wouldn’t have mattered if there’d been a thousand
people in the crowd. I would have noticed him
immediately.
It wasn’t just the immaculate black suit, which looked as
though it cost six months’ of my rent, or the equally
classy overcoat or gleaming shoes. It wasn’t his size,
even though he was big: at least a head taller than me,
his chest broad and solid. It was his sense of purpose.
I’ve never, ever, seen anyone with such absolute focus:
he looked like a sprinter coming off the blocks, eyes
locked on the finish line.
Except...his eyes were on me.
And he was dangerously, sinfully gorgeous. Some
Russian guys can be handsome in a rough-hewn, brutish
way. They were tanks; this man was a Ferrari, sculpted
by the devil himself to bring about a woman’s downfall.
High, elegant cheekbones were matched with dark
brows, just the right blend of beauty and raw male
power. Soft, sensuous lips were balanced by a solid jaw
dusted with black stubble. But what hit me were his
eyes: rich, dark brown with tiny flecks of amber and
burning with that purpose...he wanted to—
I flushed and wobbled. I never wobble.
I came up out of the arabesque and jumped down off
the bench, heart thumping in my chest. I flowed into a
pirouette and then started a series of jetés that would
take me all the way across the path because I needed
the thinking time. I needed to process what I’d just seen
in his eyes. It had leapt like a spark across the gap
between us and now it was spreading through me,
roaring and blazing like wildfire.
He wanted to kiss me. Fuck me. Possess me. All of
those things and all at once. It wasn’t the clumsy, ugly
lust guys throw at you in the street. It was like a force
of nature. I’d never felt anything like it in my life.
And as the crackling fire turned to throbbing heat, I felt
something tugging, answering, from inside me.
I liked being cold. I needed to be cold. But right then,
just for a second, I wanted to be warm again. I wanted
that special sort of warmth you only get when you’re
pressed tight up against someone, their arms wrapped
around you to warm your back. I wanted to be warmed
by him and I wanted the hotter, darker heat I saw in his
eyes. I wanted to let that melt through all the ice, burn
me up and freakin’ destroy me, vaporize my atoms until
I was just a moan carried on a scorching wind.
I risked a glance at him as I turned. His eyes were still
locked on me: Rachel and the quartet might as well not
have existed. His gaze followed me as I bent my knees
and sank down into a plié. The air didn’t feel cold
against my skin, anymore. His stare was wrapping me in
heat, caressing every millimeter of my body from my
extended foot to where my leotard stretched tight
between my thighs. I’d never felt so watched in my
entire life.
I rose and spun into a pirouette, glimpsing him in pieces
as my head whipped past him—
Thickly-muscled legs under tailored pants—
A tight, toned waist above the shining leather belt—
Big hands, olive skin next to white shirt cuffs, hands
that could easily pin you to the bed—
White shirt smooth over hard abs, broadening to a
powerful chest—
God those shoulders, the guy was built like a bull, all
intimidating power—
I broke out of the pirouette and danced on, trying to get
an image out of my head. An image of me pressed
against him, my white leotard soft against his dark suit,
my arms over his shoulders, wrapping myself to him as
he leaned down and owned my mouth.
I stumbled and cursed: chyort! What the hell was wrong
with me?
And then I passed Rachel, coming the other way, and
saw her give a quick glance towards the guy and then at
me. My chest tightened. Did she know him? Had she
invited him, or set this up?
At that moment, the music came to a close. As the
crowd applauded, I saw the leader of the quartet, a tiny
cellist named Karen, rise to her feet and hug her hands
to her chest. “OK, enough,” she said. “I need hot coffee
now. I think my fingers are frozen to the bow.”
I’d finished on one leg, arms upraised to the sky. I
slowly lowered them and gave a quick glance towards
the guy in the crowd. He was applauding along with the
rest, but his eyes still hadn’t left me. Just for a split-
second, my gaze met his and I felt it again. This time,
the feeling was even clearer: his burning need, rolling
towards me in waves...and my matching response, a
sudden, urgent ache that came from deep down inside.
It was as if he’d awakened me, as if he’d struck exactly
the right note to make me resonate.
I swallowed and looked away, then marched over to
Rachel. Yep: she was glancing at him again and
smirking. “Do you know him?” I whispered angrily. “Is
this you?”
Rachel walked over to her bag and started pulling on a
hooded top. “I might have mentioned you’d be here,”
she said innocently. She gave me a filthy smile. “He
came looking for you after the show. Quite the smitten
kitten. I would have told him where to go except...”—
she glanced at him—”cheekbones.”
I thumped her in the arm. “Vy idiotskaya—”
“You’re welcome.” She smirked. “Have some fun for
once. Drop the ice maiden routine.” And she started to
back away.
Too late, I looked up and saw the guy marching
towards us. The crowd was parting ahead of him:
people took one look at him and just stepped aside.
“Wait!” I whispered to Rachel. “You’re not an idiot!” I
grabbed for her arm. “Don’t leave me with him!”
But she was already out of reach. And then the man
was just a few feet away and I had to turn to face him.
I could feel every defense slamming up. What Rachel
calls my ice maiden routine, except it’s not that at all.
It’s not an act: it’s a survival mechanism.
In Russia, plenty of men wanted me...but not for me.
They wanted me for who I was, for a way into our
family. They were rich and powerful and, because they
were all in the same business as my uncle, violence
came easily to them. Violent, often drunk men who
were used to being obeyed. The idea of marrying one of
them made my stomach knot...but that’s what I was
expected to do. I was supposed to smile and date and
choose one, marry him and start producing the next
generation of the dynasty.
The only way to avoid it was to keep pushing them
away until I could get to America. I learned a thousand
different ways to say no. I was polite when I could be,
savage when I couldn’t. And all the time I was cold,
cold, cold. It went on for years and it was hellishly,
heartbreakingly lonely, but it was better than the
alternative. If I gave in even once, if I let myself be
drawn into their world, I knew I’d be trapped in it
forever. And I was determined not to let that happen.
Except now here I was in America and I hadn’t escaped
my fate at all. And the coldness?
I didn’t know how to turn that off, anymore.
The man reached me and God, I hadn’t realized how tall
he was. Up close, the top of my head only came up to
the top of his chest. It didn’t help that I was still in
ballet slippers. I felt myself tensing up, eyes going
everywhere except his face, partially because I was
trying not to encourage him and partially….
Partially because, if I looked into his eyes again, I was