One Last Dance (7 page)

The walk was long, and full of
time to think. She had horrible taste in men, clearly. First Christian, and now
Henry. She’d thought he was different. He hadn’t been turned off by her scar or
her inability to dance gracefully all the time. They’d talked, really talked.
But he had given her very little in the way of personal information, she
realized now. He was always vague.

She’d overlooked it because he
made her feel desirable again. He’d danced with her, and that had been good.
She’d let herself fall into bed with him because he was gorgeous and commanding
and her body responded to him in a way it had never responded to anyone else.
She’d known it was too fast, that she knew too little about the kind of man he
was, but she’d let herself ignore it.

She was almost grateful when the
clouds opened up and it began to pour. At least the cool rain bathed her heated
cheeks, washing away her tears. She wished it could wash away her memory of Henry
Medina instead.

Sophie counted through the box of
homemade tie-on taps she used for the children’s intro tap class, making sure
there were no strays. Many of the children couldn’t afford a pair of shoes just
for dance, so these came in handy. She had them all wear regular shoes and then
tied painted bottle caps around them. They weren’t really the same, but the
younger students had enjoyed making them, and at their age it was mostly about
exposing them to dance. They could get real tap shoes when they got older, if
they were serious about it.

She was avoiding looking in any
one of the studio’s myriad mirrors this morning. She knew she looked terrible.
She’d looked terrible yesterday when she finally got back to her apartment,
soaked to the skin with a runny nose and red-rimmed eyes. And that was before
she’d cried herself to sleep. They’d been tears of anguish and betrayal. Some
of them weren’t even for Henry. The whole ordeal recalled memories of the end
of her relationship with Christian, and then she trotted out every rejection,
mistake and deception she’d seemingly ever experienced and piled them all on
top.

When she’d woken early this
morning her eyes were puffy and her throat raw. She’d managed to reduce the
swelling around her eyes with a judicious application of cold water and
hemorrhoid cream (a trick from her dancing days), but she could do little about
how bloodshot they were. And the sore throat remained even in the wake of
aspirin and warm tea.

Her knee ached abominably, too. She
shouldn’t have walked all the way home. Especially after the flare up the
previous day. But she’d been so wrapped up in her volatile emotions that she’d
needed to move, and a walk seemed like just the thing. She would have gone mad
sitting in a cab through the morning traffic of New York City.

Sophie leaned on her cane
heavily, glad no one else was around. She’d been up at first light and had been
into the studio hours before Darren was meant to come in. So far she’d
organized the front desk, rewritten the ad for next Sunday’s paper, balanced
the checkbook (both hers and the business’s) and color coordinated the scarves
she used with the children during Free Dance classes. Now she was working on
the taps.

Next, she’d be buffing the damn
floor, no doubt. Anything to keep her mind off of Henry. She was done with him.
He was a mistake she wasn’t going to make again.

“Soph?”

She spun, startled at the sound
of Darren’s voice behind her, and cried out as she spilled the box of tie-on
taps across the wood floor. “Damn it, Darren, you scared me half to death!”

Darren’s eyes narrowed as he
leaned back against the wall, arms locked behind him. He studied her face for a
minute, evidence of her crying still apparent in her swollen eyes, before
dropping his gaze to the hand that clutched at the cane. His wide mouth thinned
into a white line. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Her fingers tightened
on the cane’s carved metal grip. She lowered herself to the ground, gritting
her teeth to keep from hissing in pain, and focused on sweeping the children’s
taps together in an attempt to avoid Darren’s concerned gaze. How did he know
there was anything going on? The man had an uncanny knack for ferreting out her
troubles. “You’re in early.”

“Sophie. Look at me.” His voice
was grim, nothing at all like his usual teasing tone.

“What?”

His brows were knit together over
his eyes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Henry Medina?
Because I’m worried.”

Sophie jerked in surprise.
“Nothing. What, are you psychic now?”

“No, I’m not psychic. I just know
how to read.”

Confusion swept over Sophie.
“Excuse me?”

Darren held out a copy of a
newspaper. The
Post
. Sophie swallowed. The headline blazing across the
top of the page seemed innocuous enough.

“Nice Piece of Real Estate!” it
shouted.

But below that was a picture of
Henry. And her. She instantly recognized the scene. It was in the lobby of
Henry’s building yesterday morning, while they were still in the elevator. He
was touching her cheek, head slightly bent as if he was about to kiss her while
he handed her an envelope. In a small inset was a second picture of just her as
she flung the envelope at the closed elevator door.

“Billionaire CEO attempting to
acquire a new piece of property?” was insulting enough. But beside the inset,
the paper speculated whether or not “Henry Medina’s lovely companion was a
high-end escort.” Heat flushed her cheeks and fresh tears pricked her eyes. She
looked up into Darren’s concerned face.

