Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease (6 page)

Stepping closer, he trailed one fingertip
along the
top edge of
her slip. “Yes. One time only. Here and now. That’s my price for my
help. Take it or leave it.”

“
You’re out of your mind.”

“
And you’re in line to inherit millions of
dollars if I help you.” He lifted his other hand. Gathering the
silver cascade of her hair in his fist, he tugged her head back.
“What is it to be, Crimson,” he whispered into her ear. “Yes or no?
Rich or poor? Throw me out or lie down on that table for
me?”

He shifted his position, using his hips to
nudge her thighs apart so he could settle between them. Bending his
head, so that his mouth hovered just above hers, he added in a
rough murmur, “No, not lie down. I want you with your legs spread
impossibly wide, like you had in those jumps.”

She gave an audible gasp. He felt her body
tense
, but she didn’t
lean away from him. Despite her obvious reluctance, she didn’t back
down from the challenge. “That jump is called
Grand Jeté
,” she informed him, her voice
unsteady.

He touched his lips to hers, a light brush
that made his entire body thrum in anticipation. “What is it to be,
Crimson?” he asked, his breath mingling with hers.

“
Yes,” she replied through clenched
teeth.

Triumph surged inside him. Triumph and
heat. She hadn’t said it like a victim, in a defeated whisper.
She’d snarled the single word out at him, like a cat hissing at a
dog.

“
Fine, Crimson.” He curled his hands around
her waist and lifted her up. “You’ve been asking for it from the
moment I stepped in through that door. And that’s as good a place
as any. Against the door.” He carried her over, pressed her back to
the smooth panel of wood, reached down with one hand to twist the
lock in place, and caged her in by bracing his arms on either side
of her.

“
Kiss me, Crimson,” he ordered.

“
Go to hell,” she replied.

“
Fine. We’ll do it your way.” He bent to
slide her wispy panties down to her knees. Then he raised one foot,
placed his polished shoe over the scrap of lace and forced the
fabric the rest of the way down.

“
Step out of the ruins of your underwear,
Crimson.”

He couldn’t get enough of repeating her
name. It summed up the disparity between them, the crown prince of
old money and the chorus girl. She made his blood run hot by just
standing there in silent defiance. He wanted to dominate her. He
wanted to grind her pride to the dust, just like his pride had been
trampled upon, and yet something about her silent defiance made him
suspect that she would maintain her dignity, whatever he did or
said to her.

“
Let’s get on with it.” He slipped one hand
between her thighs and coaxed up her knee. She didn’t fight, but
raised both arms over her head, elegant, graceful, and then she
lifted her impossibly long, slender leg to point straight toward
the ceiling.

Nick muttered
a curse, a rough, guttural sound. He was losing
control. He hadn’t meant this, hadn’t expected to be consumed by a
fiery burst of lust, or a sudden hunger to posses her, but now
those emotions tore through him. Keeping his left hand curled over
her upraised leg, he reached down with his right hand to undo his
flies.

“
Let me in,” he growled. “Now.”

She shifted her hips, found
him
, adjusted her
position to allow him entry. He sank deep inside her. Glorious,
tight heat. She was standing poised on tiptoe, in a ballerina pose,
equalizing their height. He flexed his hips. Releasing his hold on
her upraised leg, he cradled her face between both hands and kissed
her. She kissed him back, greedy, openmouthed kisses.

Small, sharp teeth tugged
a
t his lips. Fighting
kisses. Crazy kisses. Her upraised leg came down to curl over his
hip, trapping him in place. Urging him on. Not interrupting the
kiss, he lowered his hands to her waist and hauled her close to
him, one arm sliding around her, the other hand clasping her
buttocks, and then he started moving in and out of her in a fierce,
hammering rhythm. The door rattled against the frame and, as their
frenzy escalated, the sound grew into a loud, frantic
slamming.

Somewhere, on the other
side
, he heard
footsteps, voices shouting.

Nick
didn’t care. His whole world had narrowed to the delicate
strength in his arms, to the pulsing, slick heat that surrounded
him. Crimson tipped her head back, finally separating their mouths.
She broke into harsh, sobbing breaths. Once more. Twice more. He
thrust deep inside her. Tight around him, he felt her convulse in a
violent climax that made her body arch against the door. He
followed, pumping his release into her in powerful jets as hot
waves of pleasure consumed him.

Finally, sanity returned.

“
It’s all right,” he shouted. “Just moving
the furniture.”

“
Righty-ho.” He recognized Raymond’s
gravelly voice. Someone, perhaps the pretty brunette secretary who
had given him directions to the boardroom, must have called the
security guard when the strange noises broke out and the door
started rocking on its hinges.

“
You need any help?” the old man
asked.

Nick
studied Crimson, who lay limp in his arms. “I don’t think
so,” he called back. He wanted her to look up, look at him. In
those few hectic minutes, she seemed to have stolen his very soul.
And he wanted it back. Wanted to shake off the scary tenderness
that was even at this very moment weaving its way around his
heart.

He
pulled a cotton handkerchief from his pocket. Untangling
their bodies, he pushed away from her and bundled the fabric
between her legs. “Cleaning crew,” he said, the crude remark
intended to kill off any lingering sense of romance.

She was still breathing hard.
Refusing to meet his
gaze.

“
Do you realize I could just walk out now?”
he taunted her.

Her lashes lifted. A ray of steel entered
the languid brown eyes. “Feel free,” she told him. “I’m not on the
pill. No health issues, but if you don’t hang around to deliver
what you’ve promised, you can spend the next six months watching my
waistline, wondering…”

The prospect hit him l
ike a punch in the gut.

Game, set and match to the dancer.

“
Truce,” he said. “I’ll deliver my end. Let
me know when your period starts.”

