The Last Dance (18 page)

“Stop,” Roman commanded. He gave her a hard shake, enough for her head to snap back. “Open your eyes. Look at me, angel. You are the best. That is why you are the principal dancer. Don’t give Pavel any credit. He used you; he never helped you. The night I went to see you I was amazed. I could not look away. You were the most talented dancer on the stage and the most beautiful. Everyone else was just a distraction. You are the best. Never doubt that. And you will dance again if you want it.”

Georgina could not speak. She opened her mouth, but the words would not come. She was overwhelmed…too much, too much emotion, too much sadness, just too much. “I already made my appointment to see a doctor in America. As soon as
Sleeping Beauty
closes, I am going to have the operation. I was going to retire then anyway.” As she said the words out loud they became real.

Roman stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “No, you are seeing a doctor today. I have hired the best orthopedic surgeon in Europe. I am not going to let you hurt anymore.”

“Why? Why do you care? Why are you helping me? If I had done my job properly, you would be headed for prison.”

“Good thing you are an inept spy.” There was a smile in his voice.

“I’m serious. Please answer me. Why are you doing this? I can’t…” She couldn’t bear it. Was he being kind? Or controlling and vindictive? She could deal with people using her and betraying her because that was what she was used to—not this, not someone being kind and looking out for her. It had been so long. Not since her grandmother had Georgina had someone that cared.

Roman let out a stream of air. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Someone needs to do it.”

It wasn’t an answer. But she would not press because the chances were he didn’t know why he was doing it either; the same way she did not know when or why she had stopped seeing the scarred monster. It had just happened and she had accepted it. But she shouldn’t have. Roman was a target and she was a spy. That was who they were.

No. Her hands clenched into tight fists. No. She could not lose her job. Not now. Soon she would have to retire, but it would be under her terms. Her body shook as her muscles coiled, ready to strike. She wasn’t ready to give up, not yet. She had worked too hard. She had sacrificed everything to get to the top, and she was losing it.

Her career was being stolen from her.

“I can’t…I just can’t. I can’t even look at you. What you did—” Georgina opened the door and ran. There was nothing left to say. The streets were slippery, but there was no need to be careful now. She didn’t know where she was going. Just away. Anger and betrayal clawed at her, tearing at her insides. Her body ached with it. Roman had betrayed her.

No, he hadn’t, because he had no loyalty to her.

He was not on her side. There was no one on her side.

* * * *

Frigid air rolled off the Neva River, across her cheeks, burning her skin. So many people lined the street along the water, living their lives, going about their day. Her entire world was imploding, and there was nobody to tell, nobody that would care. Palace Bridge was up, the two sides standing proud to allow a ship through. The realization that she was stuck on this side pulled at her, dragging her deeper down. Not that she wanted to cross the bridge now, but she didn’t have a choice. That option was gone, taken from her. Just like her life, she no longer had a choice.

No. She had a choice. She always had a choice. Roman had ambushed her, but she could fight her way out.

Pavel.

The name rang in her ears.
Pavel.
Over and over the name ricocheted through her thoughts. She tried to resist it. She hated him, but he was her only hope. Pavel could fix it. She was his asset, and she had been compromised by Roman. He would fix it. Georgina was only of value to him because she was the principal dancer. He could get Sergei back. She could figure out how to contact him. He told her never to do it, but this was an emergency. It did not get any more fucking dire than this. Her career was over; she was done. There was nothing left.

Her lungs burned, but she kept running. She didn’t turn to see if Roman was following her. She ran until her legs ached, across the street and up the steps of St. Isaac’s Cathedral. She wasn’t even religious, but the golden dome of the church called to her. She would be safe there or at least warm while she figured out what to do.

It took all her strength to pull open the heavy bronze door. In all the years she had lived in Russia, she had only been in St. Isaac’s once. It was toward the end of her relationship with Lev. This was where he’d wanted to get married. He brought her here to show her. She had been so happy, so blissfully unaware of how cruel reality was.