“At least they think I’m
high-end,” she choked out. Then she burst into tears.

Reporters had gathered outside of
Sophie’s dance studio, their cameras held aloft in the hopes of getting a good
shot of Henry Media’s “high-end escort.” Sophie slouched lower in her chair at
the front desk, trying to remain unseen.

Darren set down the phone gently,
jaw tight. “That’s the last of them. Classes are all cancelled.”

They’d spent the entire morning
phoning students and telling them not to come to the studio until further
notice. “No one else will show up and get caught in that mob.”

It had already happened twice
that morning, the first reporter arriving mere minutes behind Darren. Sophie
had barely processed the horrible
Post
headline when the camera flashes
started. She had tried to get ahold of all the students from her first class
but hadn’t been able to reach a few of them.

The feeding frenzy that had
ensued when one of her students had arrived had been brutal. Even through the
closed doors and with the security shutters down, Sophie and Darren could hear
the shouted questions. She cringed just recalling some of the things they’d
asked about her. “How did they find me so quickly?” she asked, wiping futilely
at the tears running down her cheeks.

“Well, clearly they’re all rats
and they sniffed you out with their disgusting, twitchy little noses.” Darren
grimaced, shuddering delicately. “Now, are you going to tell me what happened
or are we just going to sit here devising slow and painful deaths for all
tabloid reporters?”

Sophie blinked wet lashes. “The
second one?”

“Sophie come on, you can tell me
anything.”

She sighed, if she couldn’t tell
Darren what happened how could she even begin clearing her name in the press?
“Henry Medina offered me a thousand dollars an hour to dance with him. At his
home. So, I went there the other night and we... danced.” She put her face in
her hands.

She knew Darren wouldn’t judge
her, but she was still feeling raw from Henry’s cruel gift of money and the
reporters were only making things worse.

Darren straightened and leaned
his hip against the desk. “Danced?” He poked the photo on the front of the
paper. “Did it get horizontal?”

She kept her hands over her face,
glancing briefly through her fingers. “Yes.”

His brows rose in surprise.
“And?”

“It was incredible.” Her shoulders
sagged. It was the truth. It had been incredible. Mind-blowing. Fantastic. And
a huge mistake.

Darren whistled. “‘Incredible’ is
good. So how’d it go from ‘incredible’ to tossing envelopes of money at him?”

“What do you think happened? He
tried to pay me off. Like I was some
whore
.” A fresh sob bubbled into
her throat and stung the back of her nose as Darren reached for her hands,
squeezing them reassuringly.

“Pay you off? Not just for the
dance?”

“We barely even danced for an
hour and there were thousands of dollars in the envelope!”

“Bastard. If I see him again, I’m
going to kill him,” he said, matter-of-factly.

She opened her mouth to reply but
a low, steady knocking interrupted her. It wasn’t coming from the front where
the crowd of reporters were milling but from the back.

She and Darren exchanged a look
of sheepish surprise. Clearly, neither of them had considered that anyone might
try the emergency exit. Darren rolled his eyes, a gesture that spoke eloquently
of how stupid they both were, and walked over to the back.

From her position behind the
front desk Sophie could only see Darren’s face as he registered who was on the
other side of the door. His jaw went tight, his handsome face cold and sharp.
She’d never seen such a look of biting anger on her friend’s face.

“Darren?” she asked, tentatively.

“I should throw you to those
wolves out front,” he growled at whoever was at the door. Cold dread seized
her—there was only one person Darren would be that angry with right now.

Heedless of the reporters
outside, she stood and hurried to her friend’s side. She could hear Henry
speaking as she approached.

“...me in, I’m sure we can work
this all out.”

She gritted her teeth. Not only
had Henry screwed her and then sent her out with an envelope of cash, but he
had also compromised her livelihood. What could he possibly say to try and
justify himself? She touched Darren gently on the shoulder. “Let him in.”

Darren gave her a narrow look but
pushed the door open further so Henry could slip inside. He looked firm and
gorgeous in a dark Burberry London wool and mohair suit. Darren had swooned
endlessly over the same one in a catalogue earlier in the year. It must’ve cost
two-thousand dollars.

“Sophie,” he began. She slapped
him. The flat crack of her palm on his stubbled cheek echoed through the empty
studio. Crap. She hadn’t meant to do that; her hand seemed to have moved of its
own volition. But she couldn’t deny that it felt good to take some of her anger
out on him, although she was still livid.

Darren put an arm around her
shoulders protectively, shooting Henry a look sharp enough to kill.

“What do you want, Henry?” Sophie
said.

His gaze moved over her face
beseechingly. “To explain.”

“I think you made yourself
clear.” Her hands clenched into fists at her side. He’d been so
 passionate when he made love to her, and at breakfast the next morning he
was nothing but sweet. But in a matter of seconds he went cold, and she didn’t
understand it.

