The Last Dance (3 page)

She smiled as she held up her glass “I don’t think I’m the only one here for the champagne.” Georgina very rarely drank, but it was nice to have the good stuff.

Roman did not return her smile, but he was not scowling, which was an improvement.

Georgina shook her head. “Actually the champagne is a bonus. I just wanted to come to a party at the Hermitage,” she admitted. That small part of her cover was true.

“Have you been before?”

Georgina nodded a bit too energetically. “At least a hundred times,” she said without exaggeration. This was her favorite place in the world. “I have a pass. I come most weeks on my day off.”

“Day off from what?” he asked.

Georgina blinked. He didn’t know who she was. That made things considerably harder. She was beautiful, but by far the most attractive thing about her was her role as prima ballerina with the Kirov. That was why Pavel had chosen her, not because of her full lips and thick red hair. Men could not brag about fucking a random ginger woman, but they could brag about being with the principal dancer at the Mariinsky Theatre. “I’m a dancer. With the Mariinsky,” she added when there was no response from him. She was tempted to tell him she was a principal, but that was boastful and needy and he didn’t appear to care, so instead she asked, “Have you been before?”

“Once or twice,” he admitted with a lazy smile. When his lips parted, there were two rows of straight white teeth. He had a nice smile. She had not expected that, the way it transformed his face, made him look less like a predator stalking his prey.

Georgina shook her head, suddenly flustered. “Of course you’ve been here before. You’re Roman Zakharov.” Her hands were so slick the champagne glass threatened to slip through her fingers. Shit, she knew how to do this; she just needed to remember how.

She glanced past Roman’s large frame to the crowds, hundreds of people chatting and drinking, being seen in their finest, playing at a life grander than their reality. Georgina did that every night onstage.

Dozens of conversations merged into a low buzz. She could not make out any words even when she tried. Mouths moved, but the words were lost on her, and if she was asked right now, she would not even be able to recount the features of a single guest of anyone except the model…and Roman.

Georgina took in a sharp breath and returned her attention to the man in front of her. She was off her game.
No
. She could do this. She had many times before. She knew what to do.
Touch his arm
. Men loved to be touched, even the smallest caress. She reached out and touched his hand. She was aiming for his arm, but he moved at just the right moment and her skin brushed his. Her breath caught in her throat. Heat radiated off of him. She had heard people talk about animal magnetism, but she had never experienced it.

Until now.

She forced herself to look at the scars on his face. Still there. Still as prominent and ugly, but she didn’t see them unless she forced the issue. Her gaze was drawn to his pale eyes and his full lips. Or God, maybe she just wasn’t thinking properly because she couldn’t breathe. She was sucking in air at frantic rates, but none of it seemed to be making it to her head…because all her blood was now just below the surface in her cheeks. Her face burned. He made her blush. She was supposed to be seducing him, not acting like an idiot.

Georgina cleared her throat. She bit the inside of her bottom lip. The pain focused her, always. She needed to get him alone. His date would be back soon and would probably demand to be taken home. This was her one chance. “Shame we are confined to the Gold Room. There are fifteen hundred rooms here, and this one doesn’t even make the top hundred. Of course it is beautiful but not a patch on some of the others.”

“You’ve really been here one hundred times?” Roman asked.

Georgina nodded. “At least. And I still haven’t managed to see all three million exhibits. I’m slowly working my way through them, but I will need another life. I always find myself going to the same rooms.”

Another small smile tugged his lips. “Which room is your favorite?”

Her muscles coiled in response. Georgina licked her lips. Men liked that, she remembered after the fact. She had done it because her mouth was impossibly dry for the same reason her heart would not slow.
Fear or excitement? Both?
She placed her small hand in his and gently pulled him toward her. “I’ll show you,” she whispered, “but you must promise to tell security we got lost. You don’t want to mess with Russian guards or actually Russians in general.”

He smiled again, and her breath caught in her throat. His fingers were so long and his hand so hot, so much strength and power. Tiny tendrils of electricity shot through her body, settling in her core. Oh Christ, he was dangerous. And he had the potential to make her forget that fact. She bit into her lip again, but this time she did not even feel the sting. She was too lost in the pull of him, but she did taste the metallic zing of blood.

