And she began to dance.
He knew nothing about ballet, but what she did stole his breath. She seemed to float on air. Bending from side to side, feet flashing in tiny steps, she made her way along the length of the table. At the end she reversed direction, picked up her pace and leaped up in the air, legs kicking perfectly horizontal, one pointing forward, the other back. Small thuds of her slippers accompanied each movement—pirouettes, leaps, spins. Flying, defying gravity, on and on she danced, her body agile and graceful, and all the while she restricted her movements to the confines of the long boardroom table.
Finally, the music faded. She sank to the tabletop in a wilting pose. The ceiling lights came on, bathing the room in a bright glow. The dancer stirred, unfolded into to a sitting position over the edge of the table, her legs dangling down, kicking lazily in the air.
“So,” she said. “Not quite bare ass naked, but close. Will that do?”
Still in a daze, he stared at her. “I thought you were a stripper.”
He wasn’t trying to shock her, or insult her. The words just slipped out of his mouth. To his surprise, instead of acting offended, she gave him a mischievous grin. “Nope,” she told him. “I auditioned once, as a teenager, when I was desperately broke. Not enough on top, I was told.” She made a bouncing gesture with both hands in front of her chest.
Yesterday, when she’d burst uninvited into his condo, he hadn’t looked at her closely enough to form a proper idea of what she looked like. Not after those first few heady seconds, when his drink-addled brain had screamed at him you bloody fool, look what you turned down.
Now he took the opportunity to study her, from the top of her head, to the tips of her ballet slippers. She made him think of titanium. Slender, but with every indication of strength. Ballerinas were like that, he supposed. A contradiction. Fragile steel. Her face fitted the image, too. Delicate features. Hair so blond it was almost white, and a complexion so fine he could see the trace of blue veins beneath. Level brows, almost as pale as the hair. The eyes were a surprise. Deep, rich brown, with a sweep of dark lashes.
“Do you know anything about ballet?” she asked.
“No.”
“That was Ophelia.”
“I thought you were a dying mermaid.”
“Very good.”
He gave a little meaningless smirk. The anger he’d managed to keep at bay while he drove over from his condo on Manhattan began to stir again. He knew what she was up to. She’d lured him over in an attempt to make him change his mind. There was a promise, a temptation in her dance, and in the scanty costume that draped along the slender curves of her body, adding to the allure of her frail beauty. He knew exactly what she was offering him.
“No sale,” he told her quietly.
She shot him a glance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you do.”
A blush crept up her skin, rising all the way from her chest to her hairline. “Hear me out,” she said, and the soft brown eyes captured his. “I don’t know why Uncle Stephan—”
“Uncle Stephan?” he drawled, one brow inching up mockingly.
“You father insisted on it,” she explained. “Calling him Dad would have been absurd, and he thought that if I just called him Stephan, strangers might get the wrong idea of our relationship. Uncle Stephan was a compromise, indicating a family connection.”
Nick gave a silent nod. He really must be a scumbag, for he was enjoying her discomfort. Seeing her sitting there, on the edge of the table, dressed in her flimsy slip, getting ready to beg for his help, gave him a sense of power that stirred the darkest corners of his mind.
“I’m offering you a deal,” she told him, her manner earnest. “If you help me, and we pull it off, I’ll give you half of my shares. Thirty percent. Once the year is over, you can run the business. I won’t interfere, except for cashing my dividend checks.”
He considered it a moment. “Forty percent,” he said in the end.
“What?” She frowned at him. “That’s getting greedy.”
“If you have thirty, and your mother has twenty, and I have thirty, and my mother has twenty, you’ll have two families with fifty percent each. That will mean a tied vote every time we disagree. Someone has to have a clear majority.”
“All right.” She made a sour pout. “Forty percent it is, then.”
Nick tried to shut his mind to the temptation, but his thoughts were already turning over ideas for how to make the business thrive. Short term fixes, to start with. He could do it. But would his pride allow him to step in? Could he tolerate being manipulated by a dead man? His gaze drew back to her, the weapon in his father’s crazy scheme of destruction.