Her heart thundered against her chest and not because she had sprinted across the city, but because she knew what she needed to do. She needed to get ahold of a phone. Roman still had hers. She could use Sergei’s. He wouldn’t ask any questions. No. She couldn’t go back to the theater; Roman would find her there. A disposable phone. Yes, that was what she would do. Get a cheap phone and then figure out how to reach Pavel.

Georgina paused at the entrance to look up. There was nothing modest or understated about the cathedral; it was as grand and opulent as the Hermitage with its gold filigree and jade columns propping up the vaulted ceilings. Georgina strained her neck to look up. Around the great dome were statues of twelve angels, and in the very center, suspended over three hundred feet in the air, was a dove, wings spread like it was midflight, soaring away.

She stared at the statue until her eyes blurred. She wrapped her arms around herself in a tight embrace.

Tourists bundled in down jackets and wool hats snapped pictures, ignoring the prominent signs prohibiting photography. The flash of cameras reminded her of being onstage. Everything reminded her of being onstage. It was all she thought about. Ever. She would do anything to protect that.

Her body shook. Her legs buckled. She reached out to the column for support. What was she doing?

She squeezed her eyes together to shut out the world. She was seriously considering calling Pavel for help. The man had killed her soul. He had prostituted her and destroyed her relationship, her happiness. And she was going to call him.

For what?

To save the few months she had left in her career.

Georgina shook her head. She was pathetic. Her chest constricted painfully. Her body knew; it understood: Pavel hadn’t destroyed her life. She had done it to herself. Georgina had made every bad decision on her own. Nobody forced her to do cocaine. Nobody forced her to stay in Russia after she was caught or after Lev left her. She could have stopped at any time. She could have gone home. She chose to stay because nothing got in the way of her career, not her morality or her self-worth. Nothing.

She only had one season left in her at the most, and she was willing to ask the devil himself to protect it. Any favor from Pavel would come at a price. What would he want from her this time? What more could she give? Were there any depths left for her to plunge? My God, was there anything she wouldn’t do?

The answer shamed her.

Georgina rubbed her dry eyes with the backs of her hands. What had she become? Who was this person? When did ballet become more important than anything else?

Shame settled squarely on her chest, forcing out all the air. The room spun. It was hard to breathe.

Roman.

His image filled her mind. He was a criminal and a murderer, and he was controlling and high-handed and so many other things that made her want to scream, but he was all she could see when she closed her eyes.

Georgina crossed the cathedral to an alcove with an altar lined with candles. There was not enough sunlight to come through the stained-glass window, so the robes of the saints depicted were the darkest shade of red like dried blood, and their skin an ominous shade, drowning all their features.

Georgina lit a candle and sank to her knees on the worn leather kneeler. How many prayers had been said here? She wouldn’t know how to pray even if she wanted to. She just wanted to be still and think. She was always in motion, either dancing or running from herself.

Even when she closed her eyes she still saw the flicker of the candle she had lit. And she still saw Roman.

She wasn’t sure how long she had knelt thinking, but when she opened her eyes, most of the tourists had gone. A priest was beside her, dressed in a long black robe; two large necklaces swung from his center when he moved—one a cross, the other a portrait of Mary. He crossed himself before he lit a candle and knelt down. He looked young, at least younger than her, but it was hard to tell under his full dark beard.

Georgina stood up to leave. Another group of tourists was coming in, so she did not need to struggle with the metal door.

* * * *

Roman stood outside on the stone steps, his back against the large Doric column. He was only wearing a suit jacket, not enough to keep him warm. Had he followed her? Had he been waiting the entire time? He must be freezing.

This time Roman could not hide the emotion on his face. He was upset. His jaw was tense and his eyes narrowed.

Georgina crossed to him. “You’ll freeze out here.”

“I don’t care. We need to talk.” His breath created white puffs against the cold air when he spoke.

“How long have you been out here?”

Roman glanced away and then back, the weight of his gaze bearing down on her. “Since you went in. I didn’t think you wanted company. Besides I could not go into a church. I would probably combust if I came in contact with holy water. I have already survived one explosion. It’s better not to press my luck.” His words were meant as a joke, but his tone was dark and his expression hard.

