The Last Dance (27 page)

“Please, I will beg.” His voice cracked with the emotion. “I am on my knees for you. I will stay on my knees for the rest of my life if I can have you back.”

Georgina held her face in her hands and cried.

“Marry me, angel. I will be a good husband. I will love you and take care of our daughter for the rest of my life. I will never let anyone hurt either of you.”

“You hurt me.”

“I know. Never again. I promise. Marry me.”

“No. No, Roman. I am not going to marry you. You are not obligated to us. Don’t ask me.”

“I’m asking because the last five months were unbearable.” Roman reached into his pocket and produced a small blue box. “I am asking you to have me as your husband. I’m asking you to love me. I’m not asking because you’re having our baby. I’m asking because I can’t live without you. Please.” Roman opened the box. A giant solitaire sparkled.

Georgina leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Roman, I love you. I love you so much. That’s why it hurts. I can’t hurt like this anymore. I have to be strong now for our baby.”

“Our baby.” Every time he said it, he sounded more amazed. “You are strong, angel, so strong. But we will be stronger together. Marry me. I’m begging.”

“I can’t go back to Russia. I will never be given another visa. I can’t even visit. That was part of the plea agreement.”

“We will live here. Or London. Or Italy. Or wherever you want to live.”

“I want to live here. I want to raise my baby here.”

Roman nodded. “I can work from here, or I can give up work.”

For a long moment silence reigned. Her thoughts raced and her heart pounded hard against her ribs. The scene was surreal. Roman Zakharov, the man who bowed to no one, was on his knees for her, not one knee to propose, both knees, begging. The man she knew would not do that for anyone. But he was. He was begging. The realization struck her: she believed him.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Yes. I will marry you.”

Roman breathed a sigh of relief. He kissed her belly again. “Your mama said yes.” His voice rose with uncontained joy.

Georgina smiled.

“Go put on something you want in the wedding photos,” Roman commanded.

Georgina’s eyes narrowed. “I said I would marry you. I didn’t mean now. I meant someday. Eventually, after—”

“You have ten minutes to pick something.”

The old Roman had returned, the commanding brute she had met the first night in the Hermitage. The Roman she had fallen in love with. She smiled and shook her head. “We need to get a license. We can’t get married today. It would be next week at the earliest. We need to have a blood test. It’s the law.”

“We shall see about that.”

Georgina stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. God, she loved him. She had no doubt that he would bribe or twist the arm of whoever he needed to in order for them to get married today. Well, August sixth was as good a day as any to get married. “I am going to need twenty minutes so I can wash my face and comb my hair. I want our daughter to think I look pretty in our wedding pictures.”

“You are always beautiful. Always,” Roman said, and then he kissed her until they were both breathless.

Georgina woke up to the sound of her husband laughing, followed by the delighted squeal of Maggie. She smiled. They were playing hide-and-seek, and he had caught her.

They’d named Maggie after Georgina’s grandmother: Margaret Elizabeth. It was a good choice; Maggie already showed a lot of her great-grandma’s spirit. She was sweet natured and determined.

Georgina slipped on her purple robe, pausing at the top of the stairs to listen to Roman sing a Russian nursery rhyme to their daughter. It was Maggie’s favorite, the one about a granny and her two geese. Maggie always danced and did the actions and then demanded Roman sing it again, which he always did at least three more times.

Until Maggie was born, Georgina had no idea Roman had such a lovely singing voice, a deep baritone. He sang lullabies to Maggie every night as she fell asleep. As an infant, Roman never put her down. Even her naps were had in his arms; it was almost like he was scared to have her out of his sight.

Georgina understood; their baby was his only family. His mother had died of cancer, and his father and brothers had been murdered. Maggie was all he had, and Georgina. She was his too.

Maggie did not even have a stroller; Roman carried her everywhere with him in his arms or a carrier. It was quite sweet to see her massive tyrant of a husband brought to his knees by a tiny baby.

“Good morning, doodlebug,” Georgina called to Maggie as she stood in the doorway to the kitchen where Maggie and Roman were putting the finishing touches on Georgina’s breakfast tray. True to his word, Roman had brought Georgina breakfast in bed every morning since they married.

