The Dark Duet (6 page)

Inamorata’s basement makes the Phantom of the Opera’s place look like a castle from a fairy tale in Oz. The path Nikolai’s driver leads me through takes us to an underground room in the basement of the theatre, a secret passage of some type that appears to be hundreds of years old, much the way everything else looks in Italy. I walk into the dark room at the end of the hallway, a large section of the building with four gray walls and tiny windows covered by black tarp or something on the far side of the room. The music playing on the sound system is, surprisingly, a sexy beat by a French group called Nouveau Vague and not a classical piece of music at all. However, it’s the way Nikolai dances to this music that has caught my attention.

He’s dressed in an outfit that consists of black pants and a cropped white shirt that’s open to expose his generous chest, giving me a glimpse of some type of tattoo.

Damn, he just had to have one of those.

He’s already dangerously sexy even without the ink. His long, blond hair flows loosely around his shoulders; he’s absolutely stunning in the way he moves, a professional in every sense of the word. I’m pretty sure the drooling will begin at any moment if I keep standing here with my mouth hanging open this way.

The song ends with one last well-timed leap and spin kind of move by Nikolai. I hold back the urge to clap, and my mouth has gone dry from holding it open for so long.

A thick silence suddenly blankets the room. Even though his back faces me, he asks, “Are you going to keep standing there in the shadows, or do you intend to join me?”

I take a step forward. “Wait. I thought this was a training session?”

Sighing deeply as though my question bores him, he walks to the back of the room and pushes a button built into the wall underneath the first window. He does all of this without even looking in my direction. “Negotiation training begins with conditioning both the mind and body together.”

“Okay.” Frowning, I wonder how someone who seems to be more of a philosopher than a killer intends to train me in fighting techniques.

“I hear doubt in your voice,” he says, turning the full power of those intriguing eyes my way as he stalks toward me. I stand my ground, even though the fire in his gaze makes me want to run and hide. This man gives off a sexual energy in a way I’ve never seen before, a dark and dangerous edge that stirs my body, jolting it back to life even before he reaches me.

“I only said one word,” I reply in a low voice.

“Yet another lesson you will obviously need. The power of reading into one’s language, no matter how little they might have said.” He’s standing only inches away from me; the heat flowing off his body in waves, and the faint scent of cologne drifting in the air around him. The hard Russian accent serves as the binding to a fine as hell package I can only imagine will distract me more than anything else.

“I was just wondering ... I—”

“Do not speak unless I give you permission to do so.”

Okay, so now he’s pissed me off. “I’m your student, not your mistress. I won’t be calling you master, either.”

A devious smile crosses his lips. “You can only hope for such a privilege.”

I raise my eyebrows. I had heard the Dostovskys’ arrogance factor was legendary, but this guy makes King Tut appear to be humble. “Yeah. I could say the same thing.”

“Assume the position,” he demands, unaffected by my pitiful attempt at a comeback.

“And that would be what exactly? ’Cause I kind of thought I was going to be learning how to smash heads, not ballet shoes.” I go airborne before I can get the next sarcastic thought out of my head. Nikolai has flipped me so quickly I didn’t even feel myself connect with the floor.

“First lesson in combat, talking lends time for your opponent to knock you on your ass,” Nikolai says, smiling. The jackass is gloating. I jump to my feet in a single fluid movement just as some kind of carnal instinct—a mix of anger, rage, and yes, even a little humiliation—rushes through me.

I lunge at Nikolai, missing him completely as he takes a single fluid step away from my fist. “Focus. Let the music be your guide. Allow it to fill your body with its magic and the right moves will follow.”

What the hell is he talking about?
I’m too angry to listen to what he’s saying. I lunge again, missing him. Instead, he catches me by the waist, snatches me up against his hard body, holding me there as he winds a hand through my hair, yanking my head back until I cry out. “You are not listening. I am training you on how to survive, to kill. I will not go easy on you, I will not be soft. You will face murderers, rapists, and every other fucked up headcase in this order. It is my job to prepare you, therefore you will do as I say without question. If you continue to be uncooperative, I will punish you as I see fit. For the next four weeks ... You. Belong. To. Me. Do you understand?” He yanks my hair again, bringing tears to my eyes this time.

