by Holly Rayner
It wasn’t until they were almost at her room that he was able to put his finger on what was bothering him.
Nikolai.
He was there, lurking, even when he and Ophelia were alone together. The thought of the arrangement that Salim had made with him was ever-present, and poisoned everything.
Salim couldn’t lie to Ophelia. When he did, she shut him out, and he couldn’t take that coldness. So, even if he called off the bet with Nikolai, and managed to get his friend to agree never to tell, it wouldn’t be enough. Eventually, one day, Salim would have to tell her the truth of how they came to meet.
He flushed red with embarrassment, and he was glad that Ophelia couldn’t see his face from where she stood. How would he tell her? How would he confess that he had made a heinous bet with his friend as to who could get Ophelia into his bed the fastest? The moment she heard that, he’d lose her forever. And he hadn’t realized until this moment how horrible a loss that would be.
Even if he told the truth—that he’d only taken the bet as a means of protecting Ophelia from Nikolai’s advances—would she believe him? And even if she did believe him, how would he justify being friends with a man who could treat her so callously? How could he sum up nearly two decades of friendship, and how much they had both changed in that time?
How could he defend a man he knew was indefensible?
He didn’t have answers to these questions, and he realized now that he desperately needed to find them. But even before he knew how to deal with the question of the bet, he knew that if he so much as kissed Ophelia before she knew the truth, then that kiss would be tainted. Everything they did would be tainted.
He wanted the first time he kissed her to be pure. He wanted her to be able to look back on it and know, without a shadow of a doubt, what his thoughts and intentions towards her were. And that meant that, with a great heaviness, Salim knew they couldn’t kiss tonight.
When they drew up to the door, he knew what he had to do. Slowly, gently, he released his arm from around her shoulders, and took her hand in his.
She looked up at him, and he knew she wanted him to kiss her. That purity of expression of face and body told him that, loud and clear.
It was the hardest thing Salim had ever done to bring her hand up to his lips, and kiss it. He tried to kiss it with every ounce of the tenderness he would treat her lips with, if he were able, but he knew it wasn’t enough. He knew she wanted more, even as he did.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to you in London, after we spent time together there,” he spoke out into the disappointed quiet between them. “I know an apology isn’t much, and you’re owed an explanation. But there are some things I have to sort out before I can do that.”
She was confused, and disappointed. He hated to see her that way. And he hated, more than anything, that he was the one who had put that expression on her face. But he couldn’t stop, now.
“And…also, before I can see you again.”
This time, her face practically spoke to him without her needing to say a word. It told him of her disappointment. It told her how much he had hurt her.
“Soon,” he said, stepping back. “I just need some time.”
He turned and left before she could reply. At a word, he would stay. He couldn’t let her ask.
Chapter 20
Ophelia
When she woke, she wondered how in the world things had all felt so clear the night before, when today, they felt like such a jumbled mess.
She remembered dinner with Salim, their conversation, and when the mood had changed. She remembered the champagne and the piano, and snowballs, and his arms around her, saving her. She remembered the sweet, cold night air and his arm around her shoulder.
And then, she remembered him making no sense at all and leaving her hanging, standing by the door to her hotel room, confused, disappointed, and longing.
In a way, it was a good thing that Salim had sprung for the principal dancers to get their own hotel rooms. If it weren’t for that, she would have Katie here, peppering her with questions about why she was in such a foul mood.
But there was no Katie, and there wouldn’t be for the rest of the day. Today was the first and only day of the tour that Ophelia was going to be left entirely to her own devices, and would have no rehearsal or travel or performance to interrupt her constant, confused, messy thoughts.
How wonderful.
The shower was supposed to help. It usually did. But it didn’t. Now, she was just clean and confused, with wet hair. She felt hungover, even though she hadn’t actually had that much to drink, and she’d made sure to drink plenty of water before she slept. But still, she didn’t feel capable of much.
So, instead of drying her hair with the hotel’s underpowered hair dryer, she left it as it was. She didn’t even do her makeup. She dressed in whatever clothes came to hand.
Breakfast. That was what would make her feel better. A good strong cup of coffee and maybe some reasonable, rational explanation for Salim’s actions would come to her. It was worth a try. She didn’t have much else.
But when she got down to the dining room, she just found more disappointment.
“What do you mean, ‘do I have a reservation?’ It’s hotel breakfast? When does anyone need a reservation to have breakfast at their own hotel?”
Her tone was more indignant than she felt she had a right to be. It wasn’t the hostess’ fault, after all.
“Yes, ma’am, I understand. But breakfast here is very popular, with members of the public as well as hotel guests. If you look on your room service menu, it will tell you that reservations are necessary for breakfast, even for—”
“You can stop with all that; she’s with me.”
Surprised, Ophelia turned. For a split second, her desperate brain had turned the low, masculine voice with the slightest trace of an accent into Salim. But it was the wrong accent, and the wrong man.
“Nikolai?” she said, confused.