Henry frowned. “That money
wasn’t... ” He trailed off, shooting a glance at Darren. “Can I talk to Sophie
alone, please?”

“No,” Darren snapped. “You’re
lucky you’re talking to her at all.”

“Sophie,” Henry pleaded. But she
shook her head. Be alone with him? No way. She seethed at the thought.

“You can say whatever you need to
say in front of Darren.”

“That money was just for the
dance. I swear. Nothing else.”

She bristled. “Just the dance?
There was
five thousand
in that envelope, at least. What am I supposed
to think?”

“That I’m incredibly grateful you
agreed to dance with me? That I enjoyed that short dance more than I’ve enjoyed
anything in a long time? I don’t know.
Anything
but that I was trying to
pay you for what happened after.”

She didn’t believe him. Not
entirely. She’d seen the distant look in his eyes as he’d practically shoved
her out of the elevator and stuffed that envelope into her hand. He’d wanted
her to go away as quickly as possible. He might not have meant to insult her,
but he meant to brush her off.

Henry opened his mouth to speak
again, but she raised her hand, palm out, to keep him from going on. “Fine,
let’s just say that I believe you.” She waved an agitated hand toward the front
of the building.

“I’m
dying
to hear this,”
Darren interjected, voice cutting. He hadn’t removed his arm from around
Sophie’s shoulder, and he was staring at Henry like he thought he could burn
holes through him.

Tugging a chair closer, Henry sat
heavily and rubbed a hand against his face. “When you’re young and rich the
tabloids have an interest. Sometimes they hang around and catch something
juicy. You just got caught in the middle of that. I’m so sorry Sophie.”

“So that’s it? I’m just
collateral damage? My business can’t come back from this.”

Henry leaned forward, elbows on
his knees. “Your business isn’t ruined—”

“Do you think parents are going
to want a
whore
teaching their children? And what about my professional
students? Think they’ll stick around and put ‘trained by a famous prostitute’
on their CVs? I’m done, Henry. This,” she stabbed a finger toward the front of
the studio, “
ends
me.”

He winced as if she’d struck him
again. “It doesn’t have to. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Sophie jerked out of Darren’s
grip and flung her hands in the air. “How does all of New York believing I’m an
escort not ruin my business, Henry? I’m all ears.”

She saw Henry’s shoulders tighten
defensively at her words, but to his credit he didn’t try and placate her. He
gave her a minute to breathe before he replied. “You show them you’re not.”

Darren crossed his arms, cocking
his head. Clearly, Henry had piqued his interest, but Sophie wasn’t biting.
“It’s too late for that, the story is out. No matter what I do or say they’ll
just think I’m lying to cover up my sordid activities.”

“The story is that I’m paying to
have sex with you. It’ll sell papers, and the people who want to make it a
problem for me will make sure the story sticks. But you’re right, if we try and
protest they’ll just think we’re trying to cover it up.”

Sophie tapped her foot
impatiently. “So what’re you suggesting?”

“We admit it.”

Her jaw fell open. “How does that
help me at all?”

He held up his hands defensively.
“Hold on, let me finish.” Sophie jerked a short nod. “We admit
part
of
it. Pretend we’re a couple. Be seen in public together. It takes the starch out
of the story. A couple having a spat is no news at all.”

“No.” She didn’t even have to
think about it. It was ludicrous, she never wanted to see Henry again let alone
play house with him. She would have to get herself out of this mess on her own,
he was only going to make things worse. “No,” she said again.

“Sophie, this will save your
business. We have to diffuse this situation. You need—”

The cauldron of anger in her
belly had been bubbling ever since he’d arrived, but the sheer arrogance of his
words sent it boiling over. “
Don’t
.” she bit out through clenched teeth.
“The only thing I need from you is for you to get out of my life. Now.”

She pointed at the back door,
breath quick and short. Heat burned in her cheeks like a fever as Henry rose,
his face grim. “Sophie—”

“Out.”

His shoulders slumped. Darren
opened the rear door, motioning for him to exit. Henry went, pausing on the
threshold at the last second. His dark eyes were deep and wide with apparent
remorse. “I’m sorry, Sophie. If you change your mind, you know how to reach
me.”

“Goodbye, Henry.”

The second the door closed behind
him she began to shake. Darren was at her side in an instant, wrapping her in
strong arms as she wept.

“Oh, god, Dar. What am I going to
do?”

“First things first. Let’s get
the heck out of here.”

She sniffled. “I like that plan.”

They quickly gathered their
things, not bothering to turn off the lights in fear that they might alert the
paparazzi to their escape. At the back door, Darren took her elbow and gave it
a reassuring squeeze. “Ready to go?”

Sophie nodded. “Beyond ready. If
I don’t get away from them now I think I’m going to scream.”

Darren swept open the rear door
and ushered her through it. “Your wish is my command.”