by Lynn Turner
“Thanks a lot, man.” Zack took Jamal’s hand. “I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it. Nice to see you stepped your game up since we were kids.” Jamal’s smile was bright white. “You don’t have to sneak girls backstage anymore. Boss man gets his own theater.”
“Not mine, technically.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll just be here at the ropes. Holler at me when you’re ready.”
“Will do. And Jamal…”
“I’ll let myself out.” Jamal grinned knowingly, and Zack headed toward the stage door.
At ten o’clock on the dot, his cell vibrated in his pocket. He didn’t bother checking the caller ID. “Hey, pretty girl. You ditch the security detail?”
“Oui, at the Metro—Au fait, don’t call her that,” Mina said. “I like Kyoko, and la police told me not to go anywhere alone in case some crazy person corners me in an alley and—Merde!” She jumped back as he opened the stage entrance door, then went on the attack. “You scared me!”
“Who were you expecting?” He laughed, absorbing her fists easily with his chest. “I’m teasing, petite. I like Kyoko, too. I like all you ingrates, but only one of you’s getting a Christmas card.”
She looked beautiful, if irritated, in a shirt dress with tiny flowers all over it. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m too tired for sex, and my legs feel like rubber, grâce à toi.”
“Happy to see you, too. Even when you threaten me with corporal punishment.”
She groaned but let him take her hand and lead her into the theater. It took some maneuvering to get around all the big crates and boxes, coils of rope and cable everywhere, ladders, lifts and tool chests.
“What a mess,” Mina muttered. “Are you sure it will be ready by opening night?”
He helped her over a large metal pole in their path. “Have a little faith. Say hi to Jamal.”
“Bonsoir,” she said, looking slightly uncomfortable.
Jamal smiled ear-to-ear. “Not to worry, m’lady. Me and Zack go way back.”
Zack scoffed. “‘M’lady? Really?”
Jamal shrugged, and Mina gave him a little smile. “Enchanté.”
Tipping his baseball cap, Jamal turned back to the ropes, and Zack steered her along again. They cleared the backstage area unharmed, walking to the center of the large stage and looking out into the auditorium.
She gasped, her eyes enormous. “Oh mon Dieu…”
“Indeed.”
Blowing an appreciative breath, he folded his arms over his chest and stared at the phase of Vera’s legacy most people would never get to see. The floor plan was oval, rather than the horseshoe or square layout of most theaters—which was easy to see since none of the seats had been installed yet. It was a vast, empty space, surrounded by lavish décor in royal blue, pale blue, and gold. The levels were staggered, with three rows of balconies trimmed in gold leaf, French-style boxes, and a colonnade stretching up to a magnificent blue vaulted ceiling encircled by crystal chandeliers.
“It looks like a palace,” she whispered.
“Yeah, it looks like money.”
Walking to stage left, she stroked her hand down one of the heavy, pale blue velvet curtains trimmed with golden tassels. “It’s so beautiful—and so different. Not red, like most theaters.”
“Something tells me that’s exactly why Vera chose it.” He took her hand again and walked them to the edge of the stage. “That’s not even the best part. What do the walls look like to you?”
Frowning, she turned her head in a slow survey of the space. “Marble?”
“Faux marble. It’s almost entirely made of painted wood—which means…” Taking a deep breath, he burst into song, doing “Master of the House” from Les Mis.
“Ahhh!” Cringing dramatically, she covered her ears. “You’re insane!”
“Maybe, but I can’t think of a better way to test the excellent acoustics in this place. You won’t have to worry about projecting in here, petite. If you mumble under your breath, some guy all the way up there in the back is gonna answer you.”
“Or back here,” Jamal yelled from backstage.
Mina’s hand flew to her mouth, and Zack snatched her up while she was still laughing, twirling her around the stage and serenading her with the rest of the song, deeply amused at how much he was embarrassing her.
“Allez!” she squealed, pounding his chest. “Arrêtes, you fool!”
