The Siren's Dance (13 page)

She refused to be distracted by that winning smile. “What did he say?”

“That you would say or do anything to get your hands on Demyan.”

Her stomach, her heart--no,
all
the organs she’d just gotten back--descended into the ones that had been pleasantly throbbing earlier. It wasn’t so fun to have a body when it weighed a thousand pounds all of a sudden.

Dmitri’s words were entirely true, so why did they hurt? Why did she want Sergey to look at her and smile, to reassure her that he didn’t think she was using him or lying to him?

He picked up the room phone and placed the order. He still held her wrist in a tight cuff of his fingers, but with the moment of distraction, she could--

Yes. She slipped out of his grip and went ghost. Just as in the interrogation room, her nightgown fell into a shiny pool of pink satin on the floor. He glanced at it and scowled but didn’t break the rhythm of his speech as he thanked the person on the other end of the line. Then he slammed the handset onto the stand.

“Goddammit, Anya, this isn’t helping.”

She drifted into the corner, trembling and bereft, but invisible to him. What the hell was wrong with her?

“Guess I’ll have to eat two filets myself. And two slices of chocolate cake.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared vacantly in her general direction, his unfocused eyes hard. How did he even know which way she’d gone? Oh right. Behind her, the curtains flapped gently like she wore a cape on a breezy night.

His biceps bulged, and his handsome face was set in those hard, square lines that made him look older and determined, hazel eyes flaring amber sparks. Then he took a mighty breath that lifted his chest and exhaled it loudly.

“Look, Anya, I’m not angry. Lisko just reminded me of the truth. You aren’t some helpless victim--maybe you were when you met Demyan, but now you’re…” He shook his head.

What was the end of his sentence? A tramp. A user. A harpy.

“Now, you’re strong.”

Something in her seized up, like the remembered sensation of having her breath stolen. She couldn’t move, only tried to let the praise penetrate her.

“You don’t need me to protect you,” he added.

No, she didn’t. Nothing could really hurt her besides more of the same loneliness. But oh, how she wanted him to hold her tight, keep her warm, make her feel worthy of protection.

He clenched his jaw and held his palm up, a gesture of reconciliation. “You don’t need it, but still, something ridiculous in me wants to protect you. Maybe it’s my stupid inner police puppy. An oversized sense of justice and duty.”

She swooshed right up to him, hovering just inches from his face. The memory of his scent lingered even though she couldn’t smell in her ghost form. Before she could think twice, she pressed her nose to his, her lips to his mouth. She turned real--flesh and blood, substantial.

Instantly, she began to fall, sucked under by gravity and the freezing panic of drowning in black, bottomless water. But in a flash, his arms were around her, flattening her to his chest, chasing away the cold and the fear. Then one hand came up to cradle her head, tangling his fingers in her wet hair. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

Oh, God. When the grocer’s boy had done that, it had felt sloppy, invasive. But Sergey’s tongue was deft, subtle. He stroked her own tongue lightly, then retreated. That tantalizing stiffness between his hips pressed hard and long against her pelvis.

In answer, the lowest parts of her belly fluttered again, growing hot and liquid. She’d wanted Demyan, but her desire had been focused on fantasies, girlish imaginings about what a man did to a woman to possess her. The way Sergey made her feel lent the fantasies substance, sensuality. Suddenly, the logic of a man entering her body--how it might work, why it might feel wonderful--it all made sense.

The way he kissed her, with a gentle, teasing intensity even though he held her head firmly. The way he opened his mouth to her tongue, accepted her tentative explorations, and made little grunts of pleasure as perfectly masculine as his delicious scent. This wasn’t possession, it was a dance, and she wanted to lose herself in it as thoroughly as she’d ever given herself over to the movement of her body in time to music.

Then, all at once, he retreated, his eyes wide and wild, his beautiful mouth open in an uneven grimace.

A chill fell over her damp and mostly naked body.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit. Anya. I’m sorry. I can’t…” He stroked the pad of his thumb over her lip, the skin of it tender to his touch. “I just can’t.”

She crossed her arms over her all-too exposed breasts, cold and straining against the satin nightgown. His thumb, his gentle fingers along her jaw--they were the only points of contact between them, keeping her in the flesh when all she really wanted was to be invisible again. Just as she moved to pull away, he grabbed her wrist.

