-slung black cotton trousers, his torso tattoos on full display. His hair was a haystack, too, but somehow it just looked better on him. He held a steaming mug out towards her and gave her a smile different from any he had given her yet. Knowing.

Damn,
she thought. So much for escape. She took the mug with a crooked smile of her own.

“Well, thank God. I was afraid I went home with the bartender.”

He laughed. “Well. You two were getting along much better by the end of the evening.” He took a sip.

Sherry followed suit. “God,” she said, grimacing. “That’s not coffee.” She examined the liquid in her mug with suspicion.

“Tea.” He sat down beside her, so close that their legs were touching. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton of his trousers. “It’s what we drink in the Ukraine. Not with milk like this.” He lifted his mug. “This, I learned in London.” She could feel his eyes on her. “You don’t like it.”

Taking another sip, Sherry tried not to wince. “No. It’s not bad. I was just expecting coffee.”

He shook his head. “Maybe I have not been in America long enough for this taste. For me, it is like burnt petrol. But if you want, there is a Starbucks. I can call someone to bring it.”

Sherry put her mug on the floor and picked up her jeans. “No, that’s okay. I’ll pick one up on my way in to the office.” She slipped her legs into her jeans and stood up to button them, avoiding Alexi’s gaze. “I’m sure you have rehearsal or something, and I’ve got to get this piece in before deadline. I mean, that’s assuming I can put a story together out of what I got. If I can find my phone. Have you seen my bag anywhere?” She stuffed her feet into her boots, not bothering with socks. She was babbling, she knew.

“Wait.” He put his mug down and stood in front of her, tilting her face up with one hand. “Yes, I must rehearse, and yes, you must write. But there is no need to run away like a scared little girl from the wolf.” He bent over to kiss her.

Sherry wanted that kiss more than she wanted her venti skim latte, and with her throbbing head, that was a lot. But she put her hand on his bare chest, stopping him.

He looked at her, confusion dawning in his eyes, followed quickly by hurt. He stepped back. “Oh. I see. You have your story now.” His voice was cold.

“It’s not like that,” she said. Was this just a case of bruised ego, or was he genuinely hurt? She flashed back to what the bartender said about the type of girls Alexi normally brought to the bar. Party girls, he said.

“So what is it like?” He turned away from her, looking out the window.

She reached out a hand to put it on his shoulder, the one with the tattoo of Tolstoy’s face on it, but thought better of it. “Look, Alexi. I’ve already crossed more ethical boundaries than I’m comfortable with.”

“To get your story.” His voice was flat, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hey, it’s my job to get the story. I came ready to interview you like I interview all my subjects. The vodka, the kisses, that was your game.”

He turned suddenly, his green gaze pinning her. She couldn’t look away. “You didn’t want to play?”

“No. I mean, yes. I did…” she started.

He moved closer to her, his hand cupping her jaw. “I know you did. I think you still want to,” he whispered, his breath warm on her cheek. His lips touched hers, softly at first, questioning. When she parted her lips in response, he opened them wider, reaching for her tongue with his. Liquid. Melting. From her mouth all the way down to her softest, most private parts.

He pulled back slightly. “Do you want to play, Sherry?”

She was having a hard time regulating her breath. He was so close. She put her hands on his chest, but not to hold him back. She ran her hands over his chest, nipples hard under her palm, then down over the ridges of his abs. She hooked her fingers into his waistband, pulling him toward her in response to his question. She wanted to play any game he had in mind as long as it involved what was under his pants, ethics be damned.

“Yes,” she said, looking up at him.

Seeing the naked lust in her eyes, he smiled and slid his hands into her hair, holding the back of her head as he pressed his lips to hers again. Their tongues tangled, hot and moist. Spears of sensation pierced Sherry, overcoming all thought.

She slid one hand over the thin cotton of his trousers, feeling the hard rod of his desire beneath. She wanted to touch it, to taste it and take it into her. It had been too long since she had felt a man inside her. A hundred and seven days too long. She needed this. Now.

She fumbled with the button at his waist, lips still locked on his, but his hands slid down her arms to stop her, gently.

“Not like this. Not now. Later.” His gaze was soft, but there was amusement in his voice.

He had to be shitting her. Getting her hot and bothered and then shutting it down?

“Now what game are we playing, Alexi?” Sherry said, angrily. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her, his arms bands of steel against her back.