They were center stage, exactly where he wanted her. Resting his arms low on her back, he smiled into her glowing face, then turned his head to yell, “Now!”
A few seconds later, there was a mechanical sound, and Mina tilted her head back, looking straight up into the hundred-story fly tower as a massive piece of scenery slowly descended to the stage. “Zack?”
“Wait for it.” He squeezed her hips.
There was another mechanical whir, the stage vibrated, and more scenery began to move onto the stage along tracks in the floor. Fifteen seconds more, and they were nearly surrounded by stunning mirror mosaics stretching twenty feet high. Only the side facing the auditorium was left open.
Zack grinned into Mina’s stunned face. “Lights.”
With a final whir, lights came on overhead, and a magnificent crystal chandelier came down slowly. The intricate geometric designs in the mosaics refracted light from every angle, making it look like millions of diamonds were shimmering all around them.
“Clear?” Jamal called out.
“All clear!” Zack didn’t take his eyes off Mina’s face. Patterns of light danced all over her skin.
“See you tomorrow,” said Jamal.
“Goodnight!” Zack returned.
Jamal’s footsteps faded, then there was the sound of the stage door being opened and closed, and they were alone.
“It’s…dazzling,” Mina murmured, “but what is it?”
“The mosaics are a mixture of colored glass and mirror.” Zack traced the pattern on one of her arms. “The idea came to me in a dream, that night after our fight in rehearsal.”
She snorted. “Which one?”
“Point taken—The one where you kept checking yourself in the mirrors.”
“Oui, and you yelled at me.”
“After which, your friend Sophie kindly handed me my ass, and I guess the guilt stuck with me in sleep.”
“So, you dreamed of…mirrors?”
“Well, like always, I dreamed of you. Dancing in a room covered from floor-to-ceiling in shattered mirrors. I screwed up that day in rehearsal, petite. I was annoyed that you were so distracted by your flaws, you couldn’t see how incredible you were—Are you gonna cry?”
“N-non.” She sniffed. “Go on.”
He kissed her then, because she was such a sap and he fucking loved it. It made him want to surprise her all the time. “I realized, by not letting you be who you are, I was stifling you, and I’m sorry for that. So, I added a scene—this scene. No dialogue. No lyrics. Just you, en pointe, showing the audience why you’re one of the best ballerinas in the world.”
She gasped. “All this…it’s for me?”
“It is.”
Turning around once, slowly, she seemed to take it all in with new eyes—eyes that were already filling with tears. He tracked her movement as she walked up close to the mosaics, reaching out to finger the broken glass. “They’re huge. It must have taken forever to make them.”
“Careful, petite.” Coming up beside her, he watched their distorted reflections. “There’s one more thing.
She looked at him expectantly.
“It won’t be choreographed.”
Her gasp was one of horror this time. “Zack! I can’t…”
“You can.” She opened her mouth to protest, and he took her small hands in his. “The singular reason any ballerina makes it as far as you have, is what she adds to the dance—not the other way around.”
“But…what will I do?”
He shrugged. “I don’t care if you get up here and dance the same ste
ps every time, because I know you’ll bring something new to those steps night after night. For Camille, it’s a moment of introspection before she makes a big decision. For Mina? Consider it…an outlet. For three and a half minutes, you get to do what no one else in this show is gonna get to do.”
“Whatever I want?”
One of her tears followed the pattern on her cheek, and he bent to lick it away. “Whatever you want.”
A hurricane formed behind her eyes, and then she was shoving at him—very aggressively, he might add—toward the wings. Laughing, he stumbled at first, then walked backward, since that was clearly what she wanted him to do. His back hit something firm, but not hard enough to be a wall. In fact, it gave a little and he registered that they were tucked between the folds of the heavy blue stage curtain. Then, he registered the sultry look on her face, and his body temperature kicked up by about twenty degrees.
“Petite?” His voice was gravelly. “What are you doing?”
