Anew: Book One: Awakened (20 page)

Our hosts, a couple I remember
meeting the previous evening at the opera, greet us in the entrance hall.
Beyond them a hundred or so people are gathered for a private performance by a
world-renown cellist. Servers circulate with hors d’oeuvres and champagne. I
sip a little of the wine but forego any food until I can figure out how to
juggle both while shaking hands and smiling non-stop.

Edward and Adele introduce me to
yet more people. Those I didn’t meet at the opera have nonetheless heard about
my arrival in town, no doubt thanks to the private link on which Society
exchanges news and gossip. I’m wondering what I might learn from it about Ian
when a frisson of awareness interrupts my thoughts. I look up.

He is standing not twenty feet away, watching me.

Amelia

“I
an,”
Adele says with a smile. “What a surprise.” She leans toward him and drops her
voice a notch. “I thought you detested such events yet here you are for the
second evening in a row.”

“Could it be that I’ve suddenly
acquired an interest in culture?” he asks, grinning down at her.

“Of course it
could
be,
dear boy,” my grandmother replies. “I just don’t think it actually is.”

Observing them, I realize that
of course Adele knows Ian. Indeed, in all likelihood she knows him well.
Moreover, she regards him with affection.

Questions tumble through my
mind. Why is he here? Why does he have a look in his eye that I recognize all
too well--dark and smoky but also hard and a little frightening? What on earth
am I supposed to say to him?

After my bold declaration that
we were done, I’d expected at least a little time to shore up my defenses
before having to face him again. Yet first I find myself supporting him against
Davos, then he sends me lewd flowers, and now he shows up where I had no
expectation he would be.

“Amelia,” he says, the husky
timber of his voice threatening to melt me. Before I can even think of stopping
him, he takes my hand, turns it, and holding my eyes with his, presses a
velvety warm kiss into my palm.

The flute of champagne I am
holding only just makes it to safety on a nearby table.

“Ian,” I murmur because
apparently I’m incapable of saying anything else.

He smiles and without a flicker
of hesitation, says, “Will you excuse us, Adele? Amelia and I have a few things
to discuss.”

My grandmother--who until now I
have believed truly has my best interest at heart--waves a hand. “Of course,
dear boy. Take all the time you need.”

Traitor! I cast a frantic look
around for Edward only to discover that he’s on the other side of the room deep
in conversation with Ian’s sister, Marianne. Edward is always so imperturbable
that it’s difficult to imagine what he’s thinking but just then he looks
unusually intent. I can’t help wondering
o
what
Marianne could have said or done to prompt such a reaction.

Any such curiosity will have to
wait. I have other, far more immediate concerns.

Ian is still holding my hand,
having tucked it into the crook of his arm in a seemingly gentlemanly gesture
that might fool others but doesn’t deceive me for a moment. He is leading me
away from the soirée toward a small room off to one side. The damn man must
have a mental map of every trysting spot in Manhattan.

My traitorous body stirs in
anticipation. But this time I am fiercely determined not to give into it. I dig
my heels into the plush carpet and hiss, “Let me go. I’m not interested in
discussing anything with you.”

He stops but doesn’t release me.
To the contrary, his hand tightens on mine. He looks strangely pleased as
though my refusal, far from angering him, is what he wants.

I’m thoroughly confused, more
than half convinced that I will never understand this mercurial man.

Softly, he says, “Whatever you
say, sweetheart. We can have this out right here.”

As much as I don’t relish the
thought of a scene, I have to know. “Have what out? There’s nothing for us to
discuss.” With rash impulsiveness bordering on madness, I add, “Unless you’d
like to apologize for what you said? Explain why you are such an ass? I’m
willing to listen to that.”

His jaw clenches. The hardness
in his eyes is even more pronounced but so is the dark seductiveness.

“You’re seeing Sergei Zharkov.”

That’s what he wants to talk
about? How could he possibly even know? Adele couldn’t have told him, she was
with me from the time we arrived. Edward must have but why? And why would Ian
care?

