48. Roman
For all the safety measures I’m sure Steven was fretting over, I was a nobody in the hall where the dance competition was held. It was a very casual affair and I was merely a spectator. Nothing more, nothing less.
All eyes were on the preening and prancing dancers, doing their last practice on the dance floor. The minute we arrived, Isabel was swept away in the rush to warm up. Meg pulled me to some benches. “Sit, I’ll be right back.”
Which left me searching the crowd for the Russian, and it was very easy to find him. He stood out like the demigod he was, and it was safe to say the pictures I’d seen of him were a fair rendition of his magnificence.
He and Isabel practiced some dance moves, very sultry moves I might add, and it was difficult to focus on anything other than watching how lithe Isabel was in his arms. I couldn’t say I cared for the way the Russian held her, and it took some effort not to rush over and physically pry her from his clutches.
Meg returned with two plastic cups of something alcoholic and handed one to me. “Thanks,” I said, very distracted by the scene playing out before me.
“You’re doing so well, going all common-man tonight,” she said. “You should be proud of yourself.”
“Well, I’m glad you approve.”
Her eyes followed my gaze. “Deep breaths, Roman. It’s over between them. They’re done.”
“That’s not a man who’s done with Isabel.”
“Okay fine, so then let it be a reminder that if you fuck up, that’s what’s waiting in the wings.”
I growled on the inside, took a sip of the mystery drink and nearly choked. “What the hell is this, if I may ask.”
“You may ask,” Meg said. “It’s from a punchbowl and God only knows what they used to come up with this mix. Unless you have a bottle of Grey Goose hiding in your pants, it’s this or nothing, so deal.”
My gaze was still moored to Isabel and the Russian, the familiarity between them relentlessly feeding the jealousy that twisted my insides. And then, casual as you please, Sergei raked his hand over Isabel’s back and put his lips to her hair. Worse was how radiant she looked while laughing at something he said.
I didn’t need a sphygmomanometer to know my blood pressure was spiking, and with that I handed my drink to Meg. “Please excuse me. It’s time I introduced myself to the Russian.”
The last thing I heard was her chuckling. “Way to make that sound super threatening. Break a leg.”
I made my way over to the corner where Isabel and Sergei were still “warming up,” and now the Russian’s hand was on her thigh, and God help me with every step I took I resented him more. The fact that I had at least two inches on him in height, was a welcoming plus.
They both noticed me at the same time, and a precautionary smile graced Isabel’s lips before her eyes flashed a warning. Which I promptly ignored. Sergei raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, as if I were a lost dog wandering into the wrong yard.
“Hello my sweet,” I said and landed a very possessive hand on the small of Isabel’s back. The nymph emitted a small, peeved sigh, not terribly impressed by what was sure to be my show of rivalry.
The Russian’s gaze went from inquisitive to fury burning in his eyes. He looked at Isabel, incredulously. “Tell me this is not the asshole, malishka, the one who made you cry… I mean is this the bastard who broke your heart? What the fuck is he doing here?”
Asshole. Bastard. Wasn’t he just full of compliments.
“You can ask me that yourself,” I said. “I’m here to watch my girlfriend dance.”
Judging from the look he threw toward me, I had no doubt he was fantasizing about the many ways he could help me meet my demise.
Isabel became steel. And there was no mistaking her irritation now. She took a few steps away, observing us both. Then she addressed Sergei. And it was in Russian, which left me wondering exactly how many languages the nymph spoke. Had she learned Russian for him? From him?
Whatever she said seemed to settle him down a little. He changed course and stuck his hand out to me. “Sergei Kovalenko.”
I shook his hand, his grip as forceful as his tone. I didn’t try to dominate the handshake, trusting my name alone would do that. “Roman Belmont.”
His eyes narrowed. “As in…the Belmont Hotel?”
He’d taken the bait. I smiled casually. “As in all the Belmont Hotels.”
Sergei glanced at Isabel as if he’d been betrayed, then looked back at me. “Really. So, you’re not a waiter.”
A chuckle escaped me. “Something tells me it wouldn’t make a difference if I was.”
The Russian smiled, and I’ll say this for him, he wasn’t going quietly into the night. He studied me with a haughty expression, his voice laced with contempt. “So where does one go to meet a capitalist such as yourself?”
Isabel bristled. “Oh for God’s sake, Sergei. Let it go.”
He shrugged, seemingly carefree, but tension was brewing underneath. “Let me guess, chef’s table at Le Petit Chateau.”
“No, I’ve never been to Le Petit Chateau,” I said. “Isabel and I met in a bookshop near the Belmont Hotel. Very nice place, have you ever been? Great selection of antique books on French Desserts.”
“How fucking quaint,” he fired back before casting Isabel a dark look. “You know this thing you have with this guy has as much chance of a happy ending as me becoming a principal dancer any time soon.”
As if I wasn’t standing right there.But I couldn’t help but pick up on that last bit, making a mental note to ask Meg what that was all about.
“Easy now,” I said in a friendly tone. “Capitalists have feelings too, you know.”
