The Last Dance (24 page)

Because I love you.

There was no sound except the waves lapping against the hull of the ship as Roman waited for an answer she could not give. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to feel.

She pushed back from the table. “Take me to bed.”

Roman complied, leading her to the back of the boat, down a curved marble staircase with a glass balustrade. Each step was studded with a line of tiny lights, illuminating the way.

The master bedroom was large. There was a sitting area with sliding doors that led to a hot tub on the balcony and an outdoor seating area. The room was decorated in subtle hues of cream and tan. Polished wood trim and a faux-fur throw and pillows added depth.

Her bag had been unpacked, presumably by staff. Her hairbrush and toiletries had been neatly laid out on the marble countertop in the bathroom. She had not seen anyone since she’d come on board; they worked in the shadows like the stagehands at the ballet.

Georgina slipped off her sandals. She had no idea how Roman had managed to get summer clothing for her at such short notice. Perhaps that was what he was doing last night when he was up until all hours, that and organizing the travel.

Georgina stood on her tiptoes and kissed the raised skin of scars along his neck. She loved the way he felt. And the way he smelled. And the way he tasted.

A bolt of desire shot through her. She wanted to taste him, really taste him. Her hands went to his zipper. She undid his trousers, releasing his hard length. She stroked his cock, tentatively at first and then bolder, firmer strokes.

She glanced down at the pale white star tattoos on her knees. She hadn’t forgotten what they meant: she did not give herself like this to any man. But this wasn’t just any man; it was Roman. And there was nothing she wanted more in this moment than to take him deep into her mouth, to feel the weight of his balls as she sucked and licked and kissed. Just thinking about it made her wet.

Georgina slid to her knees, pulling down Roman’s trousers and boxers. She cupped his balls in her hand, kneading them gently. His cock twitched, an involuntary response to the stimulation.

ROMAN PLACED HIS hand on Georgina’s bare shoulder. Her pale skin was soft. He opened his mouth to speak several times, but nothing came out. He should tell her no, not to do this. He knew what it meant to her. He shouldn’t let her, not now, not with him. He knew what was coming tomorrow. She didn’t. It wasn’t fair to let her keep going. Roman cleared his throat. “Georgina.” His voice was hoarse, like a growl. “You don’t have to do this.”

She looked up at him through heavily lashed eyes. God, she was beautiful. Slowly her lips parted; her tongue licked the sensitive ridge around the crown. Oh Christ, that felt good. Everything she did felt good. “Georgina,” he rasped. His fingers laced through her hair.

“I want to, Roman. This is for me, because I want it.” She lowered her head, taking just the tip as her hands worked over his length. Over and over she stroked until he didn’t think it could feel any better, then she moved her hands and lowered her head farther down his shaft, taking him deep, deeper than any woman had ever taken him, until the head of his cock was nestled deep against her throat. Oh fuck, that felt good…so fucking good. His body twitched and jerked, wanting to thrust even deeper and come down her throat, but he couldn’t. She was already taking more of him than any woman ever had.

Her soft hands cradled him, massaging, teasing, coaxing him higher. Oh fuck, he could not last much longer. “Georgina,” he groaned as he came, spraying a hot jet of cum down her throat. She kept sucking until she had taken every last drop.

Roman pulled her to her feet and kissed her, tasting his saltiness on her mouth. He pulled her dress off over her head and then picked her up and carried her to the bed, laying her on the white duvet. He stripped off her panties and stopped to admire her. Christ, she was beautiful. Tightness spread across his chest. They could have worked. Insane as it was, they could have been together. They fit, their bodies, their minds, everything. They just worked.

Fuck. It made him want to scream. He wanted her so badly, not just tonight, every night. He wanted her.

He loved her.

He really loved her.

He would enjoy tonight, enjoy her.

Georgina woke up twice in the night. Neither time was it pain; it was because Roman reached for her. He was insatiable, not that she minded. Her desire matched his, but there was something different, almost frantic in his need. He had kissed her and held her, making love to her over and over until they were both exhausted.