“I want you, Sherry,” he said. “That is no game. You can feel how much I want you.” He pressed himself against her. Yes, she could feel all six or seven inches of his want. “But not like this. Why do you think I didn’t take you last night when you were begging me to?”

“I don’t beg,” she said, straining against his arms, but half-heartedly.

“Oh, but you did.” He pulled her closer, his lips against her ear. “Please, Alexi,” he moaned, his voice sending shivers down her spine.

“I did not.” Her voice held so little conviction, even she didn’t believe it.

He loosened his grip so he could look at her. “You don’t believe me? Fine. Listen to your phone. You recorded it. It’s in your bag. In the hall.”

Breaking out of his grasp, she cast him a dirty look over her shoulder as she headed for the swinging door. The bastard was grinning away at her.

She walked through his miniscule kitchen, barely registering it, and into the short hall that led to the door. There her bag was, spilling its contents onto the wooden floor, among them, her phone. She crouched down and swiped her thumb over it, opening the recording app.

She heard the ambient sounds of a busy bar, music and laughter and clinking glasses. They were the sounds of a nighttime bar, not the sounds of a bar at noon or even late afternoon, which of course made sense, as the light streaming in the windows was morning light. They had been there all day. But above all the noise, she could hear her voice, shrill and slurring all at once.

“Oh, Alexi. Don’t you want me? Alexi, please—”

She tapped it off, not wanting to hear what came next. Alexi was leaning against the doorframe, quiet amusement on his face. Sherry’s cheeks burned. This was worse than getting caught by her mother with a pack of Marlboros in her backpack when she was eleven. She had lied about that, saying they were Tina Chan’s. But there was no lying about this.

Good lord, what had become of her? A few months without sex, a little bit of vodka—okay, make that a lot of vodka—and here she was literally begging for it. And not with just anyone, but with the subject of the story she was supposed to filing, oh any hour now.

“Shit!” She looked at the time on her phone. Ten o’clock. The piece was due by four, but she still had to weed through the recording and write it. “I need to go.” She started flinging things into her bag—her phone, a crushed power bar, stray subway tokens. Alexi bent down to help, his face close to hers.

“This pink color is so beautiful.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, well. It’s not my favorite,” she muttered. Standing up, she hefted her bag over her shoulder. “Look, I…” She didn’t want to look at him, but his eyes drew her like a magnet.

“I want to see you again,” he said. The amusement was gone from his eyes. He brushed her hair off her shoulder. “I want to continue our game. Maybe with new rules. Maybe no vodka.” A smile flitted across his face.

Sherry looked away. “Well, I…”

“After you finish the story, I am not your subject. There is no problem. No ethics to worry about,” he said.

She nodded. “You’re right, but…” She looked at him. Those incredible eyes. Piercing and soft and endlessly deep all at the same time. He could probably ask her to strip naked in Times Square and she would do it if he was looking at her like that.

“But?” He cupped her chin, tilted her head up.

“I’m … it’s … I’m complicated,” she stuttered.

“I know.” He kissed her lightly, like their first kiss.

Chapter Five

Sherry had always been good at compartmentalizing. Growing up, she never had any trouble being both the girl who smoked Marlboros behind the gym at recess and the girl who sat with her ankles crossed in church on Sunday, reviewing the periodic table in her head while the minister droned on. But writing about Alexi as an objective outsider was a challenge even for her. She questioned each word she typed, wondering if it in any way betrayed the way she felt about her subject. Or worse, betrayed him.

“Tick tock, Sherlock.”

Sherry looked up from her laptop to see Kim hovering on her crutches over her, collagen-injected lips curved in an unfriendly smile. The arts reporter was sporting a cast that seemed to be wrapped in burgundy patent leather to match her painted-on pencil skirt.

“Oxblood is the color of the season,” she said, in response to Sherry’s arched brows.

“Of course it is.” Sherry turned back to her keyboard. Having worked with Kim for a year, she knew that the best way to deal with her was to ignore her.

“Frank asked me to check on the ballet hottie piece. Deadline’s in fifteen.” She peered over Sherry’s shoulder. Sherry moved to block her screen.

“I’m on it,” she said.

Kim shrugged. “If you’re having a hard time, you can just give me the recording and I’ll whip something up.”

“And take my byline? So generous of you.” There was no way that was happening. And she’d break her own leg before handing over the recording of her drunken conversation with Alexi to anyone, let alone Kim. “Don’t you have to polish your nails or something?” Sherry asked.

“Suit yourself.” She tucked her crutches under her arms and started to hobble away. “Ooh. Fourteen minutes now, Sherlock.”

