Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (29 page)

“And where are you from?” Alice asked.

“Southern California. Pasadena.”

“There are some excellent schools down your way, as well.”

The girl nodded. “I’m considering some of those too.”

“Oh, good.” In more ways than one.

Alice saw Niles looking over at her table. She glanced over her shoulder to find Gil and Andy looking their way, Gil with an amused smirk, Andy with his mysterious half-smile.

“Your men beckon,” Niles said.

“They do,” Alice agreed, affecting a cheerful weariness, the fatigue of the party girl.

Niles lifted his gaze to hers and her defenses faltered. She drank in every little detail of his face, the tiny scar on his cheek, his full lips, the way his thick eyelashes framed his grey eyes, eyes that could send her into a frenzy of desire. But there was apology, not seduction in them tonight. Maybe even—please, God, no—pity.

“I’ll call you,” Niles said.

Nobody pitied her and got away with it.

“Don’t make it too soon, though. I might be a little caught up in work for a spell. This is a big deal we’re closing in on. Big. Might require a little extra effort on my part.” As if to add a certain innuendo, she gave Christine an affected wink.

Niles looked over at Andy. Handsome, impeccably dressed, billionaire Andy. She could almost see the implication, the possibilities, register in his mind.

Good.

“All right. We’ll be in touch.”

“Yes.” She turned to Christine. “Have fun while you’re here. Enjoy the area.”
And leave my boyfriend alone.
Only maybe that wasn’t what he was anymore.

She returned to her table, where she could still feel Gil’s amused scrutiny, burning into her shoulders. To her relief, the waiters arrived with their main courses. She busied herself with her grilled salmon and fennel, accepting Andy’s offer to pour her more wine, a lush, velvety Chilean cabernet this time. After he poured he studied her more closely.

“Let me guess,” he murmured. “A conflict of interest over there.”

She shrugged. “So to speak.”

“With one but not the other.”

“I think you’re on to the situation.”

Andy looked over at them and back at Alice. A mischievous grin crossed his face. “Let’s show them. I’ll make her jealous.”

Her.

He thought Christine was the one she desired. He thought she was a lesbian because of the way she’d acted toward Lana the night of his party. The shock of it, the inadvertent humor made her emit a sharp bark of laughter, one she immediately tried to stifle with her hand over her mouth. Gil frowned in her direction. Andy looked delighted.

Alice couldn’t see Niles and Christine, but Andy could, and he began to orchestrate his moves based on their attention. He was enjoying himself. So was she. His attention, contrived as it was, made her feel more sexy and alluring than she’d felt in weeks. He angled himself toward Alice, his expression bright with interest; he laughed longer than necessary at her witticisms. His hand came up to touch her arm from time to time. When he got up to take a phone call in the reception area, he trailed a few fingers along the length of Alice’s arm before stepping away. It was both disconcerting and hilarious.

Gil and Charlie had noticed. Gil looked furious. Charlie looked confused.

Andy returned just as his associate was preparing to leave, apologizing for his early departure, one last function to attend. Andy agreed to stay and share a third bottle of wine, which put him in a more relaxed mood, more entertained by their company. Correction, Alice told herself. By her company, and their flirtation charade. There were no hints of homosexual interest tonight, that was certain. Lana needn’t have worried about Gil and Andy. At one point Andy half-rose, leaning in toward Alice, letting the warmth of his palm slide up her arm and continue on to the nape of her neck. He leaned in like he was going to kiss her, which threw her thoughts into a tailspin, but instead he only murmured into her ear.

“They’re leaving. And she’s trying very hard not to look over here at you.”

Niles was leaving, seeing all of this. It took everything in her power not to turn around and look, to catch one last glimpse of him. Niles, whom she missed right then with an acuteness so strong it was like swallowing a knife. One of those Swiss Army knives with multiple sharp edges and poking features. Niles, who hadn’t called, who appeared to have taken her friends-only pronouncement seriously.

Andy dropped his hand, sat back with a chuckle, and like that, the game was over. He was a better actor than she’d realized. So was Gil. She didn’t catch on to his fury until they met in the hallway outside the restrooms later, as she was leaving the ladies’ room. He was there, leaning against the wall, but sprang up when he saw her and grabbed her arm.

“Just what the hell were you doing out there?” he demanded.