Giving him a sexy smile, she took his face in her hands. “Thanking you.”
“I admire your enthusiasm, but—”
She cut him off, and damn.
Damn, damn, damn.
She was hungry. He could taste it on her lips, in the urgency of the deep, thorough sweeps of her tongue. He heard it in her shuddering sigh, felt it in the way she pressed into him, moving her body in a suggestive dance against his. Gripping her hips, he pressed her harder into his pelvis, and she moaned low in her throat before she pulled away, breathing deeply.
“Merci.” Her eyes were half closed and black with desire. “Merci,” she whispered again, kissing his neck… “Merci…”
She nipped his pecs over his T-shirt, a tiny pinch of pain that made him moan, his heart thudding faster, pounding a rhythm in his brain that muffled her husky voice—but dear God he felt it. He felt it when she pushed his shirt up, rubbing it over his chest, breathing mercis hotly into his skin…and when she caught his eyes with a starving look, then licked slow circles across his abdomen.
“Jesus…petite…”
Instinctively, he knew the path her lips made down his body, the intent of her nimble fingers at his belt, the promise in her eager little moans. And he wanted it. He wanted to want it… more than he’d wanted anything else in his entire life.
He wanted to be sated by her.
But when her breath heated the skin of his lower belly, and her fingers teased the edge of his briefs, he felt the desire get seized by something else. It got all twisted and distorted. Turned into something ugly. Shameful. It was slipping away from him—the control he so desperately needed. His blood seemed to run cold in his veins, reversing direction and tripping everything up. He moved like a compulsion, shoving her away.
She cried out, and the sound of her distress locked his body in shock. For a moment, he couldn’t think, couldn’t move. He could only stare at her as she rose gracefully from the floor.
“Mina—I…” His insides twisted at the confusion, and then the hurt, on her face. “Dammit, I’m sorry.”
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, straightening herself out, shifting awkwardly. She met his eyes directly, then froze. He saw it the moment she figured it out—when little tidbits of his life from their countless conversations, and the details of all their intimate moments, stitched themselves together like patchwork pieces of a filthy, moth-eaten quilt in her brain. “Zachary…”
The cold in his veins turned icy. “Don’t, petite.”
But it was too late. Fat tears already fell from her eyes. “What happened to you?
He took a hard, shuddering breath.
“No monster is too big,” she said softly.
God, everything seethed—his head, his chest, his heart and arteries and veins —creating relentless, unbearable pressure. He wanted to cut himself open for her, let them bleed. But he’d never let himself be that vulnerable with anyone but Carmen and his childhood therapists for years. Manny knew, but only because Carmen kept no secrets from him.
Besides, he’d been right to cordon off that part of his past, to avoid the pity he saw in Mina’s eyes that very second. He didn’t need pity. He didn’t need saving. He’d saved himself years ago, turned the universe inside out, rewritten his story, changed his fate. No longer a victim, he was a hero.
And heroes didn’t bleed.
“Gods don’t bleed,” Mina whispered, “but heroes do.”
Fuck. He hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud.
It was that invitation in her eyes, ever compelling.
Whenever they’d said, Come hither, he had.
Whenever they’d said, Believe me, he had.
Now, they said, Tell me, and he couldn’t help himself.
Dragging his fingers through his hair, he sighed. He could write a comic for her, make her a truth-inducing superhero. She’d wear special tinted glasses to shield her from being inundated with the secrets of every stranger who looked directly into her eyes.
“You could tell me,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “If you wanted, if you tried, you wouldn’t have to push me away. Hurt me. You could just…let me share yours.”
The armor around his heart caved in, crushing him at the crack in her voice. His heart trusted her, beating ferociously, sending Morse code pulses to every extremity that said, Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. But telling her would mean he wasn’t a hero anymore. It would strip away his cape. Make him ordinary. He couldn’t be ordinary. He couldn’t just be someone to her. He needed to be somebody.
He needed to be everything.