“I am taking classes with Sergei
but I don’t see what--”

“I don’t want you to.”

My mouth drops open but I recover
quickly. There is only one possible response and I don’t hesitate to give it.

“You don’t have any say in what
I do.”

I wait, silently daring him to
claim otherwise. If he starts in again about owning me, I swear I won’t be
responsible for what happens next.

Ian’s eyes narrow. He casts me
an assessing look, as though trying to judge how serious I am. His mouth
tightens. “You know Zharkov likes women? A lot.”

Sergei likes women a lot or he
likes a lot of women? I’m confused but I don’t really care. It has nothing to
do with me. The Russian certainly is a very attractive man, superbly fit and
with a wild edge to his nature that I find undeniably appealing. If I have a
‘type’, I think I’ve figured out what it is. But Ian, heaven help me, is the
original. Everything else is a pale reflection.

“I don’t see why that matters,”
I say. “He’s an incredibly talented ballet master. Taking class from him is a
privilege.”

Ian’s jaw is clenched. I stare
at it in unwilling fascination. His thoughts and emotions are usually so
contained but not now. I don’t need any special insight to understand that he’s
fighting the urge to tell me again not to see Sergei. But I do feel dangerously
curious about how he imagines that he could enforce such an order.

At length, he says, “Why are you
doing this?”

“Doing what?" I ask.
"Living my own life? Making my own choices?”

“Driving me crazy,” he says.

My eyes widen. Where is this
intensity coming from? Can my spending time with another man possibly disturb
him this much? If he really is so possessive, why did he let me go in the first
place?

Mindful that we are standing in
a crowded drawing room, I say softly, “Ian, I want to dance. I need to. But to
do it safely, I have to be in proper condition. I’m not going to make the same
mistake I did in the studio.”

That over exertion landed me in
his arms. Memories of what followed dart through my mind--the massage room, the
shower, the tent afterward--

I
really
do not want to
go there especially not when the light in his amber eyes makes it clear that
he’s more than willing to come with me.

My explanation or perhaps the
memory it evokes seems to improve his mood. He smiles and without warning asks,
“Did you get the flowers?”

I glance around nervously. No
one is close enough to overhear us but I catch several cutting looks from young
women who don’t like the fact that I’m monopolizing the most attractive man in
the room.

“You shouldn’t have sent them.
If Edward or Adele had been there when they arrived, I would have been horribly
embarrassed.”

“Edward always leaves early for
the office and Adele is a late riser. I knew you’d be alone.”

I’m relieved he thought of that
but I’m not backing down. “Hardly alone. Two dozen people work in the house.
The fact that they’re servants only means that they’re likely to be more aware
of what’s going on around them, not less.”

“They know better than to
gossip,” he says defensively. “Every worker in the city has signed an iron-clad
non-disclosure agreement. It would be worth their jobs--and any future job they
ever hoped to have--if they said anything.”

This is news although it does
fit with what I’ve observed about how jealously the elite guard their privacy.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “Has Hodgkin signed an NDA?”

The sudden shift of focus takes
him by surprise. “Of course not and I’d never ask him to. He’s an old friend. I
owe him a great deal.”

I can’t help myself, I have to
know. “You didn’t get along with your father when you were younger but you did
with Hodgkin?”

At first, I think he is going to
refuse to respond but slowly, not taking his eyes from me, Ian nods. “Hodge
used to be in the military. When he saw that I wasn’t happy with the plan my
father expected me to follow, he made sure that I was aware I had options. He
opened my eyes to the possibilities and left the rest to me.”

A little piece of the Ian puzzle
falls into place. Hodgkin--Hodge--enabled him to make a choice that put Ian on
the road to becoming the man he is. A man who cares about finding ways to feed
less fortunate people and preventing the very kind of strife from which he can
personally profit. The steward had done what a good parent, as opposed to one
merely interested in control, would do.

Is that where Ian’s control
issues come from, his dealings with his father?