The nymph had reached her threshold. She pouted and her eyes narrowed as she met Sergei’s gaze. And I knew that look all too well since I’d been on the receiving end of it a few times myself.
Sergei leaned into her, as if to emphasize his point. “Not two hours ago you were telling me you had made a big mistake hooking up with this tool. What happened between then and now?”
“It was a simple misunderstanding,” she said.
“A simple misunderstanding,” he vented. “Is that so?”
“I take it we’re done warming up,” she said icily. “I’ll see you when it’s time to dance.”
But Sergei wasn’t done. He cupped her face, kissed her full on the lips and whispered something Russian in her ear.
And fuck if I didn’t want to punch him in the face for kissing her. And of course now I was dead-set on finding out what he’d whispered to her.
He strode away, as elegant and light on his feet as a man his size could possibly be, and joined a group of dancers. For good measure he scraped a female dancer close and gave her a breathless, very French kiss.
Isabel’s usually expressive face was deadpan as she shifted her gaze to me and lazily contoured the lines of my face. “See? This is why I didn’t want you to come. What is it about men peacocking and staking claims on things that don’t belong to them.”
I gently raked her into my arms. “But you do belong to me. And I belong to you. I just wanted to make sure he and I are on the same page there.”
She almost smiled. And I had to kiss her, because how could I not. More so to remove any trace of his kiss on her lips. And then against my own better judgment I pushed the issue, murmuring into her mouth. “What was that last thing he said to you?”
She took a step back and considered me, weighing whether she should tell me. And from her hesitation I gathered it was something loving and sweet.
“Moya zhizn,” she finally said.
“I’m not going to pretend I know what that means.”
“It’s just a Russian endearment. It means my life.”
Christ. It wasn’t a loving endearment, it was a profound declaration of love.
“And here I thought calling you my sweet was groundbreaking as far as endearments go.”
Her fingers trailed my face, soothing the talking vein. “I love it when you call me your sweet, Roman. You should know that by now.”
And then she wove her fingers through my hair and tilted her lips up to mine for a kiss. I scrambled to obey. For a few moments the din in the hall faded into the background, and the nymph and I were once again in our own secret little cocoon, my body molding into her supple lines. All the stares thrown our way be damned.
“I have to go and get my makeup done,” she breathed into my mouth.
“Or we can ditch this and go to the Belmont Hotel for a dinner date,” I suggested.
“Or…or, and hear me out,” she said. “I can do my thing here, we get pizza after and then we can take it from there.”
“Take what from there, my sweet. Please be explicit.”
And if Isabel didn’t scour me from head to toe, her lips still plump from our kiss and slightly parted. “Oh, I don’t know Roman. Perhaps we can play a board game or checkers. Do you know how to play gin? Or perhaps you can just fuck me until neither one of us can breathe.”
Desire sizzled down my back into the base of my spine. But it was the nymph”s brazen casualness that really did me in.
“Damnit, Isabel. Have mercy. How long is this dancing thing going to last?”
“Two, three hours tops. So, no worries, you have lots of time to decide what you want on your pizza tonight.”
And with that, she darted off and left me to battle an erection with Steven watching from one of the doors, shaking his head. At a wild guess it was the very public kiss that once again met with his disapproval.
As if I gave a fuck at this point.
I strolled back to the bench and sat down next to Meg. She nudged my shoulder, “They’re always going to dance together. Better to make peace with it now. It’ll be easier on you in the long run, you know.”
“The Russian said something about never being able to be a principal dancer,” I said. “What did he mean by that?”
“When Isabel broke her ankle it kinda nixed her ballet career,” Meg told me. “And since she and Sergei couldn’t do ballet together anymore, they started doing ballroom and freestyle in competitions. The ballet company forbids dancers to perform any other kind of dance because they think it messes with their form. Which is bullshit. But it means Sergei is forever going to be stuck being a soloist, as much as he deserves to be a principal dancer, because of petty rules no one really gives a shit about. That’s the sacrifice he makes to keep dancing with Isabel.”
I let that information percolate in my mind as I watched Isabel on the other side of the room, being fussed over by a couple of women doing her makeup.
Her gaze locked with mine, a current sizzling through the room. That signature pout morphed into a secretive smile, and my breath stalled. And once again I was staggered by how quickly and effortlessly the nymph had become the beat of my heart and the pulse in my blood.
* * *
For a guywho’d never given ballroom dancing a second thought, the competition wasn’t the worst thing to watch. But nothing prepared me for Isabel and Sergei’s performance. Nothing. Talk about poetry in motion.
I recognized the music. Por una Cabeza. One of the most stunning tango compositions to grace our world. And of course Isabel and the Russian’s every move matched the sensational elegance those notes evoked. It was graceful, provocative and astonishing to watch.
Like everyone else, I was a mere voyeur to a seductive ritual, two people breathing life into every fluid step they took. And when the last notes waned, it was as if the entire room held its breath while the flames on the dance floor sizzled out.
There was no denying the level of intimacy Isabel and Sergei shared, which had nothing to do with sex. She trusted him to lead her, to hold her when he dipped her dangerously close to the floor. That was the kind of trust I wanted from Isabel, and what I’d do anything to have.