Golden Dancer

by Tara Lain

  Shoot. Mac didn’t want him to leave. “I’m sorry Hirschfield isn’t here, but I’ll give this story top priority, I promise.”

  The golden head tilted down as Medveyev looked Mac over. Crap. Maybe his hoodie and jeans were a bit out of character for the New York Ballet Theatre. Probably should’ve shaved closer, but this was him. Tough shit. Still—

  “I assume this is not your regular, how do you say…beat, Mac…Kenzie?” His accent was mostly British, mostly posh, with a little rough Russian and Cockney creeping through.

  “Yeah. I’m a hard-news reporter usually.”

  “And Ms. Chan sent you here because…?” Again with the hand wave.

  “I grew up around ballet. My parents are dancers.”

  That got his attention. “MacAllister, did you say?”

  “Yes, my father is Devin MacAllister. My mom’s…”

  “Shauna Rendell.” He gave his first real smile. All those sculpted planes softened, and dimples appeared, making Mac realize that the dancer was very young, probably no more than twenty-four or -five. Amazing what he’d accomplished in his short life. “I know your parents, of course.” Somebody must have pushed the Go switch, because Medveyev crossed the space and took the chair opposite where Mac had been sitting. “Sit, sit.” The hands waved as if the dancer had been trying to get him to sit for hours.

  Mac sat. Crisis averted.

  “How are your parents? I haven’t seen them since my last trip to Dallas.”

  “They’re well. Hate Dallas, love teaching, so they stay.”

  “Ah yes, Texas, cowboys, and yee-haa. But still proud of their ballet. Your parents have elevated the company there. They are splendid professionals.”

  Mac smiled. His parents were going to freak when he told them about this conversation. “They’ll be honored with your compliment. They’re big fans.”

  Hand wave. Shy glance. “Ah. As you say. Now, what may I tell you about our little ballet, Mac…Kenzie?”

  Man, the guy was just beautiful. Hard not to notice. “Just Mac. I wondered how the audiences in New York received the restaging of such a time-honored classic.”

  Medveyev had been looking at his hands but glanced up. His eyes were actually turquoise blue, like the stones in a Native American necklace. “I’m sure you’ve seen some of the reviews.”

  Mac nodded.

  “The adventurous and avant-garde receive it with open arms. The purists?” He shrugged. “Shit their bloody pants.”

  Mac’s laugh exploded. “Crap. I will just bet.” He felt warm hearing the dancer’s musical laugh. “Man, I gotta tell you, you are one bad-ass dancer.”

  The head cocked. “And bad-ass is…good ass, yes?” He glanced over his shoulder, looking at his own round, hard-muscled buttocks on the chair.

  Okay, that was coy, but Mac was game. “Yeah, very good ass.” Turquoise eyes met his, and Mac quickly turned to his notes. “So I’ve got some questions…”

  For the next few minutes he was a good little boy and asked all the appropriate questions about the ballet. The challenge of the new choreography, how Medveyev trained for the famous flying exit through the window, what he was dancing next—all the usual stuff. But some of Debbie’s personal mojo kept pushing at him.

  “So, cavalier, do you have a wife or a girlfriend?”

  He got the unwavering stare. “I’m sure it cannot have escaped your notice that I am homosexual.”

  Man, the way he said that word was a sexual experience all by itself. “I wouldn’t assume.”

  The dancer sat back in his chair. “I appreciate that.”

  “So, do you have a partner?”

  “Not at the present time.” One pale eyebrow rose. “Do you plan to put that information in your review?”

  Mac paused. Why had he asked the question? “Actually, I was thinking maybe the Window could do a more personal story on you—I mean, if you’re open to such an idea.” Yeah, actually that would be cool. Woo would love to have the gorgeous superstar featured on the site. “I mean, I’ll still do the review. It’ll be posted tonight, but maybe the other story could come later. I could e-mail you some questions, talk on the phone, you know.” Jesus, that could be a good story.

  “Many people have written about me, but I do not relish coming off as a pop star, or a bloody porn star for that matter.”

  Mac warmed to his own subject. “No, see, I’m no dancer, but I know the craft, you know? I can write it from that perspective. Of course, I’d want to tell your personal story too, as a dancer. But not anything you don’t want to reveal. I’m no tabloid reporter.”