Before I can get up the nerve to
ask him that, he asks softly, “What did you do with the flowers?”

“They’re in my bedroom.”

His smile deepens. I get the
impression that this is exactly what he intended when he sent them. “Good.”

He is close enough that I can
feel the warmth of his breath along the curve of my cheek. A pool of liquid
heat gathers between my legs.

“Clitoria,” he says softly,
“emit their scent at night. Think of me when you smell them. Imagine what I
would be doing to you if I were there.”

My knees sag. This is so
screamingly unfair. He manipulates my emotions as easily as he does my body. In
a room full of people, I’m becoming intensely aroused. Worse, Ian knows it. The
look he gives me is more than a little smug.

I take advantage of his
complacency and slip my hand from his. “What a fascinating idea but actually,
I’ll be getting a good night’s sleep. I have another session with Sergei
tomorrow and I need to rest up.”

Before he can respond, I step
away. To my regret, he doesn’t try to stop me.

I have no reason to believe that
the cello performance is anything other than sublime but I’m hardly aware of
it. For the remainder of the evening, all I can think of is Ian. He does not
approach me again but I see him chatting with other guests. The men treat him
with cautious respect whereas the women--

Young, beautiful, eager women,
far too many of them vie for his attention. As much as I would like to put that
down to the rarity of his attendance at such events, I can’t. He would attract
their interest under any circumstances. Nor does it matter that he treats them
all no more than cordially. I am painfully aware of them all the same.

By the time the soirée is over,
my claim that I’ll be getting a good night’s sleep mocks me. Lying in bed that
night, breathing the tantalizing scent of the clitoria, all I can think of is
the man who sent them.

I’m vividly aware that it would
be far too easy for me to lose myself in Ian. If I have any sense, I will do
everything necessary to avoid that including not being alone anywhere with him
in the future and definitely not accepting any more of his gifts.

That plan makes perfect sense
and I know that it’s in my interest to embrace it if I am to do what I
must--find my own identity and create my own life. None of which explains why I
toss and turn through the long, perfume-scented night, torn between desire and
desolation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sergei raps the end of his staff
down so sharply on the wooden floor that I feel the reverberations under my
feet.

“When you come here to my studio,”
he says in a measured tone, “to be instructed by me, I expect you to be at your
best.” He paces closer, an irate lion displeased by what he sees. “Not to
arrive like this, wilted and with shadows under your eyes. When you neglect to
take proper care of yourself, you are wasting both your time and mine.”

I swallow against what I know is
his valid complaint. “I’m sorry, Sergei. I didn’t sleep well.”

“Why not?” He shoots me an
all-too-perceptive look and comes to his own swift conclusions. “Ah, of course,
a man. It would have to be.”

My back stiffens. Surely, I’m
not that transparent? “Why do you say that? There could be some other reason.”

He laughs, a deep, knowing
sound. “Don’t be foolish, You are far too strong to be disturbed by anything
less. And you are far too lovely not to attract the sort of man who inevitably
will disturb you.”

I sigh, no longer trying to deny
what is obvious, at least to Sergei. Still, I say, “It’s complicated.”

He scoffs. “Complicated? The
Rose Adagio in Tchaikovsky’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’ is complicated. Rachmaninoff’s
last composition, ‘Symphonic Dances’ is even more so. But what happens between
a man and a woman is either simple or it is nothing. We give each other what we
need. All else is mere distraction.”

I can’t help but smile at
Sergei’s way of seeing the world and relationships. But I suppose his ruthless
dedication to dance doesn’t allow for complexity in any other part of his life.

“You’re going to tell me to put
this ‘simple’ matter out of my mind and concentrate on what I’m doing right
now,” I say.

He touches a hand lightly to my
cheek and smiles. “On the contrary, I am telling you to use your emotions
instead of trying to deny them. Imagine this man, whoever he is, is here right
now watching you. What do you want him to see? This pale, wane creature who
barely holds up her head? Or a woman of passion who is his equal in every way?”