1. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Four Months Ago
I moved across the wooden floor, my body in perfect rhythm with the music. As I began my second full hour of dancing, my skin glistened with perspiration.
I struck my ending pose, left arm up in fifth position, my right in second, and my face angled perfectly.
“Excellent, Miss Fitz.” The man gave two sharp claps, and I restricted my beaming smile into a placid one. That was high praise coming from Professor Bernard Moreau. He didn’t give out compliments willingly.
“Thank you, sir.”
“A few notes,” he said in his slight French accent.
Of course. There were always notes. This was my first evening working one-on-one with Professor Moreau, and I wanted to impress him. He didn’t take on very many private students, so I felt fortunate to be here.
Standing with my feet at a forty-five degree angle and my back rod straight, I inhaled what I called aroma de la ballet studio —rosin, wood, musk, leather, and sweat .
“Your allegro movements need to be quicker, more dynamic,” he said, slapping the backs of his fingers against his palm.
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you’re in à la Quatrième Derrière, your shoulders are uneven.” He lifted one thin eyebrow, and I suddenly wondered if he got them waxed.
Jesus, don’t smile, Mal.
“I had an injury to my left shoulder about six months ago, and I tend to favor it. I’ll be more conscientious in the future, Professor.”
“See that you do,” he said, lowering the censuring eyebrow. “Because I do appreciate a good derrière.”
His top lip lifted—showing a row of tiny white teeth—into what I assumed was a smile because he laughed, a series of short, staccato ha, ha sounds.
I was a bit taken aback by that comment. I expected derrière jokes from the preteens I taught, not from a fifty-something, world-renowned dance professor who had more degrees than a thermometer. But I followed his lead and let out a small return laugh, which sounded almost as awkward as it felt.
“Not that you have to worry about that, Miss Fitz.” He bobbed those skinny eyebrows once.
Yep, he definitely has them waxed. Or maybe threaded.
And did he just imply that I have a nice ass?
I mean, I do, but…
Ignoring the inappropriateness of the situation, I asked, “Would you like me to run it again?”
“Yes, please. I’m not fond of that middle section after the pirouettes, so I may change that.”
“Of course, sir. I’d appreciate any feedback. You’re the expert.”
He plucked at his salt-and-pepper goatee with his thumb and forefinger, a smug smile playing across his thin lips. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Oh, this guy likes himself.
With the push of a button, he started the music, and I performed the intricate choreography, taking into account his prior notes. My feet were accurate and crisp in the allegro section, and my shoulders were perfectly aligned.
When I was done, my new professor’s head dipped and lifted in a slow nod. “Much better, Miss Fitz. Croisé Devante, please.”
I immediately found the position, holding as still as a statue when he approached me. “Your lines are fantastique, Mallori. Your aesthetics please me.”
My left arm was raised and slightly curved over my head, and Professor Moreau traced a slow line with his finger from my armpit to my wrist. I did my best not to shiver at the unexpected—and unwelcome—touch.
“Thank you,” I rasped. What the hell is he doing?
The man circled until he was behind me. Even if I couldn’t see his reflection in the wall of mirrors, I would have felt the way his eyes scraped against my backside. I’d never felt more grossed out in my life.
The tips of my instructor’s fingers slid up the side of my neck, from my collarbone to my jaw, and he let out a low groan. “And this neck is exquisite.”
Okay, I’ve had it with this guy.
I was always the consummate rule follower, the people pleaser, especially while in any type of dance training. But tonight—in the presence of possibly one of the greatest ballet minds of our time—I split from the character I usually played… the perfect dancer… the perfect student… the perfect daughter.
Without being told to do so, I broke my position and turned, putting on my brightest smile. “Professor, I would love to see what you have in mind for the section after the pirouettes. Your choreography is always brilliant.”
See what I did there? Stroked his egotistical side while also stopping him from stroking my damn neck.
Okay, arguably not the most rebellious thing I could have done, but my mother’s training was ingrained too deeply in my core. And my tactic worked.
Though Professor Moreau’s lips tightened infinitesimally, it was followed by an upward curve. “Oh, I do have plans for you, chérie.”
Well that didn’t sound creepy at all.
