by Jade Kerrion
He couldn’t.
Nicky gritted his teeth. “Sure.” He pushed himself up his elbows and allowed her to maneuver his T-shirt up his body and over his head before lowering himself back down on the bed. She smoothed oil over his back and glided her hands over his skin.
He squeezed his eyes shut and reminded himself to keep breathing.
It was going to be worse than hell.
It should have been all business. She was a massage therapist, and Nicky was one of her clients—one who had been badly injured and was a terrible patient, by all accounts, pushing the limits and setting back his progress in his haste to recover.
She was merely matching his therapy to his exercise.
It made sense, and it should have helped. He even said it did, but at that moment, his muscles were taut with tension and his breathing was jagged. Marisa frowned. “Nicky, are you all right?”
He grunted. His eyes were closed, squeezed tight, and his hands fisted into the sheets on either side of his pillow.
She smoothed the muscles on either side of his spine, drawing the palms of her hands down his back.
He shifted his hips—a tiny movement of discomfort.
Marisa stared at the curve of his buttocks beneath his cotton boxers. Oh, my goodness… Slowly, she lifted her hands from his back.
Nicky chuckled softly, the sound without humor. “Sorry. I was trying not to make a big deal of it.”
“No, I’m sorry. I should have been more…sensitive. Should I just go?”
“Probably a good idea.” Nicky’s voice was gruff. “Now’s not a good time.”
“Will there ever be a good time?”
He shrugged. The slight motion slammed a pained grimace on his face.
That did it. “You need help, Nicky. That’s why I’m here. Breathe deep. Think lofty thoughts.”
“That’s not helping.”
She giggled as she stroked his back again, focusing on the tightness near his neck and shoulders. Nicky, apparently, was taking her advice and focusing on keeping his breathing deep and even. Several minutes passed before his breathing settled into a steady state, but she knew he had not fallen asleep. She could tell from the subtle shifts in his muscles as they tightened against the gentle pressure she exerted on his back.
He was beautiful. He had grown into his body and filled it with lean, sculpted muscle, but it was not the perfection of his body that called to her.
It was his trusting vulnerability—his closed eyes and steady breathing, the relaxation and relief she glimpsed in his faint smile.
After he had left her and stayed away for eight long years, she had never imagined that she would have him back, even under such wretched circumstances.
She was grateful he was home.
The bittersweet ache that throbbed in her chest had to be gratefulness, because that was all it could ever be between friends.
Chapter 8
Over the following week, life at Marisa’s home settled into a rhythm that drew Nicky into its heart. Eva apparently thought that Nicky was her new best friend. Marisa would walk into Nicky’s room and find Eva leaning against his chest as he read from a book. Daisy also seemed happy to hang out wherever Nicky was hanging out.
On crutches, Nicky wasn’t able to help with any household chores, but his ability to keep Eva occupied and out of trouble freed up Marisa’s time. Meals got a little more elaborate; bedtime rituals a little easier. Even the early morning scramble to get out of the house smoothed into a simple kind of elegance instead of resembling the three stooges, arms and legs flailing, jammed in the doorway.
Physically, Nicky recovered, quickly and steadily. She could tell from the way his body tensed and relaxed against her touch as she massaged him throughout the day. His muscles quivered less. His breath caught less frequently. He eventually set aside the crutches; he had not yet regained his effortless grace, but it would return in time, together with his strength and flexibility.
Each day, his prognosis improved. The likelihood of him returning to his career at the American Ballet Theatre increased.
Soon, he would leave.
The thought set off a deep ache in her chest as Marisa stood in the kitchen and stared at the calendar. Christmas was a little over a week away, and her traditional Christmas dinner for family and friends would take place in two days. It would be the first one that Nicky would attend in over eight years.
She worried it would also be his last. He would soon leave Westchester the same way he had eight years earlier, focused on his dance career, never looking back. She glanced up as she heard the front door swing open; Nicky had returned from his walk with Daisy around the neighborhood. She pasted a smile on her face. “How was it?”
“Fine. Managed three loops in twenty minutes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s practically a jog.”
“A slow one,” Nicky said, but he looked thrilled.
“That’s wonderful.” She bit down on her lower lip. “I was looking at the calendar and realized that my dinner party is in two days. Do you have anyone you’d like to bring as a guest?”
“No. There’s no one.” His tone was easy. Apparently, he wasn’t pining over anyone.
“No one from New York?”
He shook his head, his expression untroubled. He set down his keys and cell phone on the kitchen counter before bending to unhook Daisy’s leash. “You need any help with dinner?”
“No. It’ll be ready in twenty minutes. You have enough time for a shower.”
He left the kitchen, leaving Marisa in confused silence. Surely Nicky had to be seeing someone in New York. Someone of his star caliber couldn’t possibly escape the clutches of spotlight-craving women. Her gaze fell on his cell phone. Before she had time to think through what she was doing, she picked up the phone and hit the first number on speed dial.