“I understand you fucking asshole,” I say through gritted teeth. I don’t get it, though. Not at all. Rudolph Burkenstein, my therapist and mentor, sent me here to learn how best to serve him, to find a way to pay him back for protecting my grandparents. This man is supposed to be the one to turn me into a negotiator, an underground term for someone who makes offers to adversaries on the behalf of their employer while following out any order considered to be necessary to gain control over the situation at hand.

“Good. Now focus on the music.” He releases my hair and spins me around, taking my hands and forcing them into a position as though we’re about to waltz.

It’s dark and the close contact with him sets me on edge. A classical song playing to a hip hop beat fills the room. The beat is both classy and sexy, and so appropriately perfect for the man training me to an assassin’s version of the waltz.

Spinning around, Nikolai places a dagger in my hand; I didn’t even see him do it. The man makes a phantom look weak. He moves like one, talks like one. His golden hair swings and flows across his shoulders each time he spins. I find it hard to believe a man who’s so pretty could ever harm anything other than a flea, but I know better than to let my guard down.

Next, he starts teaching me the basics of evasive combat maneuvers. While his looks mesmerize me, I find myself thinking of many things each time our faces touch.

Suddenly, the music stops and I’m left standing face to face with Nikolai, our chests heaving and our breaths coming in exaggerated spurts. Our eyes lock, and that surge of familiarity I got the first time he and I exchanged glances earlier today rushes through my head again.

“You have a gift in your ability to learn quickly,” he says in a husky voice. His long hair shrouds his face, giving him an air of mystery. He’s truly a beautiful man, gifted with the best features of both the male and female genders ... androgynous is the right word, I think. He has the face of an angel, the body of god, and the stealth of a killer, that of which I’m willing to bet my only Versace dress on, he would use without hesitation or even a conscience when forced to do so.

His Russian accent sets me on edge. I’ve always had a thing for guys with accents, but this man’s voice vibrates through every nerve cell in my body. My whole core comes alive in a state of arousal so strong it’s almost painful, and now, he’s studying my expression, those perfect freaking lips of his turned up in a half smile as though he can read my thoughts.
The arrogant asshole.
Still, the look in his eyes sets me on fire.

“I want to learn more,” I manage to croak out.

“What an eager little dove.” He holds my gaze, amusement swimming in his gorgeous as hell gray-blue eyes.

“There’s not much time. Rudolph wants me out in the field soon,” I remind. His face darkens, and I can feel the tension coiling inside his muscles; his lips part as though he’s about to say something. Instead, he releases me, turns around, and walks back toward the stereo.

“That is all for tonight,” he states in a flat voice without looking at me. I’ve already noticed his accent deepens and he enunciates each word in the contractions he speaks when he gets pissed off.

What did I do this time?

Why does he seem so familiar to me?

His voice, even when he’s being an ass, just does something to me. I’ve never been the type to go all doe-eyed over a guy, especially one I’ve just met, and most definitely not for a man of many faces such as this one.

“We will meet again tomorrow night. Same time. See you at rehearsals in the morning.” He walks through a door in the left hand corner of the room, one I hadn’t noticed before, leaving me standing here, caught up in the magic of his wind.

I want to know more.

I need to understand the things I’m feeling inside. Inhaling deeply, I turn and walk out the door.

Chapter 8

~
Alese
~

I return to my apartment, get washed, and hop into bed, my mind still whirling from my dance slash warm-up training session. The man infuriates me. Intrigues me. Hell, I might as well admit the sexy bastard turns me on as well. It’s decided. I’m a nutcase. Anyone who gets aroused by someone who treats them in the same way a caveman would handle his woman has to be something other than sane. On that thought, I close my eyes and drift off into a dreamless state, the place between being fully awake and completely asleep.