She sat up and stretched. Sunlight flooded the cabin from the open patio doors. The only sounds were the crash of waves and the call of birds. It was all very peaceful, life on a yacht. She could definitely get used to this.

She glanced down at the indentation on the bed where Roman had been. He must be up on deck for breakfast. Mmm…breakfast sounded nice. Hopefully more croissants and chocolate.

Georgina slipped her dress over her head, not bothering with underwear or shoes. She went upstairs, but he wasn’t there either. Her eyes narrowed in confusion. Maybe he went onshore to get something, and he didn’t want to wake her. But why would he not wait for her? It wasn’t that late; he could have waited so they could have gone into town together.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood taut. Unease spread through her. Something wasn’t right. She felt it. She had only felt this once before: with Pavel.

“Georgina Fairley?” a low, accented voice called.

Georgina spun around. Two Italian police officers stood twenty feet from her. She recognized the light blue shirts and black trousers with the thick red stripe down the side. Her heart forgot to beat. “Roman,” she cried. Her legs went weak.
Oh God no.
He had been arrested. Pavel had won.

She felt sick.

Oh God, she was going to throw up. She ran to the side of the ship, arriving with no time to spare. Over and over she retched until there was nothing left in her body and her eyes streamed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

She righted herself, smoothing down her dress. She needed to get herself together. She was useless to Roman like this. She needed to think. Who should she call? He needed a lawyer. Yes, she needed to call a lawyer. She would find the best lawyer in Russia. Unless he already had a lawyer… Of course he had a lawyer. He was a billionaire. He had an army of lawyers. He was going to be okay. He had to be.

“Georgina Fairley?” the younger officer asked. He looked fresh out of school, only just a little boy.

She nodded. As she opened her mouth to confirm her name, the older officer slammed the cold metal handcuffs around her wrist; the other he attached to himself so they were shackled together. She blinked and frantically shook her head. “What? What are you doing?” she screamed. This was a bad dream. She needed to wake up, and Roman would be there and he would hold her. “Roman,” she cried again. She needed Roman. He would fix this.

The younger man held up a piece of yellow paper, a carbon copy of a document, and thrust it at her. There was an official-looking seal at the top. The words were in Italian. She didn’t speak Italian. The younger officer spoke. He was reciting something. She had no idea what the words were, but the monotonous cadence and the handcuffs told her what she needed to know. She was being arrested, and he was informing her of her rights.

“Roman,” she screamed. “Roman.” She needed Roman. She had never depended on a man in her life, but she needed to now. Only he could fix this, whatever was going on. “Roman,” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Her throat burned from the force. Where was he? Shit, had he been arrested too? Yes, he was arrested first. Oh God, that was why he wasn’t there.

Stop. Think
. They would take her to the police station. They would have to give her an interpreter. She would be given representation; this would be okay. She would sort this out for her, and for Roman.

“I need my shoes,” Georgina said, but the officers were already pushing her to the stairs. “I need my shoes,” she said again. She wasn’t even wearing underwear. “Can you just let me finish getting dressed?”

The younger one spoke. Now that she was closer she could see how young he truly was. The black hair above his lips was baby fine and made him look like he needed a wash.

She closed her eyes, just for a brief moment, to pretend this wasn’t happening. The sun was warm on her skin. The air smelled of salt, pungent but clean. She tried to focus on those things, but she stumbled when she reached the stairs. She hit the ground, but her arm dangled high above her body. A sharp pain radiated from her shoulder, a harsh punishment for her few seconds of pretending.

The corrugated metal of the ramp was still cold beneath her because the sun had not had time to warm it. On the shore, six men in suits stood waiting for them. They weren’t Italian. She just knew, the same way she could always guess the nationality of tourists at the Hermitage. The skill was finally coming in handy; the men were Russian.

The boy officer undid the handcuff on his partner’s wrist and then shackled both of her hands together and handed the key to one of the men in suits. He was short with thinning silver hair; his scalp shone through the deep ridges where he had combed through his heavily gelled hair. The little he had left was matted to his head. The whites of his eyes had the worrying yellow tint of a man in the end stages of liver failure.