Sherry gritted her teeth at the mocking nickname. “If only she’d broken her jaw,” she said to Peter at the next desk.

Her friend pulled his earphones down around his neck, leaving his few remaining wisps of sandy hair sticking straight up. “What’s that?”

She reached over and smoothed his hair down, smiling. “Nothing. I’ve just been Kimminated.”

He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his beaky nose. “What? Did she gas you with Chanel No. 5? Stab you with her pointy fingernails?”

“Nah. Just managed to question both my femininity and competence with a few well-chosen words.” She knew she shouldn’t let Kim get to her, but she was just like the mean girls she had gone to Sacred Heart with—slick glossy surface concealing an arsenal of poison darts they aimed at anyone who didn’t fit into their Upper Park worlds.

“Neither of which is remotely questionable.” He reached over and pinched her cheek. Peter had taken her under his wing when she first started at
The Sun
as an intern. They were almost equals on the pay-scale now, but he still treated her like her father did—respectful of her intelligence, confident in her ability, but always willing to give her a self-esteem boost when she needed it.

“How’s your piece going?” she asked, turning back to her own. Thirteen minutes now. She just needed to give it another read-through.

He unfolded himself from his desk, stretching for the ceiling. “Ready to file. And I’m ready for a dog with the works from Papaya King. You in?”

“In a sec. Hey, would you read this? Tell me what you think?”

Peter leaned over her, reading. “Alexi Davydenko is not afraid of hard work. American Ballet Company’s newest principal dancer started training at six, putting in punishing sixteen-hour days at Kiev’s preeminent dance academy while his American peers were still taking naps at kindergarten.”

“Skip to the last paragraph,” she urged. The temptation to bite her nails was overwhelming. She tucked her hands under her thighs.

“Talented as Davydenko is, can one man save New York’s oldest ballet company? Season tickets for ABC’s winter program have already sold out, but even insiders are wondering if Davydenko’s gravity-defying jetés are going to be enough to hold up the ABC. Not according to one dancer, who wishes to remain anonymous. ‘The lease on the building is up in February. The corps are wearing costumes that have been altered so many times, every show we wonder if there’s going to be a nip slip. And they bring in a new dancer, pay him triple what the other established dancers get?’

“Davydenko may have Manhattan’s balletomanes hearts all aflutter, but the question is, will that be enough to make them open their checkbooks? If not, this season’s
Swan Lake
may be the company’s swan song.”

“Well?” She scanned Peter’s face for signs of disapproval, or worse, amusement.

“It’s your usual quality work. I think you’ve taken a slightly different angle than Kim would have, but no one can question the content.”

“Good.” Sherry hit send and stood up, grabbing her jacket. “Let’s get those dogs.”

They took the back stairs to avoid the lobby and the crowds of Flatbush Avenue, but it was four o’clock in Brooklyn. People were heading home or going out, and even Ashland was shoulder to shoulder. The crowds thinned at the southwest corner of the park where their go-to hotdog cart was. They ordered their dogs—the works for him; everything but onions, extra hot peppers for her—and leaned against a planter to eat them.

“You forgot to add one of your trademark headlines,” Peter said. “Frank’s going to wonder.”

“Yeah, well, I was pushing the deadline and really needed this.” She held up the hotdog, half-eaten already. “No time for anything but coffee today.”

Peter looked at her, squinted an eye. “And you haven’t asked me to read one of your pieces since your first year at the paper.”

She looked away, as if she was suddenly fascinated by the cluster of pigeons vying for perching space on the ledge of the building across the street. “Man, even the birds are property hungry in Manhattan,” she said. Peter was like her dad in this way, too. He always knew when she was hiding something. And he would just look at her, waiting, until she spilled it.

“Things got a little messy during the interview.” She kept her eyes on the pigeons. The biggest one was inching his way over, forcing the others to crowd in or flutter away. “There was some vodka. I might have gone home with my subject.”

Beside her, Peter let out a long puff of air. “That’s pretty messy.”

“I mean, it wasn’t … we didn’t … but it was close. I woke up in his bed with most of my clothes on. I just wanted to you to make sure I had maintained my professional objectivity, even if I didn’t exactly do the interview in the standard way.” She glanced over at him. His face was serious.

“Maybe I should give that a shot. Get semi-naked with my subjects to get them to cough up their most intimate thoughts. What do you think?” he asked, deadpan. “Although, Maggie might not be one hundred percent on board.”