She finished tidying
herself up and offered the handkerchief
back to him. “I guess you’ll want to collect the incriminating
evidence.”

“
Of course.” He raked a glance over her,
amused despite the tension of the situation. “Better take the dress
too. Think of Monica Lewinsky.”

“
In your dreams.” She pushed past him to
collect a sports bag from the row of seats by the table and pulled
out a pair of pink sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Nick clasped the
soggy cloth in his hand and watched her yank the clothing on over
her slip, her motions jerky, unsteady. She was pointedly ignoring
him. He felt oddly bereft. As if he had somehow made a mess of
things and he would be the one to suffer for it.

“
Well, I guess, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he
told her, hesitant.

“
There’s a staff meeting at ten o’clock. Be
there.” She picked up the bag, unlocked the boardroom door and
strode out. “Don’t forget to leave a list of anything you take away
from the premises,” she called back over her shoulder, and then
vanished out of sight, slamming the door behind her.

Back to contents

Chapter Four

He
wasn’t coming.

Crimson stood beside Peter
Tomlinson
and tried not
to be intimidated by the nearly one hundred and fifty pairs of eyes
that followed her every movement. They were in the showroom,
smaller of the two single story buildings behind the offices. A
muted soar of conversation filled the air. She suspected most of it
was gossip and speculation about her.

She
attempted to calm her mind by taking a moment to admire the
two rows of cars that lined the high ceilinged hall that made up
the showroom. On the left stood vintage racing cars, all the way
back to the founding of Constantine Motors almost a hundred years
ago. On the right, six brand new Constantine Panthers waited to be
collected by their purchasers. The employees milled freely among
the vehicles, pride and admiration reflected on their
faces.

“
Ready to start?” Peter asked.

Crimson surveyed the
glass-enclosed walkway that connected the
showroom to the office block. “Can we wait just a few more
minutes?” she asked, although she’d already abandoned hope. Of
course, Nick Constantine wasn’t coming. He’d already gotten what he
wanted, which was to humiliate her.

Shame stirred inside her as she recalled
her behavior
with him
the previous afternoon. He’d been right. She
had
been selling him something. She’d fooled herself
into believing it was just a bit of fun. Appealing to his sense of
humor. His sense of the absurd. When, in reality, she’d been sucked
in by her secret dreams. The Snow Queen and the Prince of Darkness.
Deep in her mind, she had wanted to seduce him into helping
her.

She’
d seduced him, all right. Into her panties. And now, he
would brush her off like a piece of lint from the lapel of his
suit.

At the far end of the room, a door
o
pened in the glass wall
that let in the bright summer daylight. A lean, athletic man
entered, his dark curls glinting in the sun. He was dressed in
faded jeans and an ancient green sweatshirt with Constantine Racing
printed in yellow letters across the front.

H
er heart thudding, Crimson watched as Nick Constantine
walked up to her, dodging his way between the clusters of
employees. When he reached her, he bent to touch his lips to her
cheek, a casual sign of intimacy, or at least of friendship. Soft,
woodsy cologne drifted out to her. Relief hit her so hard her knees
almost buckled.

“
Relax,” Nick whispered, his arm supporting
her. “You’ll be fine.”

“
Thank you. I thought…” She let her words
trail away.

“
Wouldn’t miss it for the
world.”

Peter Tomlinson edged
for
ward with an eager
nod at them. “I think I know you,” he said to Nick. “You’re Nick
Constantine. The only man alive who has driven the Constantine
Spur.” He pointed at the vintage racing car that stood high up in
the air, resting on a plate of reinforced glass suspended from the
ceiling with four steel cables.

“
I’m not sure taking
the car around the parking lot at crawling
speed on my tenth birthday counts as driving,” Nick replied and
offered his hand. “Sorry to barge in unannounced. Raymond let me in
through the back. I had promised Crimson to be here and I was
running late.”

“
Not a problem. Let’s get started.” Peter
turned to address the crowd and raised both hands to demand
silence. “Settle down, folks.” He waited for the conversation to
fade away and continued, “I have great pleasure in introducing
Crimson Mills, who has been appointed the new CEO of Constantine
Motors. She is the stepdaughter of Stephan Constantine. The shares
of Constantine Motors are placed in trust until the end of the
year, when the probate is finalized. However, you should assume
that Crimson will be one of the major shareholders.”

He
motioned for her to step forward. Crimson studied the sea
of curious faces. All day yesterday, she had planned what to say.
Now all those smooth phrases jumbled in her mind. Was she dressed
all wrong? Nick had worn a suit yesterday. Now he was in threadbare
jeans. She’d gone out and bought a formal outfit, a Jones New York
suit in pale pink. Bright colors drained her fair hair and skin,
pastels lent her warmth. Was it a mistake to dress up?

She couldn’t do this.
She couldn’t do this. Panic surged inside
her, blocking off her air. Breathe. Breathe. Where had she put her
inhaler? Damn. The big showroom was bound to be draughty and dusty,
just like the theaters and opera houses that had caused her health
problems to start with. Breathe. Breathe.

“
Your need to turn on the mike.” Nick moved
to stand in front of her, shielding her from the crowd, giving her
a moment of privacy to recover. He made a production of fiddling
with the small microphone clipped to her collar, and checking the
lead that connected it to the transmitter hidden in her pocket.
“You’ll do fine,” he whispered. “Just be yourself.”

Just be yourself.

No lies. N
o pretense. All her life, she’d worked hard to
blend in. To gain approval, first from the townspeople who looked
down on her family, and the teachers at Longwood Elementary and
High, and then from dance teachers and choreographers and artistic
directors who handed out jobs in ballet productions, and finally
from critics who might cause those jobs to be taken away
again.