“Georgina Fairley, you have been arrested for possession and distribution of a restricted substance.” The man’s English was heavily accented. She shook her head. She had not touched anything stronger than ibuprofen in ten years.
Pavel.
She was no good to him anymore, so he was turning her in. She swore under her breath. This was how it was going to end—Pavel going back on their deal. She brought her shackled hands to her face to rub her eyes. After everything she had done. Oh God. She laughed bitterly. It served her right for thinking she could trust him. “I don’t do drugs,” she said weakly. “Test me. Take a blood sample or a hair sample.” This would be cleared up quickly enough. Other than being a spy and a liar she was a model citizen. Whatever Pavel had planned, she and Roman could fight. Roman would not let her go down for this. “I need to speak to Roman Zakharov. I want to phone him. He will arrange my legal representation.”

One of the man’s eyebrows drew up in confusion.

“Roman Zakharov. I know you know who he is. Please call him. He will sort this out.”

In an instant the man’s face changed, softened. He shook his head as he looked down at the ground and then out at the sea, everywhere but at her. He knew something. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Oh God, Roman. Was he okay?

“Where is Roman? Is he all right?”

Three months later

Someone was crying, weeping actually. Must be her first night, not that Georgina had cried, but most women did. Georgina rolled over onto her side. She was soaking wet, covered in sweat. The night sweats were new; they’d started about two weeks ago, along with an electric sensation shooting down her breasts. And then the nausea started.

It wasn’t until her third middle-of-the-night run to “the hole” that she figured it out. There was a toilet inside the dormitory of the prison, but it didn’t work. The bowl was dry and black, so if any of the women needed the facilities they went outside to “the hole.”

She had held her sides and heaved until she wet herself and burst blood vessels in her throat, and the only thing coming up was blood-tinged bile. Barefoot, covered in her own piss and vomit, she had figured it out: she was pregnant.

Georgina rolled onto her back again; on reflex her hand went to the gentle swell of her belly. She didn’t know how far along she was. The last period she’d had was shortly before she met Roman, but the one before that was six months prior, so there was no telling when she’d ovulated. She hadn’t even been sure she did ovulate.

A wave of nausea hit her. She reached for the ginger root she kept under her pillow. Magda had given it to her for this purpose. Magda had the bed under Georgina’s. Georgina didn’t tell her she was pregnant, but Magda figured it out. Magda had six children of her own. Her hair was jet-black with wiry silver threads. She might have been beautiful once, but most of her teeth were missing now and without them her face had begun to cave in, like a rotting jack-o-lantern.

Georgina liked Magda, and more importantly Magda liked her, which was good because Magda was in charge. The inmates ruled the prison. Magda ruled with an iron fist. In the forty-seven days she had been there, Georgina had only seen it get violent twice, but both times were bloody. Magda had pulled her out of the fray just as it started. That was how they had become friends. After that, Magda had taken Georgina under her wing, even moving Georgina to the bunk above her so she could keep an eye on her.

Seventy women were housed in this dormitory, in three rows of iron bunk beds. It reminded Georgina of something she would expect to see in the military. They even had drab olive-green uniforms. She was eternally grateful for her uniform, complete with the wool coat, because when she had been brought here from Italy all she had was a thin yellow sundress. She didn’t even have shoes or underwear. The hour drive from Moscow had been almost unbearable. With her hands shackled together, it was impossible to even rub her arms for warmth.

The green-painted iron gates of the prison were the best thing she had ever seen, because they meant she would be processed and given clothes—warm clothes. So she did not cry like the other women being fingerprinted and strip searched. She did not even flinch when the guard bent her over and shined a flashlight into her crotch to check for contraband. The room was warm; it made every humiliating aspect of it worth it.

Bizarrely, the adjustment to prison life had been a smooth one. This was temporary; she could do anything for a short period. Pavel had broken her in that respect. She could compartmentalize anything through sheer will. And her life in the ballet had prepared her for structure. Every morning they were woken up at six, exercised until seven, had breakfast, and then worked until one, ate lunch, then worked until four, then came home. This dormitory was home. At least for now.