2. Katya #2
He's younger than I expected—mid-thirties at the most. His hair is pale blonde, almost white in the low lighting, and his eyes are the color of winter ice, cold and clear and impossibly blue.
His face is all sharp angles and strong lines.
The whole effect is devastating, and I feel heat flood my cheeks as those ice-blue eyes focus on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"Ms. Popova." His voice is deep and accented, the words shaped with a precision that tells me English isn't his first language. He stands and pulls out a chair for me with old-world courtesy. "Sit."
I sit because my legs suddenly feel unreliable, and because something about the way he says it makes disobedience feel impossible.
Jonathan starts to say something about me needing to leave early, but Mr. Orlov cuts him off with two words.
"Leave, Jonathan."
The tone is sharp enough that I actually flinch, and I watch in amazement as Jonathan's mouth snaps shut and he simply nods and walks away without another word.
"Here." Mr. Orlov slides a glass across the table toward me, and I notice his hands—elegant but strong, with long fingers.
I can see the calluses on several of them and wonder what caused them.
He doesn't seem like the type to do manual labor, and yet, when he turns his hands over, I can see them all over.
I pick up the glass, looking at the clear liquid inside with uncertainty. "I don't drink during the season, or really at all. I read a study a few years ago about the effects of alcohol on overall health and—" I blush, pressing my lips together. "Sorry."
He smiles, and the expression transforms his entire face from coldly beautiful to something warmer. "It's club soda. I imagine you're quite parched after performing."
His words are formal, old-fashioned almost.
"Are you a fan of ballet?"
"I'm a fan of art," he says, those ice-blue eyes never leaving my face. "And you create it beautifully."
The compliment makes me smile even if I suspect it's a line.
"Thank you."
Silence falls between us, but it's not comfortable—it's charged with something I don't have a name for, something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
He's studying me, and I feel like I'm being catalogued in some way I don't understand, like he's looking for something specific, and I don't know if I'm giving him what he wants.
I shift in my chair, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed I am in this costume, of how the thin fabric does almost nothing to hide my body, of how his gaze feels like a physical touch on my bare arms and legs.
"Did Jonathan make you wear your costume?" There's a note of disapproval in his voice.
I look down at myself, at my bare legs covered in goosebumps from the air conditioning, at the way the sheer fabric clings to every curve.
"I wasn't prepared for a meeting," I admit, wrapping my arms around myself even though the cardigan is already covering the worst of it. "I didn't know I'd be coming tonight."
"That was my fault. I requested to meet you on short notice."
"Why?"
His eyebrow arches. "Why?"
I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet those unsettling ice-blue eyes even though looking directly at him makes my heart race. "Why did you request to meet me tonight? Jonathan said you're an important donor, but the urgency seems out of place when there's a reception at the end of the run."
Donors don't usually request individual meetings with dancers, and honestly, I'm shocked Jonathan agreed. I suspect this man gave a boatload of money, which makes me stiffen. Does he think he can buy me?
He takes a slow sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch until I'm almost vibrating with nervous energy.
"I wanted to see if you were as beautiful in person as you are on stage." His voice has dropped lower, more intimate, and I feel the words in the pit of my stomach like a physical sensation.
I chuckle, trying not to squirm. I like his words despite my better judgment. For whatever reason, he doesn't strike me as a man who gives compliments often, so it feels earned. Still, I want him to understand that I know his game.
"Does that line usually work?"
I expect another smooth retort. Instead, his eyes narrow. Just slightly. I've offended him. I gulp, worried.
But he says nothing. He finishes his drink in one swallow and stands, and suddenly he seems impossibly tall, towering over me in a way that should feel threatening but instead makes me feel strangely protected. "You should get home before it's too late. You have rehearsal tomorrow, yes?"
"Um—" I almost apologize—smile and be pleasant, one hour—but before I can find words, he reaches out, and I freeze entirely as his hand wraps around my wrist.
He's warm and strong and careful all at once, his thumb resting against my pulse point where I'm certain he can feel how fast my heart is racing.
He brings my wrist to his lips, and I stop breathing entirely as I feel the press of his mouth against my skin, feel the warmth of his breath, feel something electric shoot through my entire body from that single point of contact.
"До следующего раза, Катя." Until next time, Katya.
The words are Russian, soft and intimate, spoken so close to my skin that I can feel them as much as hear them, and they send a shiver cascading down my spine.
He's gone before I can ask another question, leaving me sitting alone at the table with my hand still tingling where he touched me and my brain struggling to catch up.
He knows I speak Russian.