The Last Dance (19 page)

But now she did.

Roman reached out a gloved hand to her. “You can think later. Now you are showing me your favorite paintings. Your worries will still be here when we get back.”

Georgina allowed Roman to pull her off the couch. She wanted to run again. She needed to get away, far away, from Pavel, from her knee, from this situation, but not from Roman. He didn’t make that list. He should be at the very top of things she wanted to escape, but he wasn’t. She sighed.

Roman slipped her coat over her shoulders and then bent down and zipped it. She could have done it herself, but she enjoyed the novelty of someone taking care of her. Roman stood and then put a fur-lined hat on her head. “Your wool hat is not enough,” he said by way of explanation.

Georgina opened her mouth to object; she did not believe in wearing fur. “I don’t wear fur.” The hat was warmer than any of hers. He was right.

“I suspected as much. It is not real. Just as warm but not real.”

She smiled.

Roman took her gloved hand in his. “Let’s walk. The fresh air was nice. And this time you won’t be running away.”

Georgina nodded. She was on his scarred side. Only a few weeks ago, she would have moved to be on his other side so she wouldn’t have to look at his scars, but she barely registered them now, and when she did it was usually to marvel that he had survived. She was grateful for that. Georgina stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Roman’s jaw.

The streetlights hummed as they turned on. Their soft light turned the snow golden. The fresh layer of snow covered all the imperfections of the city; only bits of the building’s pastel cladding showed through. It was beautiful.

Georgina examined the faces of the people as she passed noting each one—the mother pushing a stroller, baby bundled in blankets, the old man with a paper tucked under his arm, the lovers walking with linked arms—before she remembered she didn’t have to scour every face today to make sure she wasn’t being followed. It didn’t matter who saw her or who followed her.

By the time they reached Palace Square, Georgina’s cheeks ached. She had been smiling, she realized, and her muscles were not used to it. Every other muscle in her body was toned and strong, but not those because they were so rarely used.

* * * *

The snow had been cleared from the massive courtyard, exposing the design of the cobblestones. Roman guided her around the side, past a line of tourists waiting to get in.

She looked up in question, but he didn’t say anything. The door opened for them as they arrived. A small woman with dark hair and beautiful, wide-set green eyes greeted them with a smile. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, the same as Georgina’s hair was when she was onstage. A twinge of sadness plucked her heart, but she ignored it. There were going to be constant reminders of her career; she could not give in to every one.

The woman—Lilliana according to her name tag—asked in Russian what language they would like her to give the tour. She beamed when she reported her fluency in English, French, and of course Russian. Georgina glanced up at Roman and considered telling him that she spoke all of those languages too. It seemed silly not to tell him now after everything. He knew all of her other secrets, but in the end she remained silent.

Roman told Lilliana they would not require a guide today as he handed her several folded bills. She smiled and bobbed down and then up again in a movement that looked similar to the curtsy Georgina gave at the end of a performance. She pushed the thought away. It would get easier. Everything got easier with time.

They took off their coats and hats and gloves and scarves and handed them to Lilliana. A rush of excitement spread through her chest, because she loved the Hermitage; that was it, not because she was here with Roman. Even as she said the words to herself she knew they were a lie. She was excited to be here with him. She would be excited to do anything with Roman.

Roman looked down at her and smiled, a mischievous grin playing on his full lips. “Shall we count this as our first or second date?”

Heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered exactly how that night ended; one of the most intense and erotic encounters of her life, her wrists shackled, and his mouth on her, everywhere, teasing and arousing, making her beg and then finally making her come. “I’m glad it was your name on the paper. I’m glad you were my target,” she admitted. Maybe she shouldn’t. She was showing too much, but she wanted him to know. “And I’m glad I failed.” She whispered the last part, but he heard.

Roman studied her as if he was trying to decide what to make of the admission. “Were you not scared?”

“Terrified.”

Her response made the corners of his mouth pull up. He was handsome when he smiled. Her heart ached; it felt…too much. She had to look away. Not with Roman, she told herself. Save it. It is enough to know you can feel; don’t feel it for him.