My distraction had the intended effect, and over the next thirty minutes, I learned some of the most intense choreography I’d ever experienced.
And I absolutely killed it.
“Excellent, chérie,” my new teacher said, clapping his hands with absolute glee. “A lot of people throw around the word prodigy, and I’ve found it’s generally an obtuse exaggeration, but you… You are precisely as billed, Mallori Fitz. This is going to be so much fun!”
His excitement was contagious, and I smiled through my heaving breaths. “Thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to working with you this year. ”
My final year at this university, thank god. Then I could find my own way and finally make it on my own, without my mother hovering over me every spare second.
“Take a rest. You’ve earned it,” he said, handing me a bottle of water. “You must always listen to your body. Push it to its limits, yes? But always listen. We can’t afford for you to be injured.”
Bernard Moreau may be weird as hell, but the man was a ballet genius, so I nodded before taking a hearty drink of the cool liquid.
“I can help with that,” he continued. “I will listen very closely to your body, as well—become an expert on it.”
Why does every single thing he says sound so bizarrely inappropriate?
I glanced at the clock over the mirrors on the back wall and saw that it was after nine in the evening, well past our scheduled time. “Shall I go through it again, or wait until tomorrow?” I asked.
Professor Moreau tilted his head to the side, regarding me intently. “I think that’s enough dancing for one night.” He circled a finger toward the top of my head. “What is that you wear over your hair?”
My fingers drifted over the baby-pink yarn covering my blonde bun, and my heart ached a little. “It’s a bun cover. I don’t have to wear it if you don’t want me to.”
See? People pleaser. That’s me.
“Very interesting. May I take a closer look?”
I tilted my head forward. “My grandmother Fitz made it for me. I can just remove it. It’s no problem.”
“Kneel please, so I can see it better. I have an appreciation for handmade things. My grandmother also crocheted. ”
A frisson of unease snaked down my spine, but I sank to my knees on the hard floor, feeling the need to chatter to cover the awkwardness in the air.
“I wear them to feel a connection with her. She passed away a few years ago. I have about twenty of them in different colors.”
The professor's hand rested lightly on the back of my neck, and I bit my bottom lip because something didn’t feel right.
“It’s beautifully done, and I like the sentiment. A connection .” He tugged my bun until my face was tilted up toward him. “Connections are very important, don’t you think, Mallori?”
His voice was lower, his brown eyes hooded, as he rolled his thumb over my bottom lip. Oh shit! Not good.
Swallowing the fear that was building in my throat, I turned my head to the side, away from his blunt thumb. “I need to get home before my mother worries,” I said, my voice reedy and unsteady.
“Oh, I don’t think she will mind you staying a little late,” he crooned. His other hand was still gripping my hair, and he forced my head back until my neck strained. “We were talking about connections. Would you like to have a connection with me, Mallori?”
“A very professional student-teacher connection?” I asked pointedly, my hands bunching into fists.
This could not be fucking happening to me. I’d looked forward to having this man as my professor for three years, and now I was questioning whether I ever wanted to see him again.
When his hand went to his belt and began unfastening it, the answer became a resounding fuck no.
“I think we can do better than that, Miss Fitz.” He made a low humming sound in the back of his throat when his hand slid into his brown tweed pants, moving up and down, and I was pretty sure I was about to puke.
Forcing some steel into my voice, I placed one foot on the ground and said, “I’m leaving now, Professor.” But his other hand was still tightly gripping my hair and kept me from rising. “Let go of me, please.”
Don’t cry. Don’t freaking cry. Be strong!
“This is your career we’re talking about, Mallori. Don’t throw it all away over—”
Whatever he was going to say was cut off when I grabbed the hand holding my hair and twisted it backward before driving my right fist directly into Moreau’s nose.
With a howl of pain, he fell backward as I pushed to my feet. I heard a thunk but didn’t even look back.
I ran. It wasn’t until I was outside the dance building I’d called home for the past three years that I realized I’d left my bag inside. With my cell phone in it. And my keys.
Great.
No freaking way I’m going back in there, I thought, whipping my head from side to side. My eyes fell on the building to my right, and I stumbled in that direction. I was still wearing my pointe shoes, not the easiest things to run in.