* * * *

Wordlessly Georgina led him through to the red-painted walls of the Rubens Room. She had intended on taking him to the Vatican gallery to look at the ceilings because it was a small area off the beaten track. No one was likely to stumble on them there, but inexplicably she wanted to show him the Rubens room. That was her favorite. That had not been a lie. The thirty-foot ceilings meant paintings were laid out several deep. Even with Roman’s height, he’d have to crane his neck to see the ones at the top. Alternatively they could sit on one of the many red velvet benches provided and gaze across the room. That was Georgina’s favorite way. Even when the room was full, in the height of summer when all the tourists were here, she only had eyes for the paintings.

The room was empty except for a couple in the corner. They looked to be in their twenties, young and in love, both completely engrossed in the other. Witnesses, that was what they were. She was safe with witnesses. Their presence gave her a few moments’ reprieve.

Georgina forced her attention back to Roman. She had a job to do. “This is my favorite room. I absolutely love Rubens. I could sit here all day. Actually I have sat here all day, but that is when
Samson and Delilah
was on loan from London. I love that painting.” She was talking too much, giving too much of herself away. He made her too nervous; it was knocking her off her game.

Georgina glanced over at the young couple, their hands interlocked as they exited the room, leaving her alone with Roman. On reflex, she inched away from him, her body subconsciously attempting to protect her, but she stopped when she realized what she was doing. She could override fear, any emotion really.

She looked up at the massive leaded window panels that created the ceiling. During the rare clear day in St. Petersburg, sunlight poured in. And when it rained, the drops thundered like the sound of horse hooves pounding into the ground. Tonight it was clear and the sky black and starless.

Georgina brought her attention back to Roman. Seduction was about the man, flattering him, talking about his likes and desires. She would find a way to bring the conversation back to him. It shouldn’t be hard. Men loved talking about themselves.

“Is
Samson and Delilah
your favorite Rubens painting?” Roman asked.

Georgina paused before she shook her head. She needed to steer the conversation back to him, but he had asked her a question…and she wanted to discuss the painting. She could not remember anyone asking her opinion on a painting before. “No, but I love it, probably because I love the story: a powerful man brought to his knees by the sexual prowess of a beautiful woman. It is supposed to be a cautionary tale to shame women, but I don’t believe in that god, so the shame is lost on me.”

“But it is not your favorite?” Roman pressed.

“No.” She would bring the conversation back to him once she answered his question. “My absolute favorite is
Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus
. I shouldn’t love it,” she admitted. “The subject matter is appalling especially when you think about it in a modern context, rape being romanticized, even glorified. The myth of the sisters is brutal. They were engaged to be married, but these other men were so taken with their beauty, they kidnapped the sisters and slew their lovers. The painting is so beautiful you forget about that when you look at it. All you see is gorgeous, full women being carried off on horseback. It is quite stunning.” She was talking too much; men hated that.

Roman was staring at her, his eyes on her mouth as she spoke. “Where is it? The painting.”

“Munich. I’ve never seen the original. I will someday if it is ever loaned to the Hermitage. Or I might go to Germany once…my career is finished and I have more time to travel.” She paused to think. She never thought of the end of her career. Of course there was an expiration date on dancers, and hers was drawing closer with each passing season, but she never thought about it. Ballet was her life. It was who she was, not just what she did. Someday her body would fail her, most likely her knee, but not today. She pushed the thought down.

“Do you have a favorite painting?” Georgina remembered to ask. She had talked enough about herself.

“I know nothing about paintings,” he admitted.

“So you’re just here for the champagne as well.” She held up her glass to toast him.

“And the people watching.”

His stare on her was palpable. Her skin was on fire under the scrutiny of his gaze. He was standing too close for her to breathe.

“Shall I show you another room?” Her voice came out in a strangled whisper. “I am as good as most tour guides. Sometimes I fall into the crowd and listen to the tours. The Australian ones are the best. Their accents carry, so I don’t have to strain to hear, and they always know the best trivia.” She was waffling now, just gibberish.