Sherry laughed. “Well, it’s not going to be my new standard operating procedure, but I did get more out of him than I would have if I had taken the traditional route. How is Maggie, by the way?”

“Good. A million projects on the go. Run off her feet by the kids. Business as usual. She wants to have you over for dinner sometime soon. She’s worried about you.” He looked at her over the top of his glasses, and Sherry knew that he was, too. She had told him about Glenn, of course, and the break-up. He knew she wasn’t handling it well. Her behavior with Alexi only proved that.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll bring the wine.”

“We’ll hide the vodka.” He furrowed his eyebrows, meaningfully.

She popped the last bite of hotdog into her mouth. “I never want to hear that word again. I have more caffeine and Tylenol in my system than should be legally allowed and I still feel like I’ve been run over by a bus.”

“I don’t know. I think it will be pretty hard dating a Russian without hearing the word vodka.” He grabbed her hotdog wrapper and dropped them both into a trashcan as they were passing it.

“Ukrainian. And who said anything about dating?”

He glanced at her and smiled. “Sherry. How long have we known each other? Five, six years? If that isn’t the glow of love in your cheeks, I don’t know what is.”

“Maybe it’s Maybelline,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Never mind. Listen, I don’t know what you see in my cheeks, but it isn’t love. After Glenn, I’m so over love. Besides, I’m not his type. He likes party girls, and you and I both know that ain’t me.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets, imagining the kind of girl Alexi usual went for. She pictured colt-legged giggly girls with glossy hair and lips.

“I’m not sure about that. If downing a bottle of vodka and going home with someone you just met isn’t the definition of a party girl, I don’t know what is.” His face was serious, but his eyes were laughing.

“Enough already.” She elbowed his arm, gently. They were back at the dingy grey building that housed the paper. She swung open the door and held it for him, but he didn’t go through. He leaned against it, the laughter draining from his eyes.

“Enough, you’re right. Sleeping with your subject, though not unheard of in reporting history, is a rather serious breach of protocol. If the wrong people found out…” He let the thought die.

“I know,” she said. She walked through the door, and headed for the stairs. Kim’s face popped into her mind. She would make Sherry’s life hell, and that would be just the appetizer.

As if she had conjured it up, Kim’s face was waiting for her when she got back to her desk, hovering over an enormous bouquet of bright pink flowers.

“Peonies in October,” she said with a jealous smile. “Impressive. Got a new girlfriend?”

Sherry ignored her and opened the envelope tucked into the lacy folds of the arrangement. Inside was a note and four tickets to that evening’s performance of
Romeo and Juliet
, in which, she knew, Alexi was playing the lead.

Seeing the tickets, Kim’s eyes widened. “These are from the ballet hottie?”

Sherry couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face.

She had seen Kim get swag before, and keep it, despite the official
Sun
policy on accepting gifts. Free samples, complimentary tickets. Kim saw them as a perk of being an arts columnist. But an enormous armful of delicate off-season blooms had never been included.

“It must have been one hell of an interview, if he has to send this to apologize for it.” Kim sniffed.

“Oh, it was one hell of an interview, all right.” She let her Cheshire cat grin do the talking. “Very revealing. But these have nothing to do with that. They’re from a friend.”

Kim narrowed her eyes. She didn’t know what Sherry meant, but she clearly didn’t like it. At a loss for words, Kim hobbled off on her crutches. Sherry dropped to her chair, trying to ignore the disapproving look Peter was giving her, and opened the note.

“Oh, stop,” she said. “I have never so much as accepted a cup of coffee from a source. You and I both know that this has nothing to do with the article.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

She turned her back to Peter, reading silently. “Sherry, I love to make your cheeks flame, like these flowers. Come to the performance. After, we can continue our game. This time, I will ask the questions. Alexi”

A thrill ran down her spine, making her squirm in her chair. Images flashed through her mind. Alexi’s mouth, open on hers, hot and wet. His hard body pressed against hers. Feeling the rigid length of him beneath his trousers.

If she went to the performance tonight, if she saw him in his element, she would be powerless to resist. She would have to have him. She couldn’t go. Unless…

She fingered the tickets absentmindedly, and she swiped open her phone and clicked on her address book. She dialed the number, but it went straight to voicemail.

“Hey, Mom,” she said, “If you and Dad aren’t busy tonight I got comps to Romeo and Juliet. Oh, and bring Randall.”

If there was one thing guaranteed to douse the fire of lust in both her and her potential lover, it was her family.