“You remember me. That’s a good sign. Though, I noticed I didn’t see you last night at drinks.”
Her stomach turned when she saw him, although she wasn’t sure if it was the general sickly malaise she found herself under this morning that caused it, or just the memory of the dizzying spiral of suspicion that she’d allowed herself to fall into during the performance yesterday.
“So, you came here to make me have breakfast with you? Isn’t that a bit much?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he laughed. “Me coming to breakfast at my own hotel is not stalking you.”
Even as she was voicing her dissent, Ophelia could feel Nikolai guiding her by the shoulder towards the dining room. She might have had questions, but he didn’t seem inclined to take them, nor let them stop him from having breakfast with her. She’d thought she was being assertive by calling him out on the move he was so clearly making, but it barely seemed to register.
When they got to the table, Ophelia found herself sitting down before she was even sure she wanted to. She saw now that she had vastly underestimated the seriousness with which this place took breakfast. Nowhere to be seen were the weary travelers in sweats and T-shirts, getting ready to continue their journey; here, it was all tailor-made suits and fur coats.
As she was looking around her, she heard Nikolai speak a few words of Russian into his phone, and then set it on the table.
“I’m sorry, I know it’s rude to take out my phone at breakfast. But you will see why in a moment.”
When she didn’t respond, he continued.
“Not what you were expecting, was it?”
Silently, Ophelia shook her head. And then, shook it harder, to try to get out of the spell she was under.
“I’m sorry, you’re staying at the same hotel that we are? That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
Nikolai smiled the kind of effortless smile that only a man who has practiced it his whole life can manage. His self-satisfied smile was every bit as routine of a move to him as
a pirouette was to Ophelia. She saw that, now.
He rubbed his chin with his fingers and leaned back in his chair.
“Coincidence? No, not at all.”
His tone made Ophelia nervous, and she remembered the last time they’d met, when Nikolai had seemed to like making her nervous. He was consistent; she had to give him that. More than she could say for Salim at the moment, she thought bitterly.
“You mean you’re staying here because you know that’s where we are? That seems a little presumptuous. I don’t know if you can actually file a police report for stalking a dance company.”
The words sounded unpolished coming out of her mouth. They made her feel as out of place here as she felt she must look.
Nikolai’s light laugh didn’t help.
“No, I don’t think it’s called stalking when it’s an artistic group. I believe that’s what’s generally known as being a fan.”
Again, Ophelia felt foolish and uncomfortable. Nikolai had to be loving this.
“But no,” he continued, “Don’t worry. Although I am a fan, I’m not stalking you. I only mean it’s not a coincidence, because I assume Salim picked the hotel. This happens to be my favorite hotel in Madrid, and one that I introduced him to.”
A simple, reasonable explanation. Just as with her conspiracy theories about the dealings between the two friends the night before, Ophelia was ashamed at herself for getting carried away. There was always a simple, reasonable explanation.
Ophelia relaxed somewhat, but not fully.
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
Nikolai shrugged as the food began to arrive. It wasn’t lost on Ophelia that she hadn’t actually ordered anything, but it appeared in front of her all the same.
“How could you?” Nikolai asked. “Salim has a habit of taking credit for finding beautiful things that I introduce him to.”
Ophelia tried to focus on the exquisite breakfast in front of her, hoping that this might excuse her not talking. It seemed to be some version of an eggs Benedict, assembled in a stylistic way from anything but the usual ingredients. The ingredients might not be what they were pretending to be, and she couldn’t quite identify exactly what they were, but they were delicious.
For a time, simply ignoring the man she was seated at the table with seemed to work. Until it didn’t.
“So, have you had time yet?”
When he spoke, Ophelia found she was much more startled by the sound than she should have been. Just being in the presence of the man put her ill at ease. That couldn’t be a good sign. She almost choked on a bit of perfectly poached egg.
“Have I had time for what?”
Nikolai grinned that same devilish grin. Practiced like a pirouette, and every bit as much a tool of his trade as hers was.
“I told you last time that I’d be back when you had a chance to change your mind. Of course, that was before Salim got involved and decided to upgrade your touring experience.”
The disapproval in his voice was clear.
“I thought he was your friend.”
Ophelia wasn’t sure what made her say it, or what made the words come out so sharply. She wasn’t anything, officially, to Salim. And she wasn’t sure what she was to him unofficially, either. He needed time, he’d said. He hadn’t kissed her. He’d just left her standing there. Say what you would about Nikolai, but the man sitting in front of her would almost certainly never do that.
Nikolai, like Salim, had a face that was practiced in not responding. But all the same, he seemed a little taken aback by Ophelia’ sharpness.
“We are friends, certainly. But I don’t blind myself to the shortcomings of my friends. And I know he’s having fun toying with your company and giving you all a taste of the high life. But you know as well as I do that it’s new territory for him.”
He wasn’t wrong, but Ophelia still didn’t like where this was going. A part of her wanted to defend Salim, even though she knew that everything Nikolai was saying was true. Something steely in Nikolai’s expression kept her from doing so.