“Let’s consider this our first date.” His hand wrapped around hers.

She smiled up at him. “We have had a lot of sex before our first date.”

“Not enough.” He smiled back as he tipped her chin up gently and kissed her. “Which room first? Back to the Rubens?”

His hand felt so good wrapped around hers.
Never let go.
Georgina shook her head to dislodge the thought.

“No?” Roman asked, misinterpreting the small movement. “I thought that room was your favorite.”

She glanced up at him. How did she ever find him ugly? Scarred, yes, but he was beautiful. “My plan that night was to take you to the Raphael Loggias.”

“But then you decided it was blasphemous to seduce a sinner under a replica of the Sistine Chapel?”

“No.” Georgina thought back to the night. She could not remember what she had been thinking anymore. It seemed a lifetime ago. “I think I just wanted to show you the Rubens.”

They walked hand in hand past another group of tourists. The guide with the giant maple leaf flag marked them as Canadian. “Canadians always like everyone to know they’re not American. They delight in telling everyone just how non-American they are,” Georgina said.

“Do you miss it, your country?”

She let out a stream of air. That was a hard question. “I don’t know. I miss my grandmother. I miss her every day, but she died a long time ago. She raised me. It was just us. My grandpa died before I was born. Yeah, I miss her.” Familiar pressure built behind Georgina’s eyes.

“What about your parents? Are they dead as well?”

“Yes.” The answer came before she had time to think. That was what she told everyone. That was her official biography, but it was a lie. “No.” She had never spoken about her parents with anyone in Russia, not even Lev. Even when she was at school in New York, she’d told everyone her parents were dead. “They’re as good as dead to me. I never knew my biological father. My mother is a free spirit—that’s what she calls herself. I call her a selfish excuse for a human, but anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

Roman stopped walking. They were in front of the Peacock Clock. The large self-operating machine with three life-size birds was one of the museum’s highlights. Tourists often pushed their way to the front to see it move as if by magic, but neither of them looked at it; instead Roman was eyeing her intently. Georgina’s gaze darted around the room, from the glossed parquet floors to the domed gold ceilings and dozens of massive chandeliers. She looked everywhere but at him. Even after everything they had shared, some things were still too personal, too sensitive.

“Where are they now, your parents?”

Georgina shrugged. “My mom has no idea who my father was, so he has no idea who I am. She was screwing several men at the time I was conceived. I am guessing if there was a ginger one, he is my dad.” She pulled on a lock of her red hair. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does, angel. I think it matters to you. That is why you never speak of them. Of her, your mother.”

Georgina focused on the group of Japanese tourists coming in the room. She liked guessing where each group was from. She had become very good at it over the years. She now knew which countries were most likely to visit each room.
Funny the things you pick up, the useless skills.
Georgina cleared her throat and brought her attention back to Roman. “I don’t like my mother. She is a selfish woman. She should not have had children.”

Roman stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m glad she did,” he whispered just loud enough for her to hear. Liquid heat surged in her, spreading through her body with every beat of her heart.

Suddenly she wanted to tell him, share the part of her she kept hidden. “My mom fancied herself an artist, though she did not create anything. She just recycled other people’s ideas. Anyway she got pregnant. She had me. Do you want to know why she did not have an abortion?” Georgina did not wait for Roman to answer. “Because childbirth is art. It brought out her primal feminine power or some crap like that. That is why she had me, not because she wanted to be a mom, because she wanted the experience. It was all about her. Everything is always about her. Apparently raising me was not art, and it got in the way of her growth. That is what she told me when I met her.” Georgina shook her head at the memory.

“Did you not know her as a child?”

“No. She was living in Paraguay until I was about seven, in an artists’ commune, and then she moved to Israel to teach ceramics or something. I don’t remember. My grandma would get postcards occasionally. She would shake her head and cry. Last I heard she was in Monaco. She married an art dealer and had twins. A boy and a girl I think. Or two boys. She told me, but honestly I was too stunned to take it all in.”