  The gaze never wavered, then Medveyev smiled. Dimples appeared again, startling in those sculpted cheeks. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you take me to dinner tonight and get as personal as you wish?”

  WTF, the man was flirting with him full-on! Did the guy think he was gay? He should just leave, but offending Medveyev would not only hurt the Window’s chances of future stories, his parents would never speak to him again. “Look, I—”

  “I am only teasing, Mac…Kenzie.”

  Mac shook his head. “Okay, well…”

  The dimpled grin was wicked. “I, of course, will pay for dinner.”

  Mac laughed, defeated. He had to face it; the guy was unbelievably talented and gorgeous. Mac should be flattered. No, actually he was flattered. He grinned back. “No, Woo Ming Chan will pay for dinner. Where shall I pick you up?”

  * * *

  “What do you have for me, Walter?” Horst Von Berg leaned back in the well-cushioned office chair and faced the rumpled informant standing in front of his desk.

  The man looked defensive. “Not much, Mr. Von Berg. Nothing definitive.”

  “I do not pay you for definitive, Walter. I pay you for rumors, tall tales, possibilities, and suppositions. Now, what do you have for me?”

  “Well, there is one thing…”

  He sat forward. “Yes, go on.”

  “I’ve heard a rumor that there’s some online news reporter in LA who is looking into Terrebone for a story. But I haven’t heard any confirmation.”

  “Looking into him how?”

  “Well, I hear he thinks Terrebone stole a statue—the one from you, y’know?”

  “Yes, I very much do know. And this reporter believes this to be true?”

  “That’s what I hear, but no confir—”

  “Yes, yes, no confirmation, I know.” The man was an idiot. “Send me the details by e-mail, Walter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He flicked his fingers, and the man left his office with a quiet click of the door.

  An ally in the news business? How remarkable.

  * * *

  Mac was stuffed. He leaned back in his chair. He should have worn his cargoes. These black pants were just too tight, although Debbie called them sexy. His host had donned a pair of jeans so form-fitting, it was a wonder food could enter his stomach at all. He’d topped it with a beautiful white silk shirt and a deep burgundy leather jacket. The amazing golden mane lay loose over his shoulders. When they’d walked in, Mac had heard people gasp as they passed their tables. Talk about your masterpiece. Somehow, he made Mac think of the statue, the Golden Dancer. The one he was sure Terrebone had stolen.

  Mac had to force himself not to stare at Trelain. So like Paavo. Actually, the Russian was more beautiful, and his impact was visceral. Still, Mac felt comfortable…in an off-balance kind of way. The guy was charming and easy to talk to. Mac had gotten some good information while they’d munched their sole almondine. “Man, that was good. More than I’d usually expect from a hotel restaurant.”

  Trelain sipped at his red wine. “I’ve had good luck here. The food is consistently excellent. They’re also very nice to me.” Trelain leaned down; the silken curtain of hair fell forward and caused him to flip it off his shoulder. He massaged his calf absentmindedly, clearly still thinking about the kindness of the staff.

  “Does it hurt?”

 
The clear eyes focused. “Excuse me?”

  Mac pointed to the calf. “Your leg. You were rubbing it.”

  The dancer sat back. “Oh, yes. Dancers always hurt somewhere. If not, you’re doing it wrong.”

  Mac laughed. “Why does that sound like a T-shirt slogan? ‘Dancers Do It Wrong.’”

  Medveyev gave him a sly, sideways glance. “I have seldom been accused of such.”

  Mac couldn’t resist. “I’ll bet.”

  This time Mac got a big smile, but the hand made its way back to the offending calf.

  “I think that calf is really bothering you.”

  Trelain sighed. “Actually, yes. I injured it in rehearsal two days ago. It felt fine this morning, but the rigors of the performance have irritated it. It’s nothing.”

  “Hey, have you ever used that great Chinese analgesic? It’s this blue liquid. I keep it with me all the time because I run, and I’m always straining something.”

  “No, I’ve never seen it. I have some medication they gave me in my room.”

  Mac grabbed his backpack from the back of the chair. After some digging around, he produced the little blue bottle. Small triumph, with all the stuff he kept in there. “Here, try this.”