Wiping his hand over his features, he ignored the lump in his throat, ready to do what he always did when someone got too close. “How can you expect me to tell you something so personal when you’re keeping something just as big to yourself? I’ve been trying to get you to open up to me for weeks. You still shut down when I ask you about Étienne.”
“That’s different! He has nothing to do with us!”
“Doesn’t he? You keep him close to you like a secret. People who trust each other? They tell each other their secrets.”
“Dieu! I’m not the one hiding, Zachary.” She swiped her tears away. “You are. Behind your wit, and your…charisme.” Her chest heaved a few times, and then she seemed to gain control again, her expression softening. “You’ve been hurt…so badly. But you still find it in you to treat everyone with so much more compassion than you show yourself.”
His body jerked, his chest tightening at the precision of her arrow. “I guess you have me all figured out then, huh, petite?”
“Non,” she said with a calmness he couldn’t read. “That’s the point. I don’t.”
“I’m sorry I hurt your ego, okay?”
Shaking her head, she looked at him sadly. “It’s not my ego you’re hurting.”
Then it was quiet.
Demons from his past, ghosts from hers—monsters, all of them—filled the space between them in the silence. Feeding off it. Off everything they weren’t saying. Growing and growing until he couldn’t stand it any longer…or the compassion persisting in her eyes despite his attempt to hurt her. She’d seen right through it, and coward that he was, he fixed his belt and turned away from her with pain in his gut. Because he’d rather deal with an ulcer, than let her see him bleed out.
“Zack…”
“Come on, petite. I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Merde.
Four days felt like an eternity when she was being stabbed constantly. Every time Zack looked at her, it was with daggers. Or, he would play target practice with her pupils, like they were little hearts and he wanted to pierce them with arrows—which just made it worse that he still wouldn’t talk to her. Unless he was in character or directing (yelling).
“Christ, that was excruciating,” he yelled from the pitch-black void of the house.
Enfin, that was how it looked to Mina, anyway. With the lights on, onstage, she couldn’t see a thing. He obv
iously could, because she felt his cold green daggers between her ribs.
Stab, stab, stab.
She made sure to glare in his general direction.
“We’ve been off-book for two days, people,” he griped. “That harmony should be nice and clean—no straggling voices. Again.”
“Music,” the stage manager, Chuck, called out, and they went through the chorus again.
The other courtesans and gentlemen artfully dispersed, businessing about upstage like aloof city folk, leaving Mina and Kyoko downstage, closest to the audience.
“Your heart is bigger than your pocket book, Camille,” Kyoko said, in character as Camille’s best friend, Prudence. Her arm was hooked through Mina’s as they strolled down the imaginary streets of nineteenth century Paris. “And I love you for it, darling. But you’re in debt, to the tune of thousands.”
Camille plucked at the vivid red petals of her invisible bouquet of camellias. “You worry too much.”
“Someone should! The cost of making you look rich is making you poor.”
“Well, as long as I don’t look poor…”
Prudence stopped, appraising Camille brazenly. “You look beautiful, which is fleeting.” On cue, Camille went into a coughing fit, and Prudence looked very concerned. “Nothing fades beauty faster than sickness, and that cough’s gotten worse.”
“I’m fine.” Camille was all brightness and vitality. “Really, I just need fresh air. Paris is turning into a chimney.”
“And you are turning twenty-one, practically an old maid.”
“Cheat, Kyoko,” Zack directed from the abyss. “The audience should see your face when you say that line. Really ham it up here—and Mina, counter. I can’t see you.”
Oui, Mina was aware he couldn’t see her because she had been using Kyoko as a human shield. For a full, glorious minute, she hadn’t felt his piercing stare. Sighing, she adjusted her position.
Stab, stab, stab.
She tempered her expression to seem wistful. “I wish I could get married—for love, can you imagine?”
Prudence threw her head back in a sing-song laugh. “Marriage isn’t in the cards, chérie. Not for us.”