Within moments, a woman picked up. Her husky voice was made for radio and keeping teenaged boys company through the night. “Hello, Nicholas. It’s been a while. I’m sure Sheridan will be happy to know you called. What day and time should I set for your date with her?”
Marisa disconnected the call and dropped the cell phone on the counter as if burned. For a moment, she stared at Nicky’s phone before picking up her own and calling her friend, Loren Riordan, who worked as a security specialist for the ultra-wealthy. After an exchange of pleasantries, she said, “I need a favor. I need information on someone named Sheridan. I have a phone number for her.”
“Sure. Give it to me. I’ll take care of it.” He repeated the phone number Marisa gave him before saying. “Unless she’s the boss of a crime syndicate, this should be relatively straightforward. I should have something for you within a few hours.”
“All right. Thank you, Rio.”
“No problem. Everything all right with you there?”
“Yes…No…I don’t know.”
“All of the above?” Rio chuckled. “Is your confusion connected with Sheridan?”
“Only indirectly.” She hesitated for a moment before plunging ahead. “I think she knows Nicky.”
“Nicholas Dragov? Hasn’t he left town yet?”
“He hurt his back in an accident.”
“I know, but I thought he would leave the moment he got back on his feet.”
So did I, which means he’s days, if not hours, from leaving.
Rio continued. “He was never into the local scene, apart from you, of course.”
“What do you mean, me?”
“He was into you back in high school, wasn’t he? While you were dance partners?”
“We were just dance partners.”
Rio laughed. “You weren’t paying attention. Anyone with eyes could see he didn’t have eyes for anyone else.”
Marisa inhaled deeply. “I guess I never noticed.”
“Human perception’s funny that way. We screen out things we don’t believe can be real. I’ll let you know what I find out about Sheridan.”
The possibil
ities of who or what Sheridan was to Nicky plagued Marisa through dinner, so much so that Nicky asked, “Something wrong?”
She stiffened. “What?”
“You’re staring at me like I have something on my face.”
“I’m…” I stole your phone, and I’ve asked a private detective to track down the most important person to you. She tried to smooth out the guilty twitch between her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you worried about your upcoming party?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s been an annual thing for a few years now. It started with family, but has grown into include close friends. You’ll know many people at the party; we went to school with most of them.”
Nicky didn’t look thrilled.
Marisa chuckled, although the sound was without humor. “I think most of them are sorry they made your life hell in school.”
Nicky shrugged. “Dancing ballet isn’t usually a guy thing, and kids don’t always know how long their words and actions can last, or how far the impact can extend. I don’t think any of them thought beyond that particular moment in time.”
Marisa tilted her head to study him. “The impact lasted beyond that particular moment in time, didn’t it?”
“Maybe. Getting promoted to principal dancer helped take a lot of the sting away, although having you and Michael as friends through high school helped a great deal more.”
“Michael, too?”
“Yeah. If the star quarterback wasn’t afraid of being called gay because he was friends with the scrawny kid who liked to dance ballet, maybe the scrawny kid wasn’t all bad.”
“High school wasn’t that bad.”
Nicky grinned at her. “If I recall, ballet made you a superstar. You could do things that other girls couldn’t—like triple pirouettes.”
“But you went all the way to real stardom.”
He shrugged again. “It’s easier for men with a smidgen of talent to go further in ballet than women with a great deal of talent. It’s Darwin’s law of natural selection applied to fewer men and more women.”
“You’ve always had far more than a smidgen of talent.”
“It doesn’t make natural selection less true.”
Marisa smiled. “You’ve always been so down-to-earth about your gift for ballet.”
A faint frown flickered across Nicky’s face. “I’m reminded every minute that it can vanish in an instant.”
She reached across the table and grasped his hand, squeezing hard. “You’ve made so much progress in the past week. You’ll dance again; I’m sure of it.”
He drew a deep breath, and his shoulders slumped as he exhaled. “It’s all I’ve got.”
“That’s not true. You have your family. Your friends.”
Nicky kept his gaze on the table. “Right.” His tone was touched with grim irony.
The shrill ringing of Marisa’s phone made her jump. “I need to get that.” She excused herself from the dining table and went into the kitchen. She glanced at the number before accepting the call. “I wasn’t expecting to hear back so quickly.”
Rio chuckled. “I’m good at what I do.”
“What did you find out?”
“Her real name is Elyse Vogel. Sheridan’s her professional name. She works for Glitter Events; it’s an escort company.”
“A what?”
“They provide social escorts for the wealthy or the desperate. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“So, she’s a…” Marisa couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“She’s an escort, which technically doesn’t include sex, but it’s not too far off base to assume she’s a prostitute, too, judging from her extremely expensive lifestyle. She has several regular, wealthy clients.”
“Is he…?” She swallowed hard.
“Yes, Nicky’s one of her clients, but they’ve been discreet about their…transactions. There’s no evidence of them in any paparazzi photographs, although I’ve found several transfers from his bank account to hers.”
“You can do that?”
“Can’t everyone?” Rio’s tone was flippant. “I’ve more information on her background, if you’re interested.”