He knew it made no sense, but past hurts welled up inside him. He’d been cast aside when Wife Number Two trotted out her cute little boy. He’d been a moody teenager then, enmeshed in his own troubles. And now history was repeating itself. Miss Ballerina takes centre stage, and the biological son can go to hell.
A blind burst of anger seized him, and his bitterness found a handy target in her. He wanted to humiliate her. He knew that she remained ignorant of the marriage clause in the will. For a moment, he considered spelling it out to her, haughtily informing her that could own everything, provided he sank low enough to marry her, but something kept the words unsaid. Perhaps he feared that she might persuade him to change his mind and agree to a hasty marriage after all, and then his father would have won, even from the grave.
“I need more than that,” he told her.
She stared up at him, a notch between her pale brows. “Fifty percent?”
“No. Something that compensates me if we fail, and it’s zero percent all around.”
“What else can I offer you?”
Nick let his eyes drift over her in a bold, suggestive assessment. Hot color washed up to her face, for once making her worthy of her name. Crimson.
“No,” she breathed. “No-oh.”
Stepping closer, he trailed one fingertip along the top edge of her slip. “Yes. One time only. Here and now. That’s my price for my help. Take it or leave it.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“And you’re in line to inherit millions of dollars if I help you.” He lifted his other hand. Gathering the silver cascade of her hair in his fist, he tugged her head back. “What is it to be, Crimson,” he whispered into her ear. “Yes or no? Rich or poor? Throw me out or lie down on that table for me?”
He shifted his position, using his hips to nudge her thighs apart so he could settle between them. Bending his head, so that his mouth hovered just above hers, he added in a rough murmur, “No, not lie down. I want you with your legs spread impossibly wide, like you had in those jumps.”
She gave an audible gasp. He felt her body tense, but she didn’t lean away from him. Despite her obvious reluctance, she didn’t back down from the challenge. “That jump is called Grand Jeté,” she informed him, her voice unsteady.
He touched his lips to hers, a light brush that made his entire body thrum in anticipation. “What is it to be, Crimson?” he asked, his breath mingling with hers.
“Yes,” she replied through clenched teeth.
Triumph surged inside him. Triumph and heat. She hadn’t said it like a victim, in a defeated whisper. She’d snarled the single word out at him, like a cat hissing at a dog.
“Fine, Crimson.” He curled his hands around her waist and lifted her up. “You’ve been asking for it from the moment I stepped in through that door. And that’s as good a place as any. Against the door.” He carried her over, pressed her back to the smooth panel of wood, reached down with one hand to twist the lock in place, and caged her in by bracing his arms on either side of her.
“Kiss me, Crimson,” he ordered.
“Go to hell,” she replied.
“Fine. We’ll do it your way.” He bent to slide her wispy panties down to her knees. Then he raised one foot, placed his polished shoe over
the scrap of lace and forced the fabric the rest of the way down.
“Step out of the ruins of your underwear, Crimson.”
He couldn’t get enough of repeating her name. It summed up the disparity between them, the crown prince of old money and the chorus girl. She made his blood run hot by just standing there in silent defiance. He wanted to dominate her. He wanted to grind her pride to the dust, just like his pride had been trampled upon, and yet something about her silent defiance made him suspect that she would maintain her dignity, whatever he did or said to her.
“Let’s get on with it.” He slipped one hand between her thighs and coaxed up her knee. She didn’t fight, but raised both arms over her head, elegant, graceful, and then she lifted her impossibly long, slender leg to point straight toward the ceiling.
Nick muttered a curse, a rough, guttural sound. He was losing control. He hadn’t meant this, hadn’t expected to be consumed by a fiery burst of lust, or a sudden hunger to posses her, but now those emotions tore through him. Keeping his left hand curled over her upraised leg, he reached down with his right hand to undo his flies.
“Let me in,” he growled. “Now.”