  Trelain looked around the largely full dining room. While the two of them had been seated in a quiet booth in the back, clearly many of the diners were there to say they had been in the same room with the rock-star-popular dancer. Mac saw that anything the man did was going to be noticed. Some headline would show up tomorrow: DANCER NURSES INJURY IN RESTAURANT. Mac shrugged. “Probably not such a good idea, huh?”

  Medveyev nodded. “I think not. Perhaps I could ask the concierge to find me some. What is it called?”

  Mac stared at the bottle covered in Chinese characters. It was his last one, and he didn’t get to Chinatown all that often. “Look, why don’t you just take it?”

  Trelain seemed to sense his hesitation. “I couldn’t take your secret remedy, Mac-Kenzie. But why don’t you bring it up to my room? I can use the magic potion, and you can ask me any other questions you may have.”

  The dancer’s expression was as neutral as a mannequin. No flirtation or double-entendre. Mac wanted to snort. Yeah, right. He felt oddly torn between a desire to go upstairs with Medveyev and an equally strong urge to just run. What did he always do when something both intrigued him and scared him? Live grenades in Afghanistan, gorgeous blond men in skintight blue jeans? “Sure, lead the way.”

  Chapter Three

  “Please, make yourself comfortable. There’s a refrigerator in the kitchen.” Trelain waved idly toward the back of the living room where a bar separated a kitchen area from the sitting space. It was a rock-star-appropriate suite, for sure. Cushy couches in a soft blue-gray, huge window, now covered by closely drawn curtains for the night. Trelain walked into an adjoining room that Mac assumed was a bedroom, but he wasn’t going to check on that.

  Hmm. Get comfortable. Not in these pants. Yeah, and most likely the dancer would be perfectly happy to have him take the pants off, so he’d better keep his mouth shut. He stopped examining the furniture. How did he feel about that? Asked the shrink! He chuckled. It surprised him, but he didn’t seem to mind. Not like he didn’t know the guy was gay before he came up here. Besides, he liked Trelain. He liked him a lot.

  * * *

  Trelain peeled the tight denim off his legs, leaving him bare-assed, as the Yanks liked to say. He folded the jeans and draped them over the chair back. No throwing them. It had taken too long to find jeans to fit his legs and butt with only minimal tailoring. He glanced in the mirror, appraising the muscles that barely looked like flesh, they were so taut. Would the reporter think he was ugly? Deformed? Did he care? Yes. Simple. There was something about the man that he found hopelessly attractive. The tall lankiness, the face that managed to look innocent and weathered at the same time. For all his hard-boiled reporter’s airs, Mac seemed more optimistic and naive than he pretended.

  He opened the closet door and perused his robes. Plain black cotton? No, not for this moment. He pulled the turquoise silk from its hanger and stared at it a minute. So what did he want from the man? Mac presented himself as entirely straight, though he seemed comfortable with a little harmless flirting. Of course, that was because he wanted a story. Trelain sighed. Mac might be naive, but he wasn’t. Every kind of person had tried to use Trelain at one time or another. This man could be just one more.

  He slipped on the robe. But bloody hell, he liked the guy.

  * * *

  Mac wandered back into the kitchenette and opened the nearly full-size refrigerator. Wow. Whatever a man could want. He picked a bottle of water and went to peek out the curtains at the view of LA. Bright lights, big city from the penthouse suite.

  “Now I can take advantage of your potion.”

  Mac turned to find Trelain decked out in what he guessed would be called a dressing gown. It was a long robe, but more substantial than a bathrobe, and clearly made of silk. Far from an English country-house paisley, this was in some watercolor print of aqua and gold. He must be allergic to silk because, man, it was tough to breathe. In that get-up, the person in front of him could be a woman and a very beautiful one at that. The face was a really handsome guy, but the golden hair softened everything. Jeez, it played with his mind.

  “Mac?”

  Shit. He’d been staring. “Yeah. Here’s the stuff.” He pulled the little bottle from his jacket pocket where he’d stashed it in the restaurant.

  Trelain took it and walked toward the kitchen, putting the analgesic in his robe pocket. “Can’t I tempt you with something more interesting than water? Some champagne, perhaps?” He didn’t wait for an answer—just removed the foil on the bottle and opened the cage with the precise six turns. Mac felt pretty expert since the story he’d done on champagne last year. Trelain applied a thumb to the cork, and pop, it opened with the soft sound that indicated he knew what he was doing and hadn’t damaged the wine. He poured into the sides of two flutes and held one out to Mac. “Come sit.”