“It’s not you, Anya.”

“Of course. I understand,” she said, even though she really didn’t. The only explanation was that he didn’t want her, that in spite of all he’d said, all his actions, he ultimately found her as unworthy as Demyan had.

A knock sounded on the door. “Room service.”

Thank God. She could satisfy her hunger for cake instead and pretend that kiss had never happened.

Sergey couldn’t decide whether to tell the waiter to fuck off or let him inside and be thankful for the distraction. When Anya’s stomach growled like a passing train, the answer was made for him. The sound was a quiet echo of her tornado, and he couldn’t risk an F5 wind event in their hotel room because he’d let his ghost get hungry.

He opened the door and found there was an actual train in the hallway. Three room service carts piled high with silver domes. It was going to cost Lisko a fortune, and for some reason, that was enough to make Sergey chuckle, suddenly aware of the hollowness in his belly. He hadn’t eaten in hours, and that was nothing on Anya’s years.

“If you please, sir,” a young man wearing a white apron said.

“Be my guest.” He stepped aside and gestured into the room.

The waiter wheeled in the cart. “Chef says that most everything will sit for a while, but that the steaks are perfect this very moment. If you don’t mind the suggestion, they should be eaten first. Can I set the table for you?”

“Yeah, thanks. If that’s all right with you, Anya?”

She’d been hiding behind him, in only the nightie, her fingers interlaced with his and squeezing hard. Why hadn’t he thought to get her something to wear for her modesty?

“Yes, of course, steak sounds wonderful,” she said, all too demurely. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up as if she was about to unleash her power and blow away all the silver domes to find the dish she most craved.

But nothing happened. No wind. No scathing remarks. He was almost disappointed, along with his relief.

He expected the waiter to wheel the cart over to the small table that overlooked the blue and white mosaic tile roof of the Philharmonic theater. But instead, he’d stopped to stare at Anya, who had stepped out from behind Sergey, her chin up, the pink satin of the gown so close to the shade of her skin that she looked almost nude, the black lace a deep contrast, trimming the small, mouthwatering mounds of her breasts and the thick hem at her thighs.

She had a spectacular body--strong, well trained, as conditioned as his own but so feminine--smaller, leaner, with perfectly proportioned curves. She had every reason to be proud of it, and the dumbstruck waiter was making sure she knew it too. He grinned a not-entirely-straight-toothed smile at her.

She smiled back at the man before casting Sergey a defiant look, as if to say,
See, he thinks I’m hot
. Fuck. Like Sergey’s restraint had anything to do with finding her anything else.

Jealousy gripped him, and his arm tingled with the urge to yank her back behind him. But jealousy was just another type of control, a different version of what Demyan had done to her. He didn’t want to be even a little like his father.

What he did want was the food in, the waiters out, and Anya back to himself. He cleared his throat and pointed at the table. “Right here will be fine.”

The waiter jumped, as if he’d woken from a trance, and quickly laid the place settings. Then he wheeled the train of carts from the room, and Sergey and Anya were left staring at the table hand in hand. Instantly, he anticipated the problem. How could they eat across from one another at the table and keep skin-to-skin contact going?

He glanced over at her. She stared at the thick medallions of beef as if they were a Christmas gift, thin columns of steam coming off them like ribbons.

“How the hell are we going to keep you in your skin?” he asked. “We can’t eat steak and hold hands.”

“I’m going to eat, and you can hold some other part of me.”

He couldn’t help it, he imagined a small handful of bare breast gripped from behind as she perched on his lap and he stroked her nipple hard with his palm and then rolled it between his fingers.

Your father took advantage of her. Stop thinking about her like that.

When that didn’t work, he forced himself to picture it--some faceless man taking her against the wall, her leotard brutally shoved to one side for access to her sex. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth a grimace. The image killed every thread of desire in him.

“Your ankle. Sit down, put your foot in my lap, and I’ll hold your ankle while you eat.”

She never took her eyes off the meat, just dragged him to the table, dropped herself into the seat, and let go of his hand as soon as his other slid over the bare top of her foot.