She shifted her hips, found him, adjusted her position to allow him entry. He sank deep inside her. Glorious, tight heat. She was standing poised on tiptoe, in a ballerina pose, equalizing their height. He flexed his hips. Releasing his hold on her upraised leg, he cradled her face between both hands and kissed her. She kissed him back, greedy, openmouthed kisses.
Small, sharp teeth tugged at his lips. Fighting kisses. Crazy kisses. Her upraised leg came down to curl over his hip, trapping him in place. Urging him on. Not interrupting the kiss, he lowered his hands to her waist and hauled her close to him, one arm sliding around her, the other hand clasping her buttocks, and then he started moving in and out of her in a fierce, hammering rhythm. The door rattled against the frame and, as their frenzy escalated, the sound grew into a loud, frantic slamming.
Somewhere, on the other side, he heard footsteps, voices shouting.
Nick didn’t care. His whole world had narrowed to the delicate strength in his arms, to the pulsing, slick heat that surrounded him. Crimson tipped her head back, finally separating their mouths. She broke into harsh, sobbing breaths. Once more. Twice more. He thrust deep inside her. Tight around him, he felt her convulse in a violent climax that made her body arch against the door. He followed, pumping his release into her in powerful jets as hot waves of pleasure consumed him.
Finally, sanity returned.
“It’s all right,” he shouted. “Just moving the furniture.”
“Righty-ho.” He recognized Raymond’s gravelly voice. Someone, perhaps the pretty brunette secretary who had given him directions to the boardroom, must have called the security guard when the strange noises broke out and the door started rocking on its hinges.
“You need any help?” the old man asked.
Nick studied Crimson, who lay limp in his arms. “I don’t think so,” he called back. He wanted her to look up, look at him. In those few hectic minutes, she seemed to have stolen his very soul. And he wanted it back. Wanted to shake off the scary tenderness that was even at this very moment weaving its way around his heart.
He pulled a cotton handkerchief from his pocket. Untangling their bodies, he pushed away from her and bundled the fabric between her legs. “Cleaning crew,” he said, the crude remark intended to kill off any lingering sense of romance.
She was still breathing hard. Refusing to meet his gaze.
“Do you realize I could just walk out now?” he taunted her.
Her lashes lifted. A ray of steel entered the languid brown eyes. “Feel free,” she told him. “I’m not on the pill. No health issues, but if you don’t hang around to deliver what you’ve promised, you can spend the next six months watching my waistline, wondering…”
The prospect hit him like a punch in the gut.
Game, set and match to the dancer.
“Truce,” he said. “I’ll deliver my end. Let me know when your period starts.”
She finished tidying herself up and offered the handkerchief back to him. “I guess you’ll want to collect the incriminating evidence.”
“Of course.” He raked a glance over her, amused despite the tension of the situation. “Better take the dress too. Think of Monica Lewinsky.”
“In your dreams.” She pushed past him to collect a sports bag from the row of seats by the table and pulled out a pair of pink sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Nick clasped the soggy cloth in his hand and watched her yank the clothing on over her slip, her motions jerky, unsteady. She was pointedly ignoring him. He felt oddly bereft. As if he had somehow made a mess of things and he would be the one to suffer for it.
“Well, I guess, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he told her, hesitant.
“There’s a staff meeting at ten o’clock. Be there.” She picked up the bag, unlocked the boardroom door and strode out. “Don’t forget to leave a list of anything you take away from the premises,” she called back over her shoulder, and then vanished out of sight, slamming the door behind her.
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Chapter Four
He wasn’t coming.
Crimson stood beside Peter Tomlinson and tried not to be intimidated by the nearly one hundred and fifty pairs of eyes that followed her every movement. They were in the showroom, smaller of the two single story buildings behind the offices. A muted soar of conversation filled the air. She suspected most of it was gossip and speculation about her.