Georgina could only nod. She crossed her arms across her chest, as much to keep from reaching for him as to keep warm. “You should not have done what you did.”

Roman did not speak. His mouth was set in a determined line. He’d said he would never apologize, and he wouldn’t. If nothing else, he was true to his word.

“What you did was wrong,” she continued. “But I am going to have an operation.”

Roman let out a stream of air, clearly relieved. He closed the distance between them, enveloping her in his strong arms. Part of her wanted to fight him, but a bigger part was too tired. And his arms felt so good around her, so right. She breathed in his scent. Everything about him was so comforting, exactly what her body needed even when her mind fought it.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Good. You have an appointment at three o’clock. He is flying in from Zurich. He will see you here. Surgery will be in Switzerland next week.”

Georgina swallowed hard. “You phoned him already.”
Of course he had
.

“You will meet with my surgeon, and then we are going to the Hermitage.” Roman paused, presumably giving her the opportunity to interject, but there was nothing to say.

Roman dropped his arms to his sides, taking her hand in his. “You will show me all your favorites, and then we will go to this nice café my friend told me about, and we will eat sandwiches and drink coffee. A date with my ballerina. It would be nice, yes?”

Georgina nodded. She closed her eyes. It would be nice. She focused on that rather than the pain in her knee and her heart.

Roman sat beside Georgina on the black leather couch when she had the consultation with the surgeon. It was surreal having a medical appointment in someone’s living room—Roman’s living room, the murderer, the man she was supposed to help bring down. It was more than clear that the doctor was terrified of Roman. Dr. Geiger was tall and lanky, or maybe he just appeared slim next to Roman’s muscular frame. He had thick, mouse-brown hair and hazel eyes that never settled on anything too long. Bizarrely he smelled of Christmas, citrus, and cloves. He was wearing a wool three-piece suit that made him look strangely like a Dickens character. The oppressively dark sky and the fresh snow completed the picture.

“Do you have any more questions?” Dr. Geiger’s voice broke when he glanced up at Roman. Was it the scars or the reputation? Both were terrifying at first. His hands shook when he handed the consent form over for Georgina to sign. Georgina glanced from the doctor to Roman, her face giving the best
this is the best surgeon in Europe?
look. She had no doubt Dr. Geiger was the best on theory, but if he could not even keep his hands steady when confronted by Roman, did she really want him cutting into her leg? She only had two and wasn’t keen on losing either of them.

Roman placed his hand over hers and gave it a small squeeze. His face was as expressionless as always, but the small gesture conveyed everything that needed to be said. He had faith in this man, and that was enough for her. Georgina took the pen and signed on every page with a pink plastic tag.

“No, I can’t think of anything else.” Georgina could not breathe. This was real.

Dr. Geiger stood. “Right then, I will see you in a week’s time. You can check into the hospital the night before or—”

“We will check in that morning,” Roman interrupted. “We will fly directly from here. Surgery is at ten a.m., yes?”

Dr. Geiger shifted from one foot to the other, clearly not happy with the arrangement, but he nodded anyway.

Roman saw him to the door and then returned. “Come on. We’re going out.”

Georgina glanced up. Roman held her coat for her to slip into. He was already in his winter coat and a fur-lined hat. He looked every ounce the Russian. Had someone asked her to describe a Russian man before she’d moved here, she would have described Roman, from his towering height, to the high cheekbones and pale eyes.

She looked away, into the fire. “I can’t. I don’t want to go anywhere.” She picked up a copy of the documents she had just signed for Dr. Geiger and read over the list of risks: infection, loss of motion, neurovascular damage, artery damage… The list went on and on. But the one that stood out was “continued pain.” There was a chance the surgery might not work. She had managed to keep going because she knew there was an end: she would be pain free. But now she had to be honest. There was no guarantee. Somewhere deep inside, she already knew that, so she had never let herself read too much because she didn’t want to know.