Entering the library, I remembered that I couldn’t get into the main part without my student identification card. Which was in my damn bag. In the damn ballet studio. Where that damn man was, hopefully still on the floor with a bloody nose .
That almost made me smile as I thought about my older cousin, Cam. He’d been in the military and had taught me a few things when I was a teenager.
Camden Fitz was super protective of me, and I was pretty sure he’d be proud when I told him how I’d handled the handsy professor.
I didn’t need my ID to go into the restroom just inside the library entrance, so I pushed open the door and made my way to the line of sinks. My face was blotchy with tears I didn’t remember crying, and my hair was a wretched mess.
Turning on the sink, I cupped my hands and splashed some water onto my face. My mind was going a million miles a minute as I tried to think of what to do. I needed to report this, but I didn’t have my phone. The librarian would probably let me use the phone inside if I told her I’d been attacked.
Or… Or I could go straight to Dean Kotov’s house. He was the Dean of Performing Arts and lived in a house on campus with his wife, Katrina. As a former dancer himself, he’d taken a special interest in me as soon as I arrived on campus.
Not special interest like that douchebag Moreau but a genuine interest in the new “prodigy” in the program. He and Katrina had been very kind to me, and I’d even babysat their granddaughter, Emily, a few times when she came to visit one summer.
Pressing my hand to my chest, I counted my breaths. They were too fast and had a harsh, prickly quality that I needed to get hold of quickly. I was not great at conflict; in fact, I pretty much sucked at it, so I employed a technique I learned in my meditation class freshman year.
With my thumbs gently pressing the cartilage in front of my ears, I draped my fingers over my eyelids, nose, and lips as I inhaled the deepest breath I could muster. Then I released it with a slow, low humming sound that simulated the black bumblebee of India.
When I ran out of breath, I inhaled again and repeated the buzzing exhale. After five rounds, I dropped my hands, opened my eyes, and noticed a female student peeking out of the stall behind me, her lips parted. I hadn’t even heard her come in.
“Sorry. Meditation,” I explained, and she gave me a tentative smile.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, thank you. I just needed to calm down.”
The young woman nodded and closed the stall door, locking herself inside. Probably to avoid the crazy bee lady who was buzzing in the library restroom.
Intent on speaking with the dean, I exited the library, realizing once outside that I was still wearing only my leotard and tights. September was cool in Pennsylvania, and I quickened my steps against the chill, arriving at the large, white-brick home in minutes.
The lights were still on, thank goodness, and I tapped the brass knocker against the front door. I heard footsteps and almost collapsed in relief when Katrina Kotov answered the door. She was a tall, slender woman with platinum-blonde hair and a stunningly delicate face.
“Katrina, hi. I apologize for the late hour, but I need to speak with the dean.”
She didn’t greet me with a hug like she usually did, instead stepping back without a word to let me in. Her ice-blue eyes raked up and down my scantily clad form, making me feel self-conscious about my attire.
“Sorry, I just came from the studio.”
“Hmm,” she hummed, pursing her lips as her eyes darted toward a closed mahogany door.
What the hell is up with her tonight? She’s usually so warm.
“Has he already gone to bed?” I asked, and Katrina blew out a sigh.
“No, he’s in his study.” Her bare feet padded softly across the cream and gold marble, and I followed a few steps behind her. After knocking twice, she cracked the door, stuck her head inside, and announced, “Mallori is here.”
I couldn’t quite hear his response, but Katrina stepped back and gestured for me to enter. Dean Kotov was sitting behind his massive desk, his hair slightly disheveled like he’d run his hands through it a few times. I’d always thought he had the most gorgeous hair, a bright golden color with threads of silver throughout.
His cobalt-blue eyes met mine but didn’t hold the fondness I usually found there. Probably because a student had invaded his house so late in the evening. As always, I felt the need to apologize for causing even the slightest inconvenience.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, sir, but it was important that I speak with you tonight.” I shivered in the cool air of his study. And maybe from the cool look on his face.
He’ll warm up once I tell him what happened to me. The man had been a surrogate parental figure for me since I’d arrived… too old to be my father but too young to be my grandfather. He was like a father/grandfather hybrid, and he would be able to tell me how to proceed from here .
“Good evening, Mallori.”