  Trelain installed himself on the couch, set down his glass, pulled the little bottle from his pocket, and opened it. He sniffed tentatively.

  Mac laughed. “It won’t bite, I promise. Just drip some into your palm and then apply it to the area that hurts. I better get a washcloth so you can wipe clean afterward.” He walked over to the kitchenette, found a clean towel, wet it, and went over to the chair opposite Trelain. The dancer dropped a little of the blue liquid with the strong cinnamon smell into his long, slender hand. He sniffed again, raised a leg onto the couch, and uncovered himself up to his thigh. Shee-it. He’d seen his parents’ feet and legs thousands of times, but this felt…intimate. Trelain’s feet were heavily callused, the toes pushed together as only a true dancer’s could be. And the leg? It looked more like something carved from marble than from flesh. Sculpted, hard as stone.

  Trelain began to run the scented liquid over the back of his calf and up onto his thigh. Jesus, he was playing patty-cake. “No, dig in. Really work it into the muscles.”

  Trelain dug in for a couple strokes but then pulled back his hands and shook them. Yeah, massaging marble couldn’t be easy. But crap, his leg hurt, and the magic blue stuff could help if he just did it right. Mac shook his head. “That’s not going to get the job done.”

  “Sorry. I’m spoiled. I have a masseuse that travels with the company.”

  In frustration, Mac rose and sat beside the man on the couch, handing him the damp towel. He grabbed the bottle from the table and dotted some of the warming liquid into his palm. “Here, let me.” He grabbed the dancer’s foot, pulled it into his lap, and began rubbing the carved muscle of Trelain’s leg with deep, penetrating strokes. “Like this.” One stroke, and he knew this was not his father. In fact, it was a hell of a mistake.

  The beautiful head hit the back of the couch. “Chyort! That feels incredible.” Trelain moaned. Mac tried to pretend he didn’t feel the satin tex
ture of that skin, like silk over steel.

  Mac cleared his throat. “You, uh, really have to dig in, this way.” Mac’s fingers pushed into hard muscle; the liquid warmed his fingers. Yeah, it wasn’t his fingers he was worried about. Crap. Why was he doing this?

  Trelain moaned luxuriously, his head moving back and forth against the back of the couch. And that wasn’t all that was moving. Holy shit. This wasn’t happening. The front of the silk robe rose like an expensive tent. Wasn’t the guy wearing any underwear under that thing? Why did he even think of that?

  He felt like a damned snake charmer. He couldn’t look away or stop doing the thing making that serpent rise. He just kept rubbing. Trelain’s eyes stayed closed. Most guys would make a joke. The dancer said nothing.

  Mac had to stop. His cheeks burned, but his eyes wouldn’t look away from the tented silk. Pictures of mutual jerk-off sessions with his college roommate flashed in his head. He needed to make the joke. Hey, buddy, you got a flashlight in there? Shall I go grab the bellboy?

  He couldn’t do it. His mouth didn’t open. The silk of that rock-hard thigh was smoother than the robe, and it sucked him in. He just kept rubbing and staring. It looked like slow motion when the silk fell away from the tentpole. Holy shit—long, straight, and uncut. He’d hardly ever seen one of those. But when did he ever see cocks?

  Trelain lay motionless. Not even the sound of breath. Mac looked up from the mesmerizing cock, and the turquoise eyes were wide open. Trelain wasn’t looking at Mac’s face. He was staring down at Mac’s crotch. Yeah, that would be the crotch where his boner the size of the Queen Mary was about to burst out of his tight pants. He wanted to crawl under the couch and hide. Images flashed in his mind. He remembered how good it felt to have his college roommate’s hard hand on his cock. A hand that knew just what it was doing. Not too soft and fumbly, like a lot of women. Hard and sure.

  Trelain must have read his thoughts. The dancer sat up, gave the towel to Mac, and reached out a hand. The turquoise eyes stared straight up into Mac’s now as if daring him to stop. Stop? Yeah, he should make him stop. But he just didn’t. What was he? Hypnotized? He watched as the slender fingers unzipped those too-tight pants and reached inside to extract his big, thick, bulky dick. Did it look fat and ugly to him? He glanced up in time to see the dancer lick his lips. And then Trelain began to stroke.