“Now, I know there were some people who talked when I bought the company. My family has been out of the ballet business for generations. There were some who thought that I was just doing what Salim is doing—playing at owning a company. Treating it like a beautiful pet that I can take care of and have do tricks for me.”
As angry at him as she was, she felt her blood rising in Salim’s defense.
“That…that isn’t fair.”
Nikolai smiled again.
“No, it wasn’t fair. Because although my family got out of the business, the fact remains that it was the Ansaroffs, way back when, who founded the St. Petersburg Ballet. We created it. It’s in my blood.
“And the fact that it is one of the foremost dance companies in the world…the fact that we made it one of the foremost dance companies in the world… Well, I think that speaks for itself. Dance is in my blood. It’s my family history. And the company that my family built, and that I now own, is something that we both know that the Williamsburg Ballet Company will never be.”
Ophelia wanted to object. She wanted to tell him about how well they’d been received, and how seriously Salim was taking his new role. He was an intelligent man, and while Nikolai’s family may have once started a company, it’s not like that knowledge got passed down through the bloodline.
She wanted to tell Nikolai that he was being unfair, and that Salim had every bit as much right to try to develop a dance company as Nikolai had had to sweep in and acquire one.
But here, in the formal dining room, surrounded by a sharply-dressed assortment of Nikolai’s class of people, Ophelia had a hard time making her mouth say the words.
While she was trying, she was interrupted by a man in a neat, understated suit walking up to the table. He set a package down, and gave a little half-bow of the kind Ophelia had only ever seen in movies. Nikolai dismissed him with a nod, and he seemingly disappeared between the tables.
“What’s that?” Ophelia heard herself ask.
She hated that she sounded overeager, as it felt like it was giving Nikolai even more of an upper hand. But she was anxious to move on from the uncomfortable topic Nikolai had raised. And more than that, she was curious.
Nikolai’s fingers nimbly unwrapped the thick black paper to reveal a velvet box, about half the size of a piece of paper and a few inches thick.
“This is something I meant to give you last night, if you had joined us as I’d assumed you would,” he said while he flipped up the lid.
Ophelia had to stop herself from craning her neck to try to get a view of what was inside, as Nikolai clearly liked what he saw. After what seemed like a very long moment, Nikolai turned the box around so that Ophelia could see what lay within.
Diamonds. So many diamonds. But it wasn’t just the sheer number and size of them that got Ophelia’s attention. This wasn’t some recently created, characterless necklace. No, it was intricate. It had a history to it. You could tell that at first glance. And there was something about it that seemed familiar, somehow, though Ophelia couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“What is it?” she asked, hoping that he didn’t make fun of the awe in her voice.
“This,” he said, nudging the box toward her, “is the necklace that my great-great-grandfather gave to the first prima ballerina of the St. Petersburg Ballet.”
Ophelia’s eyes snapped up, unable to believe what she was hearing. That was why it looked so familiar. She’d seen pictures of this necklace. She’d seen them as a girl, when she’d read about the great dancers of history, and had begun to dream of being just like them.
“This belonged to—”
“Yes,” said Nikolai. “My great-great-grandfather found a ballerina worthy of the best stage he could give her. He bought her this necklace as a payment for her first performance. And then, he built an empire around her. I plan to do the same.”
Ophelia’s heart sank. She wanted the necklace. She couldn�
��t deny that. To own something that had once been the property of such a talented woman, and then to step into her shoes…
“So, this is mine if I join your company after the tour?”
Nikolai frowned for the first time in their conversation. With a startling noise, the jewelry case snapped shut.
“No,” he said curtly. “This is yours if you join me now. You have an understudy for a reason; she can perform the rest of the tour dates quite satisfactorily. The rehearsals for our next show begin in two weeks, and I can’t have my principal dancer not there for them.”
Again, as she had when she learned that Salim and Nikolai were friends, Ophelia had the sense that something was being hidden from her. Gifts to lure away a promising dancer were legendary and not outside the norm. There was, as Nikolai had pointed out, precedent.
But there was something not right here. Scheduling conflicts were one thing, but the way he insisted that she should skip out on the rest of the tour just didn’t seem right. It felt personal in a way that business transactions and conditions of employment never were.
Between last night and this morning, Ophelia felt as though she had been toyed with about as much as she would accept.
She was used to this world. She knew that it involved back dealings and secrets and lies; she’d been wading through the muck of it all for years, and she’d learned that there was a certain amount of scheming that she had to put up with.
But she’d reached her limit. No more.
Ophelia stood, noting that the sound her chair made as it slid back beneath her drew glances. She didn’t care.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she said briskly. “And for your kind offer, which, regretfully, I will not be able to accept. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some things I need to get done today.”
And with that, she turned and left. She didn’t know what expression was on Nikolai’s face, but she hoped he was shell-shocked. He deserved to be.
Chapter 21