They had redone the entire house, including an extension with a playroom for Maggie. Roman had several of his paintings shipped over from Russia. The walls of their modest family home were covered in priceless works of art.

Georgina entered the kitchen. It was modern, cream and walnut with copper lights and thick marble countertops. They had briefly considered moving to a larger house, but this was home for Georgina. It felt right to live here now with Roman and Maggie.

Without being asked, Roman gave up his entire life in Russia and relocated to rural Montana. There was never any question for him. Wherever his family was, he would be. The knowledge made Georgina smile. Roman would follow her anywhere. He had taken to country living surprisingly well. And the small town had hesitantly taken to the scarred Russian giant. She had no doubt that eventually, years from now, Roman would be one of the old men sitting in the barber shop discussing politics and complaining about the younger generation.

Maggie ran to Georgina. “Up, please,” Maggie said in English. Maggie always spoke English with Georgina and Russian with Roman. They had never discussed the logistics of raising their daughter bilingual; it had just happened naturally. Roman always spoke to her in Russian, since the first time he held her as a newborn. Georgina’s breath still caught when she remembered the midwife placing Maggie in Roman’s arms, the look of adoration in his eyes when he looked from Georgina to their daughter. Georgina was complete. She had everything she needed.

Georgina swept her daughter up and kissed her cheek. Maggie had red hair like hers but bright blue eyes like Roman. “What have you been eating?” Georgina licked the jam off Maggie’s chubby little fingers.

Roman glared at her. “Why are you up?”

Georgina shook her head. “The doctor said I needed to exercise my knee to regain mobility.”

“At no point did he tell you to attempt the stairs by yourself,” Roman said, clearly unimpressed.

“I’m fine. Honestly,” she promised. Her knee surgery was less than five weeks ago, but she felt good.

Georgina had put off having surgery until she stopped breastfeeding Maggie. She assumed that would be a year, but it was closer to two.

Roman gave her a skeptical glance before he kissed her. “Be careful, angel,” he said gently.

Georgina nodded. She never knew she could feel so loved. Roman looked after her in all ways. She was strong enough to go it alone, but with her husband by her side, she would never have to. It was nice having someone she could depend on completely.

“What’s for breakfast, doodlebug?” she asked Maggie, but she knew the answer; it would be some sort of pastry from Hilda’s. Roman and Maggie walked to the bakery every morning for fresh bread and pastries.

Georgina sat down on the black leather barstool at the kitchen counter, Maggie on her lap. Roman poured Georgina a cup of coffee, stopping to press a gentle kiss against her temple and then lifting Maggie out of her arms so she could drink her coffee without worrying about spilling on a wriggling toddler.

“Juice, please,” Maggie asked in Russian, knowing that her father was the soft touch. She would get anything she asked Roman. Georgina had to laugh. He was cutthroat and merciless unless you happened to be his baby. Or his wife.

“No juice,” Georgina said. “You have had enough sweet things this morning, I am sure.” She was the disciplinarian.

Maggie thrust out her bottom lip. Undoubtedly Roman would give in if Georgina was not here, but he would never undermine her. With Maggie, Georgina’s word was law.

“Are you not going to work this morning?” Georgina noted his casual attire, chinos and a gray cashmere sweater that molded to his broad shoulders. Roman had bought a building on High Street to run his business. Roman did not need to work; they had enough money for several lifetimes, but his drive demanded it. Most of his time now was dedicated to charity projects. Roman was the largest single donor in Russia. He provided the funds to rebuild his hometown from the bottom up, restoring the infrastructure that had been destroyed.

“Not today. I’m spending the day with my girls.”

Georgina smiled. She liked the sound of that. She was a bit sad that she would never see his hometown, but she did not dwell on it. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

She would never again dance at the Mariinsky, but she had no desire to do that. The only dancing she wanted to do was in the garden with Roman and their daughter to “Ring-Around-the-Rosy.”

The Last Dance

American-born Kierney Scott lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with her husband and their daughter. She is fluent in Spanish—by that she means she knows all the words to “La Bamba”. Her motto is, “Always say yes to karaoke.” All of her books are written on a treadmill, usually while she is singing and checking social media.

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