Roman gave his head a slow shake. “I am not interested in art.”

Georgina could not stop the small sigh of disappointment. She had failed to capture his interest. There was a sting in the realization. It was a bullet dodged. She should feel relieved, but strangely she wasn’t.

The fear, she was enjoying it; it was like playing with fire, except Roman Zakharov was no doubt more deadly. Her heart picked up speed again. Oh God, what was she doing? She needed to focus. This was her job, her career, her life. She could not fail.

He would desire her, fuck her, make her his mistress even. She would do whatever it took to get the job done. Her life as a dancer had trained her that her body was a tool, and she would use it in any way she needed. Roman would not take her home unless he sampled the goods, so she had better make it convincing.

Georgina swallowed past the lump in her throat. Roman’s date would be looking for him soon. She could not wait. She laid her hand flat against his broad chest. Her fingers trembled on top of solid muscle. His body was so powerful, a massive frame bulked by large muscle and tight sinew. He was far too strong. She had never put herself in this much physical danger. If he killed her, would anyone know? Would anyone care? Roman Zakharov could easily kill her; he would if he discovered her motives.

Who would care if he did? The question robbed her of the little breath remaining. Not the other dancers in the company. They were colleagues, not friends. They pretended to be her friends, but they weren’t. There was too much competition for that.

Pavel
.

Pavel would care because he would have to recruit and train another woman.

Maxim
. Her director would care because Georgina was his star. She brought the audiences in, but she was disposable. Hundreds of dancers from around the world coveted her position. She would be replaced. As soon as her role was filled, she would be forgotten.

Lev?
The love of her life. Would Lev care? He had loved her once. He would have given anything for her. But that was a long time ago. Even if the news reached him, she was just a memory for him, probably not a good one.

There was no one. Georgina’s throat tightened.
No one
. She had given it all up for her career. She’d had friends and love, but now she had her career. An unfamiliar pressure built behind her eyes. She blinked hard to ease it.

It didn’t matter. Realization struck her. If she died, it didn’t matter because the result was the same as failing: her career and thus her life would be over.
No. I’m not done.
Her body had not failed her yet. She would be successful in this the way she was in everything else, with sheer grit. Adrenaline surged in her veins, pushing out any residual doubt. She glanced around the room again to make sure it was clear. There was no one except Roman. She studied the scarred, discolored skin of his profile as he looked up at a painting. She did not follow his gaze. He was all she saw, all that mattered right now. Determination pushed her forward.

She stepped onto her tiptoes; even then she did not reach his mouth, so she whispered against his neck. She breathed in his scent, fresh like soap, no aftershave, just a clean, masculine scent. “What are you interested in?” Her lips caressed him with each syllable. The texture of scarred skin sent a rippling shock of sensation through her. The burn looked hideous, but it felt strangely soft and sensual against her mouth. Georgina was overcome with the desire to trace the scar with the tip of her tongue just to know what it would feel like. But she couldn’t, not yet.

For a painful moment, Roman did not move. His body was rigid against her. But at last he lowered his head so his lips touched hers. “Tell me what you’re offering.” His low voice commanded. He was so close. He could kiss her but he didn’t. He let his words provide the only movement.

She couldn’t ask him to take her home. Not yet. Her fingers shook as she laced them around his neck and pulled his head down the final distance to meet her mouth. She connected with his full bottom lip first, so much softer than she expected, yet firm and utterly masculine like everything about him. His lips parted and his tongue teased her mouth open.

Her muscles relaxed. He wanted her. It was going to happen. Satisfaction shot through her. He wanted her. She didn’t care that he desired her; this was a mission like any other, but the satisfaction was intensified by something deeper, fear maybe. Yes, she was getting off on the fear. That was why her pulse picked up speed. That was why her clit tingled, begging to be stroked, because fear was a powerful aphrodisiac. If he fucked her now, hard against the wall, she would be ready. Her body would offer no resistance. If he reached between them and stroked her, he would find her pussy wet, not for him with his ugly, scarred face but for the terror, the primal desire to stay alive. Everyone knew about fight or flight, but there was another reaction to danger that Georgina had discovered: arousal.