She attempted to calm her mind by taking a moment to admire the two rows of cars that lined the high ceilinged hall that made up the showroom. On the left stood vintage racing cars, all the way back to the founding of Constantine Motors almost a hundred years ago. On the right, six brand new Constantine Panthers waited to be collected by their purchasers. The employees milled freely among the vehicles, pride and admiration reflected on their faces.
“Ready to start?” Peter asked.
Crimson surveyed the glass-enclosed walkway that connected the showroom to the office block. “Can we wait just a few more minutes?” she asked, although she’d already abandoned hope. Of course, Nick Constantine wasn’t coming. He’d already gotten what he wanted, which was to humiliate her.
Shame stirred inside her as she recalled her behavior with him the previous afternoon. He’d been right. She had been selling him something. She’d fooled herself into believing it was just a bit of fun. Appealing to his sense of humor. His sense of the absurd. When, in reality, she’d been sucked in by her secret dreams. The Snow Queen and the Prince of Darkness. Deep in her mind, she had wanted to seduce him into helping her.
She’d seduced him, all right. Into her panties. And now, he would brush her off like a piece of lint from the lapel of his suit.
At the far end of the room, a door opened in the glass wall that let in the bright summer daylight. A lean, athletic man entered, his dark curls glinting in the sun. He was dressed in faded jeans and an ancient green sweatshirt with Constantine Racing printed in yellow letters across the front.
Her heart thudding, Crimson watched as Nick Constantine walked up to her, dodging his way between the clusters of employees. When he reached her, he bent to touch his lips to her cheek, a casual sign of intimacy, or at least of friendship. Soft, woodsy cologne drifted out to her. Relief hit her so hard her knees almost buckled.
“Relax,” Nick whispered, his arm supporting her. “You’ll be fine.”
“Thank you. I thought…” She let her words trail away.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Peter Tomlinson edged forward with an eager nod at them. “I think I know you,” he said to Nick. “You’re Nick Constantine. The only man alive who has driven the Constantine Spur.” He pointed at the vintage racing car that stood high up in the air, resting on a plate of reinforced glass suspended from the ceiling with four steel cables.
“I’m not sure taking the car a
round the parking lot at crawling speed on my tenth birthday counts as driving,” Nick replied and offered his hand. “Sorry to barge in unannounced. Raymond let me in through the back. I had promised Crimson to be here and I was running late.”
“Not a problem. Let’s get started.” Peter turned to address the crowd and raised both hands to demand silence. “Settle down, folks.” He waited for the conversation to fade away and continued, “I have great pleasure in introducing Crimson Mills, who has been appointed the new CEO of Constantine Motors. She is the stepdaughter of Stephan Constantine. The shares of Constantine Motors are placed in trust until the end of the year, when the probate is finalized. However, you should assume that Crimson will be one of the major shareholders.”
He motioned for her to step forward. Crimson studied the sea of curious faces. All day yesterday, she had planned what to say. Now all those smooth phrases jumbled in her mind. Was she dressed all wrong? Nick had worn a suit yesterday. Now he was in threadbare jeans. She’d gone out and bought a formal outfit, a Jones New York suit in pale pink. Bright colors drained her fair hair and skin, pastels lent her warmth. Was it a mistake to dress up?
She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t do this. Panic surged inside her, blocking off her air. Breathe. Breathe. Where had she put her inhaler? Damn. The big showroom was bound to be draughty and dusty, just like the theaters and opera houses that had caused her health problems to start with. Breathe. Breathe.
“Your need to turn on the mike.” Nick moved to stand in front of her, shielding her from the crowd, giving her a moment of privacy to recover. He made a production of fiddling with the small microphone clipped to her collar, and checking the lead that connected it to the transmitter hidden in her pocket. “You’ll do fine,” he whispered. “Just be yourself.”
Just be yourself.
No lies. No pretense. All her life, she’d worked hard to blend in. To gain approval, first from the townspeople who looked down on her family, and the teachers at Longwood Elementary and High, and then from dance teachers and choreographers and artistic directors who handed out jobs in ballet productions, and finally from critics who might cause those jobs to be taken away again.
Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease Page 4