Rubbing my hands up and down the gooseflesh covering my bare arms, I apologized once again. “I’m sorry about my clothing. My jacket and warm-up pants are in my bag, which I left in the ballet studio.”
Without a word—only an upward notch of his blond eyebrows—he rose from behind his desk and lifted something from the floor.
My pink and black backpack.
With my eyebrows scrunched together, I shook my head. “How… how did…”
A layer of ice formed around my heart when I became aware of someone else in the room. My gaze shifted to the left to find the last man I ever wanted to see again.
Bernard Moreau.
He was sitting on a large leather couch with an ice pack in one of his grubby hands. And a smirk on his lips. I was pleased to see dried blood beneath his nostrils and on his shirt. The asshole.
In two quick steps, I was in front of Dean Kotov’s desk, taking my bag and immediately pulling out my black jacket with the white stripes down the sleeves. I felt the pressing need to cover myself; I didn’t want that man looking at me.
“Bernard told me about the altercation in the studio,” Dean Kotov said, his eyebrows still residing somewhere near his hairline. “I’m so upset, Mallori.”
Stuffing my arms in the sleeves, I zipped my jacket and avoided eye contact with my attacker. “I am too, sir. We need to call the campus police immediately. ”
The dean crossed his arms over his slightly pudgy belly as he thinned his lips. “Are you sure you want to do that? Bernard was just telling me he’s willing to handle this quietly and not press charges against you for assaulting him.”
“Assaulting him?” I practically screeched. “ He assaulted me !”
“Professor Moreau’s bloody nose tells a different story.”
“I-I was defending myself.”
The jackass rose from the couch, and I took a step back, putting as much space between us as possible as my heart thumped with fear behind my breastbone.
He made a derisive little tsking sound. “That’s the problem with mediocre dancers, Ivan. They don’t respond well to criticism.”
Attempting to brush off the mediocre insult, I clenched my fists at my side. “You tried to sexually assault me,” I spat.
Dean Kotov broke in, his voice sharp. “That’s a very serious accusation, young lady. Bernard Moreau’s reputation is beyond reproach.”
He’d never taken a firm tone with me, and it hurt. But I lifted my chin and insisted, “So is mine.”
The dark-haired jerk took a couple steps in my direction, and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to cower when he sneered, “You’d dare to compare my reputation to yours? You’re a nobody who thinks she’s somebody because she has a modicum of talent.”
“You made unwelcome advances toward me, and…”
He was right in my face now, his back to the dean as he licked his lower lip in a disgusting display of lewdness, and I lost my words.
“Oh, how you do flatter yourself, Miss Fitz. I’m one of the most well-respected individuals in the dance world. Why would I want someone like you?” Then he winked. The fucking bastard !
And I lost my shit. Every ass-kissing lesson my mother had ever instilled in me flew directly out the window and into the dark Pennsylvania night.
I jabbed my finger into his chest and snapped, “You are the most arrogant son of a bitch I’ve ever met, and trust me, I’ve met a lot of them. You know exactly what you did, you pompous, overrated—”
My next words were cut off when Dean Kotov stepped between us. “Mallori! That is enough!”
“This is why I don’t deal with freshmen, Ivan,” Moreau purred, taking a half step back. “I expect more of a senior student, but she obviously lacks the maturity to dance at a professional level.”
The dean held up a palm toward each of us, his eyes closing for a long second as he exhaled a gritty breath. “I don’t know what to say here. Mallori has never acted like this before.”
“Well, my name brings a lot of funding to this university. What does this little girl bring besides bad lines and false accusations?”
“You said my lines were, and I quote, fantastique. You know, while you were touching me inappropriately?”
“That’s it!” Moreau roared, and I stumbled back a step at his ferocity. “I could teach at any university in the world, Ivan. I’ve been assaulted and insulted this evening, and I’m tired of playing nice with this child .”
“You didn’t think I was a child when you were unbuttoning your pants,” I shot back, and Dean Ivan’s already pale face blanched to the approximate shade of an egg.
The man I’d come to know and trust faced me, his mouth downturned as he shook his head. “Mallori, I’ve never been more disappointed in anyone in my entire life. ”
And I understood. He wasn’t talking about Moreau. He was talking about me.
Dean Kotov was disappointed… in me.