“No, I think I’ve got all the information I need. Wait…can you tell me where to find her?”
“Sure. I’ll e-mail her direct contact information to you.”
Marisa disconnected the call and sagged against the kitchen counter. Her chest heaved as she tried to draw a deep breath in a room that seemed to have had all the air sucked out of it. The most important person in Nicky’s life—the first person on his speed dial list—was a prostitute. She glanced out of the kitchen and into the dining room where Nicky was engaging Eva in a discussion of food groups that seemed to include “caffeine” and “chocolates” alongside “protein” and “carbohydrates.”
Eva giggled and cooed, apparently agreeing with every word, and thumped the tray on her high chair. “More!” she demanded, pointing at a carrot.
Marisa’s head throbbed. Her chest ached with every breath. Did she want her daughter around men who believed that women and sex were commodities that could be sold and purchased?
No.
Never.
Her jaw tense and shoulders stiff, she marched back out to the dining room. “Come on, Eva. It’s time to get ready for bed.”
She leaned over to unbuckle Eva from her high chair, but Nicky put out a hand to stop her. “Risa, what’s wrong?”
His verbal slip into the use of his childhood nickname for her snapped her control like a twig. “I found out about Sheridan.”
His eyes narrowed. “What did you do? Pick up my phone and go through my directory?”
She twitched.
His jaw dropped. “You did that? What the hell! It’s personal.”
Her chin lifted. “It’s personal until you’re involved in the life of my child, then it’s no longer personal. It’s something that I get to have an opinion about.”
“You don’t know anything about Sheridan.”
“Don’t I? She’s an escort, probably a prostitute, and you pay her.”
“So what?”
“You pay women for sex? When did that become okay? When did you stoop so low?”
Nicky’s green eyes flared. “Whatever’s between Sheridan and me is personal. It has nothing to do with you, and it has nothing to do with Eva.”
“How can you say that? It matters…it really matters if you’re paying hookers for sex.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to make love to you.” The words—not about Eva, but about her—tore from Marisa’s lips, the truth ripping out of her heart. Shock flared through her. Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she stared wordlessly at Nicky, before grabbing Eva off her high chair and fleeing from the dining room.
She heard him call her name but she slammed the bedroom door on him
Marisa dragged out Eva’s bath time and closed her heart to Eva’s repeated calls for “Nicky.” Embarrassment kept her hiding in Eva’s bedroom until her daughter finally fell asleep after three Dr. Seuss books and several dozen kisses.
She eased Eva out of her arms and tugged the blanket over her daughter.
Marisa exhaled shakily. She was out of excuses. She would have to face Nicky and apologize for her behavior and her scathing words. He was right. If he wanted to turn to a prostitute for sex, it was his business, not hers.
And if she couldn’t handle it, it was her problem, not his.
But what does it mean for us?
She did not have an answer for the small voice in her heart.
Marisa walked out to an utterly silent house. Daisy sprawled by the front door. Her gentle brown gaze lifted to Marisa’s, and her tail thumped once against the rug but quiet sadness emanated from the dog.
Marisa did not have to look around the house to know what she knew for a fact in her heart.
Nicky had walked away from her.
Again.
And this time, she deserved it.
Chapter 9
Marisa braced herself, like a soldier preparing for battle—shoulders straight, head up.
Like a perfect ballerina, in fact.
The sound of traffic and the smell of smog filled the air, unmuted and un-dampened by the trees that lined the Upper East Side avenue where Sheridan, aka Elyse Vogel, lived. Sheridan’s home was a small but pretty townhouse near a city park, and it probably cost several times more than Marisa’s home in Westchester.
Marisa rang the doorbell once, then twice.
What she did not expect was the fresh faced young woman who came to the door several moments later—a woman who, with her long blond hair and bright blue eyes—might have looked like her sister, if she had one.
The woman, too, seemed taken aback by the obvious similarity. “Yes?”
“Are you…Sheridan?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Are you looking for Sheridan?”
“Yes. I’m Marisa Chantilly.”
A dazzling smile spread across the woman’s face—one that appeared genuinely happy. “So, you’re Nicholas’s Marisa.”
“He told you…about me?”
“Only once, and not intentionally. Would you like to come in? I don’t think this conversation is suitable for city streets.” Sheridan stepped aside, and Marisa walked into a living room of sleek black European furniture splayed across a pristine white background. The only splash of color was the crimson red rug spread over the polished oak floor. “Have a seat, please,” Sheridan said. “Can I offer you anything to drink?” she asked as she stepped over to a well-stocked bar.
“No, thank you.”
Sheridan pulled a small carton of orange juice from the mini refrigerator and strolled across the carpet to take the seat across from Marisa. “I’d say you’re beautiful, but it would sound terribly self-serving. I must admit I’m surprised to see you.”
“You’ve probably heard that Nicholas was hurt in a motorcycle accident.”
“Yes, I did. How is he?”
“Well on the path to full recovery.”
“Excellent.” Sheridan’s tone was affectionate. “I’ve missed him.”