“Um, I was eating dinner with my boss and his boss and clients.”

“I know that. Don’t play innocent.”

She shook her arm free from his grasp. “We were joking around.”

“You were flirting with him.”

“Gil, he thinks I’m gay
.
That’s what’s doubly funny about the situation. He wasn’t making the moves on me any more than I was on him. We were both just acting.”

“Well, it wasn’t funny. Or appropriate. This is business.”

She bit back the dozen angry retorts that arose. There were endless opportunities to bash Gil here, from his own behavior at Andy’s party, to Lana’s most recent story about him.

“I am returning to the table now,” she said, in the exaggerated fashion of a preschool teacher talking to a difficult child. “And you? Why, your face is all splotchy, Gil. Maybe you should go splash some water on it.”

He didn’t move. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re pissed off still about what I said that night at L’Orange. Even though I apologized right away. And a second time, the next day.”

“No, Gil. I accepted your apology. This is about Andy and I exchanging a harmless joke. Go back out there. Look at his face. He’s having fun. And you and Charlie were boring him.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“Oh, I forgot. I’m in clam-up mode. Sorry, boss. Will recommence clamming up.”

“Yes. I think that’s a good idea.”

Back at the table, over coffee, Andy told them that he’d rather save the rest of business talk for the office and his site visit the next day. The implications were clear: no signed letter of agreement that night.

Alice avoided looking at Gil afterward. She knew how disappointed he must be; he’d wanted to leave the restaurant with the grant a done deal. Gil acted jovial and breezy as the four of them left the table and made their way outside, but Alice could feel frustration radiating from him as they waited for the parking attendants to return with Gil’s and Charlie’s cars. Andy had called his driver to pick him up.

Charlie’s car arrived first and he left, bidding them all a good night. The other two cars pulled up to the curb a minute later. Gil extracted a few bills from his wallet to hand to the valet as Andy’s driver got out of the car and exchanged a few words with Andy. Gil glanced at Alice.

“What are you waiting for? Get in the car.”

“I’d like to say good night to Andy.”

“You’ve said enough, trust me.”

She didn’t budge. He looked at her and his eyes narrowed. “Do you want a ride or not? Or would you rather walk?”

“I think there’s a third option here. It’s called public transportation.”

“Fine. Get your own ride.”

“I will.” On impulse she called out to Andy. “Oh, Mr. Redgrave. Would you be a sweetheart and give me a ride home?”

A smile broke across Andy’s face. “Alice, it would be my pleasure.”

Gil clutched at Alice’s arm as she took a step in Andy’s direction. “You are not going with him.”

“Watch me.”

She tried to yank her arm free, but this time his grip was strong. “If you do anything to put this account in jeopardy,” he told her in a low voice, “I’ll fire you.”

He was serious.

Andy was looking over at them, a puzzled expression on his face. She struggled to draw a deep breath, remain calm. “Andy, tell me something,” she trilled. “Am I putting this account in jeopardy by going with you? Because my boss has informed me that I’m out of a job if that happens.”

Gil’s fingers, digging deeper into her biceps, transmitted his rage. There would be bruises there tomorrow. And she would get an earful.

Andy began to laugh. “Absolutely not. Gil, I wouldn’t have thought of you as being that harsh. Why would you want to risk losing such an invaluable associate? Or clearly you don’t want to lose her, judging from the way you’re hanging onto her arm.”

Gil released his grip with a “ha ha, aren’t women a hoot?” chuckle. “All right,” he said to Andy. “She’s your problem.”

“Oh, Gil,” Alice cooed, “I’m not a problem, I’m the
answer
to your problems. Haven’t you told me that?”

“You two,” Andy said. “You’re quite a team.” His driver had come around to open the back passenger door and now Andy was standing there, waiting to get in. “Alice?” he asked.

She needed no further invitation. She skittered over and slid in before Gil could say another word. She heard Andy saying good night to Gil and a moment later Andy was in there next to her. The closing door shut out the sounds, Gil’s toxicity. She was trembling, adrenaline still racing through her system. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry.

“Thank you,” she managed to Andy, afraid to say anything more for fear her voice would break.

“You’re welcome.”