He circled the delicate joint of her ankle--so graceful, though it had supported her weight through countless leaps and jumps. Her skin was so soft, and he struggled to resist stroking upward to caress the muscles of her calf.

She grabbed hold of the fork and knife, which cut through the tender steak like it was hardly tougher than butter. Sergey barely registered his own hunger, transfixed as she raised the bite to her mouth and chewed, closing her eyes and working her jaw. His mouth watered at her imagined pleasure. She ate the whole filet in precisely sixteen neatly cut, well-chewed bites. When she was finished, she dabbed daintily at her lips with the snowy white napkin, and then her gaze settled on his steak.

“Want it?” He would gladly surrender it to her, just to watch her eat, to know that a hunger even older than her desire for revenge was being satisfied. And to spite the man who’d denied it.

“Yes. But I couldn’t eat it. Not even a bite.” Her hand went to her stomach, and the corners of her mouth turned down like a child who’d lost its favorite toy. “I’m stuffed, and there are three more carts of food I want to devour.”

His stomach was glad for the news, but when he picked up his own fork, he realized he still had no hand for his steak knife if he had to keep hold of her.

She seemed to catch on at the same time. “Here. Let me.”

Anya reached for his plate and cut him a slice. Leaning over the table, she extended it toward him. He tried to grab the fork, but she swatted his hand away and raised the bite to his lips.

He opened his mouth and, at the first sumptuous taste, closed his eyes. It was a delicious piece of steak. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a fine cut. Maybe never.

When he opened his eyes, he found her watching him, a milder version of the hurt from earlier on her unguarded face. He wanted to take it away, but he couldn’t risk the truth. Whatever she might feel, if he admitted to being Demyan’s son, it would likely be the end of them working together, and they had to find the man, for both their sakes.

“You know, when you asked me earlier who keeps me company, I said no one special. But the truth is, I’m seeing a woman. She works at the home where my mother lives.”

Anya tucked her chin. “Yet you kissed me like, like…like that?”

Like what? It had just been a kiss. But then he remembered the sweet, slick feel of the inside of her mouth, the velvet of her tongue, the way her whole body had melted into him, her hesitant response until she understood he welcomed her exploration of his mouth too, when she’d poured herself into him, full of passion. Her every lick had jacked up his arousal, his need for her radiating out of that throbbing, broken place in him.

No, not just a kiss. A kiss like no other he’d experienced--both sweeter, more arousing, and completely, wildly off-limits.

“We just started dating. We’re not exclusive. Technically, I’m allowed to kiss whoever I want.”

“Oh.” Her cute little frown reminded him she may not even know the rules of modern dating.

“So that’s why…” He waved to where they’d been standing when she’d kissed him. “I don’t want to give you the impression there’s something wrong with you. You’re a beautiful woman. It was an amazing kiss. I’m just hoping things work out with…” What was her name? “Polina. So I shouldn’t be kissing you.”

“I see.” This time, she handed him the fork to feed himself.

He missed the intimacy of her placing the first bite on his tongue, the way that rich flavor filled his mouth at her bidding, but he accepted the ornate silver utensil and raised it to his own lips.

“I’m sure you want to get married. Have a family. Things nice men do.” Her mouth was pinched as if she were holding something in, but for the life of him, he couldn’t read the expression. Some cop he was.

He forced a chuckle in response to what seemed like a joke fallen flat. “Yep. I follow the nice-guy manual to the letter. By the book all the way. I have exactly eight months to get married, or I’m behind schedule. After that, I get fifteen or sixteen to achieve fatherhood.”

Total bullshit. He’d never lasted more than two casual months dating a woman, trying to draw out something boring and meaningless just to prove to himself he could, but if it would spare Anya’s pride, the marriage goal was a worthy lie.

“Did you want a husband and a family when you were alive?”

She shrugged, glancing out the window and downward, where a crowd had lined up to enter the theater. “Before I met Demyan, I hadn’t given it any thought. I was young and so focused on my career. Then, when he showed an interested in me, I only let myself want things he wanted. If he had said he wanted a family after my career had peaked, I would have made that my own goal. None of the women who danced with me in the company were mothers, but plenty of my early teachers were, it was common for the matrons to instruct the young girls.”