“When? When did you see her?”

Georgina took a deep breath. “She never took an interest in me. My entire life I got in the way of her development and happiness. She missed every birthday, every Christmas, every recital, but as soon as I became the principal dancer for the Mariinsky, she wanted to be part of my life.” A cold chill settled over Georgina as she remembered the day. “She came to a performance with her fat, bald husband and pretended like she was somebody to me. I only recognized her from a picture. The whole conversation was about her. I was now good enough to be an extension of her.”

“What did you do?”

Georgina glanced up, realizing that she had stopped speaking. “I told her that my mother was dead.” She shuddered. “She is. My grandma was my mother. She was everything to me. She was.” Georgina’s voice cracked under the strain of emotion. “Everything. She was my everything.”

But she hadn’t even gone to her grandmother’s funeral. She squeezed her arms tighter around herself, but the cold would not shift.

At what point had she turned into her mother? She hated how selfish and self-centered that woman was…and yet she was no different.

Slowly realization settled into her. If it were a choice between her career and Roman, it would always be him. She had no idea how much time they had left together. Whatever they were would soon come to an end, but she would not hurt him. He was the first person who’d made her feel anything since Lev.

And he was the first person who had done something to help her since her grandmother. Why, why was he helping her? She searched for answers, but her thoughts would not slow enough to think.

As if he could read her mind, Roman reached for her; his strong arms circled her. He pressed a kiss to her head. The gentleness of his touch nearly did her in. She pulled back. No more running. Roman was right. She was destroying her body.

“Enough about her. This is my first date with a man I really enjoy in bed. Let’s not ruin it. Next I want to show you my second favorite place. You’ve already seen my first,” she reminded him.

Georgina reached for Roman’s hand and guided them through a group of Italian tourists, all school children. They looked too young to travel alone, but Georgina had been at dancing school at the same age.

Several people stared openly at them. Undoubtedly those people were the ones who did not know of Roman Zakharov. The ones that knew of him only stole a brief glance and then looked away quickly before they could be spotted.

Georgina pulled him through room after room until they reached the main staircase. “Here it is. This is my other favorite.” In theory it was only a staircase, but in actuality it was a work of art. To start, the staircase was wider than the length of her apartment. Beautiful frescos were painted in every gilded alcove and large granite pillars held up the polished marble balustrade. “Isn’t it beautiful?” She sighed.

“Breathtaking,” Roman agreed. But he was not looking at the ornamentation; he was looking at her.

Her cheeks warmed. “It reminds me of a fairy tale. This is the staircase I see Cinderella running down after the ball.”

Roman nodded. “The moral of that story was she should not have run away from her prince. Don’t you agree? She should have had faith in him to do what was right.” The heat of his stare pinned her in place.

Georgina looked up at him. “That is really what you think the message of the story is?”

Roman shrugged. “She can hardly claim to love him when she didn’t even trust him enough to show him her true self, or trust him to solve the problem.”

Georgina’s eyes narrowed. The story was allegorical. He was speaking about Lev. Instead of being upset, she merely shrugged. Lev was a lifetime ago. “Maybe they weren’t in love; maybe it just felt like it.”

Roman’s mouth hitched in a smile. “False love that feels real? Then how do you know what you have experienced is real?” He picked up her hand and kissed the delicate skin of her wrist.

Her skin tingled under his touch; hot tendrils of desire laced around her arm, finding their way to her heart. Her breath caught in her throat. This, this felt real…but it wasn’t. It could never be real. Georgina cleared her throat, pulling her hand back. The closeness was too much, too intimate. “You promised me dinner.”

“So I did. But not at the café. Next time we can go to the café. Tonight I booked a table at Percorso.”

Georgina’s pulse doubled at the mention of another date with Roman. Her body’s response was absurd. She had no right to be giddy, but she was. “The restaurant at the Four Seasons? You booked a table there?”