To her relief he said no more. She turned her head and watched San Francisco flash past. On Union Street, they drove past bars, restaurants, happy, carefree people. Gradually her rage subsided and she became more aware of Andy beside her, the hint of his cologne, the sandalwood notes, his energy. He was like a cat, reposing yet ever watchful. He seemed to sense when her attention had returned to him.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he asked.

“Go ahead.”

“Are you and Gil lovers?”

At this she had to laugh. “No,” she said. She turned to look at him. He stared back, his pale blue eyes unblinking.

“Why does he act so territorial?”

“That’s a good question. I ask myself that often.”

“He’s a funny one sometimes, that Gil.”

“Hilarious. Sometimes I simply burst into laughter at work, just thinking of him.”

If Gil were around he’d give her a smack aside the head for her sarcasm, her flippancy toward such a power broker. But Andy only smiled. “Or maybe it’s you. You’re the funny one, Alice. You’re a real breath of fresh air.”

“Some would argue frigid air.”

“Sub-zero,” he agreed.

“Arctic. December Arctic air, in the middle of a storm, with a driving wind.”

She started to laugh, both appalled and thrilled by how the night had turned out. Andy began to laugh with her and suddenly it was like the night of his party, minus Gil. They were on a high, reveling in the humor, the unpredictability, the bizarre nature—to her, at least—of this moment. She felt wondrously free of all constraints, from Gil’s influence, from Niles’s, even. Niles, who’d gone home tonight with a beautiful woman, who’d be sleeping under the same roof as him for the next week. It was no surprise, therefore, that she found herself considering Andy’s offer for a nightcap at his San Francisco apartment before going home.

“Gil would kill me, you know,” she said. “He’d come at me and choke me with his bare hands.”

“Not if you hand him a signed letter of agreement.”

This made her fall silent. As if in reply, Andy twisted around and pulled the document out of a leather-bound folder. He leafed through the pages of the thick vellum paper. The only sound was the scritch of his pen as he scrawled out his signature on the bottom of the second and fourth pages.

“There you have it, Alice,” he said, collecting the papers and handing them to her. “That should make your boss think twice about strangling you.”

She took the letter and its duplicate and studied Andy.

“You, too, are a funny man.”

He shrugged. “Just restless.”

She tucked the documents into her purse, dazed by their significance, their power.

“So,” Andy said. “The nightcap?”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

Andy’s Russian Hill apartment was surprisingly austere, one of those ultra-chic residences that defined itself not so much by its furnishings but by its lack thereof. Cream walls, beige carpets, track lighting, invisible speakers, with a plasma screen television and plush suede sofa and armchair the only nod to hedonism. Glass cases showcased antique vases, soft light beamed from beneath their respective glass shelves so that the vases seemed to hover in air, buoyed by an unearthly force. Andy kept the lighting dim, which perpetuated the feeling that this night was nothing more than a surreal dream. She wandered over to the sofa and sank into its softness as he poured them both a Courvoisier.

He handed her the drink and headed over to the stereo system. “What would you like to hear?” he asked.

“Classical.”

“That’s a given. Era?”

“Late Romantic, maybe.”

“Chamber music or orchestral?”

“Concerto. Violin concerto.” She hesitated. “The Sibelius.”

He swung around to regard her. “Interesting choice. That’s one of my favorites.”

“I really don’t know it that well,” she confessed. “But it’s one of Montserrat’s signature concertos.”

She fell abruptly silent, remembering how Andy owned part share of the Vuillaume, and therefore, peripherally, Montserrat. She felt a strange sense of possession rise up at the thought. Did she, too, want to own part of Montserrat? Did that make her no better than Len Stevenson, in the end?

But she didn’t want to discuss Montserrat with Andy. It was her special friendship and she’d already lost some of it to Lana. She couldn’t bear to part with anything more.

Andy, to her relief, made no comment about Montserrat or the Vuillaume. “The Sibelius it is,” he said.

He slid in the CD, dimmed the lights further and joined her on the sofa. They sat there, side by side, and listened. She felt oddly privileged; she sensed he didn’t often invite people up to silently ponder the Sibelius in semi-darkness. It was not a gentle, Mozart-esque piece of music. It was not pretty so much as alluring, haunting. And all she could visualize was her beloved Montserrat, a girl Lana’s age, struggling through the most important performance of her life, having sold her soul, not to mention her body, the night before.