I’m riding on the waves of some ocean I don’t recognize, my hair flowing in the wind, when my cell phone’s text message indicator tone whistles through the air, pulling me out of my dreamy state of mind and back to my tiny bedroom.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I grumble out loud. Without lifting my head, I reach over to the table beside the bed, slide my phone toward me, and glance at the screen. It’s from him ... Sir Belikov. Or maybe I should say Sir Elusive.

N: Do not forget practice at 10 p.m. tomorrow night.

Alese: Have you checked the time? It’s 1 a.m.

N: Indeed.

Alese: Do you even sleep?

N: When my nightly duties are complete.

Alese: Nightly duties?

I’m slightly irritated because he has awakened me, and nothing boils my blood more than someone who intrudes on my mood boosting rest. Besides, my scalp is still sore from his alpha male display earlier. Nevertheless, he has set something inside of me on fire, and I can’t get the way he made me feel earlier tonight out of my mind.

N: I will deter you no longer.

Me: Fine. See you in a little bit.

N: Goodnight, sleeping beauty.

Me: G’night, Sir Belikov (not master)

N: You wish, little dove.

Me: Ditto!!!!

Then the phone goes silent; no more texts light up my screen. I find myself literally cradling my cell phone, getting lost in the vision of golden hair falling loose around a set of broad, well-toned shoulders. Not to mention the memory of s tattoo ... a royal blue phoenix rising out of an ocean, creating tidal waves in its ascension as it does so, a design inked into the left side of a broad, firm chest—a kick ass tattoo unlike any other I’ve ever seen. Eventually, I drift into yet another one of my dreams.

This time I’m sitting inside a living room in a strange house with a man. He’s tall and wears a gray T-shirt that emphasizes his blue eyes, wavy black hair, and well-toned body. And God that smile of his. He’s laughing, and the warmth of his grin reaches all the way into my soul, the sincerity in his eyes warming and calming me.

Who is he? Why is he in my dream?

He stands and stalks toward me, this enigma without a voice. However, as soon as he starts walking toward me, the dream changes.

I’m nine years old again and standing inside of the funeral home, waiting at the door as they haul my parents away in caskets. Desperation slams into me as I realize what this moment means. I break free from my grandparents and run out of the funeral home, ignoring the voices calling out to me. Something, or maybe someone, I saw back there has set me on edge. I run down the street between either sides of the graveyard until my legs start burning.

I have to get away. I must escape. My throat’s closing up on me and the scenery around me has blurred into one big picture of nothing. Someone grabs me from behind, hurting me, but every single time I turn around, he or she is gone. I wake up screaming, my body drenched in sweat.

My mind shuts down, becomes a vegetable, and I remember nothing more about my life after that point until I wake up in Burkenstein’s hospital, a place that specializes in the treatment of nutty people like me, or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. However, I do know the answer to the missing parts of my life lies inside the darkness of my dream. If only I could see the person who grabbed me; I’m sure it’s the key to understanding what’s going on in my head. Until I do, I’ll always be a shadow of the person I once was, a ghost of myself.

I sit up and try to calm my heaving breaths. “Air. That’s all you need, Alese.” Stepping out of the bed, I trudge over to the window. The damn thing gets stuck before it finally decides to move.

A melody of night crickets chirping and frogs croaking on a cool, early spring night assaults my ears, drowning out echoes of screaming, while the air on my skin dries up the sweat at once. I take a couple of deep breaths, closing and then opening my eyes as I do so, and glance toward the trees at the far side of the parking lot across the street and inhale sharply.

I inhale sharply when I spot a figure standing amongst the cluster of shrubs in front of the trees. I can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman, but somebody’s definitely standing there. My heart flips, and it takes my brain a moment to catch up to what my eyes are seeing. At once, I rush out the door and make my way downstairs, my heart thudding the way it did the day I fled my parents’ funeral.

Of course by the time I get out to the spot where I saw the shadow in the bushes, I find nothing but rustling foliage.