The Dark Duet (5 page)

“All right, ladies. You have had your fun. Time to leave.” I stand and walk toward the balcony of the penthouse I’m renting while staying in Milan, a vital aspect of the agreement I have made with Burkenstein, the part where I keep my distance from Alek, Katerina, and Adriana. Closing my eyes, I fight against the shame roaring through my chest. She would be devastated if she knew what I had just finished doing.

“Don’t you wanna feel good, too, honey?” Melody asks as she massages my shoulders.

“Leave. Now,” I respond without looking at them.

“I can help you with whatever’s on that gorgeous mind of yours,” Harmony purrs.

“Are you deaf as well as shamelessly easy? I said go.” I turn to them, glaring. Both sisters take a step back after seeing my face.

“You have our number. Feel free to call us anytime.” Melody slips a small piece of paper into the elastic part of my underwear, her finger stroking my skin.

Sighing deeply, I say, “This was a one shot deal. I made that very clear. From what I understand, you specialize in those kinds of deals.”

“Right. Come on, Harmony. Sir Belikov has spoken.” Bowing, Melody glares at me with as much fire in her eyes as she had when I was eating her pussy.

After the door slams shut, I exhale and pour myself a straight shot of vodka. Tomorrow, I focus on my work ... and wait.

Chapter 6

~
Nikolai
~

Every performer, each instrumentalist that walks through Inamorata’s doorway is either inexperienced to the point of embarrassment or doesn’t have a clue about the way a repertory company works. If I were a king and this was my court, it would be littered with the dead bodies of fools who had unsuccessfully tried to audition as my entertainment and failed. The negative aspect of being the new boy on the block—or in this case, the newest performance company amongst a sea of seasoned organizations, some of which date back to the Renaissance period—is that you sometimes attract more fluff than substance.

I glance at my assistants, Paolo and Jefferson, and wonder why everything in my life results in some type of struggle. Will I ever be able to reach my full potential without resorting to an act of degradation in order to do so?

“Well, at least the last girl had a cute ass.” Grinning, Paolo shrugs ... until his gaze finds mine.

“This is not a model search. We need dancers and players. Talent!” I yell louder than I meant to do.

Paolo holds up his hands. “Easy, signore. I was just making a funny. We must get you laid more often.”

“That’s the last thing I need,” I mutter.

And then she walks through the door like a vision inside of a dream. I stand corrected. She enters my studio, her hair blowing loose in the wind, flowing through the doorway behind her, and stalks straight toward my table.

“By the gods, she’s beautiful,” Paolo says, his black eyes stretched wide as Alestasia Broussard heads our way. She’s wearing a light blue dress underneath a leather jacket, an outfit that shows off her striking form, the body I have wondered about since the moment I first laid eyes on her while she slept in Burkenstein’s laboratory. Her eyes remain hidden from me, the black sunglasses stealing my view, making me wait, yet again. Oh, how I despise waiting. I stand and walk around the table, impatient for her to come closer, and Paolo makes a fool of himself, tripping over the table leg just before he moves to my side. Alese removes her sunglasses and stops in front of us.

“My name is Alese Ballentine,” she says in a slight Southern-American accented voice, her gaze locked on mine as she finishes her introductions and holds out a hand for me to shake.

A strong sense of longing and desire stirs something inside both my chest and my cock. I’m not used to losing control over my body this way in a woman’s presence. Reigning my dog in, I do my very best to keep myself from panting and drooling on her shoes, and reach out a hand.

“Alese Ballentine,” I repeat, wrapping my lips and tongue around the gorgeous syllables of her fake name. Holding onto her hand sends a tingle of electricity through my body, heading straight for my cock. And those eyes, the windows to the soul—in my case, the way I’m most able to discover what a woman holds in her heart—a play of intriguing brown mingling with the brightest green I’ve ever seen in a pair of hazel-colored eyes, studies my face, taking in each of my features most carefully. With hesitation, I ease my hand out of hers, struggling to focus on her purpose for being here. I need to do something to control the heat raging through my cock. My gaze drifts down to the violin case she’s holding.

“A violinist. We have had quite a few players to audition, none of whom have been able to demonstrate a substantial level of skill,” I inform her.

“Luckily for you, I play the harp as well.” Her heart-shaped lips twist into a smirk. “However, I can assure you, Signor Belikov, my violin is special.”

I scoff a laugh. “Is that so? Perhaps you could enlighten me on its unique ability.” Without realizing it, I have closed the distance between us until we’re standing merely inches apart, the scent of her freshly washed hair drifting into my nostrils.

“It’s simple really,” she begins, her hazel-eyed gaze locked on mine, “it involves mastery of the stick. Treating it with care, realizing what makes your instrument unique.”

I am so fucked.
“Is that right? I somehow believe you can handle a stick rather well.”

“I’m flattered. Would you like to hear my audition now?” she asks, her pink lips parted. It seems as if everyone else in the theater has all but disappeared as the two of us stand here, staring each other down and silently testing the will of the other one.

“Indeed,” I answer caught up in her spell.

“As I said, I also play the harp,” she states, breaking our silent war. “You get to choose which of the two instruments you prefer.”

“Ah, a musical genius, a prodigy. Well, I want both.”

A smile creeps onto her luscious lips. “Wow. You’re a bit greedy.”

“I roll with the Dostovskys. We refuse to take less than we deserve.”

“Don’t you even want to audition me?”

“No need. Surprise me when you show up for session one of the string rehearsal tonight.” It’s a code I am using. If she takes the bait, then I know that Burkenstein’s mind conditioning has worked and he has filled her in on our proposed mission.

“Sure thing. Let me give you my number.” Breaking our gaze, Alese sets her violin case down, lifts her shoulder bag, and starts shuffling through its contents.

“I’ve got you,” I say, reaching into the holster attached to my waist and removing the golden BlackBerry Katerina had custom made for me.

“Whoa! Better not get caught slumming around this place with that thing in your hand,” she teases.

“Advice noted. I have good news, Ms. Ballentine.” I hold her gaze, which is a strange hazel color that’s more light brown around the edges of her irises and a light green in the middle now that she’s in a different position under the fluorescent lighting.

“And what would that be?” she asks.

“You have been accepted. The decision was unanimous.”

“I don’t remember going before a panel of judges,” she says, a slight smile on her lips.

“That’s because I am the panel. Everything I desire, whatever I wish to pass, happens automatically.”

“I see.”

“Do you accept me?” I ask.

She squints as though she’s thinking. “Hmm. I think so.”

“You
think
so?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Okay. I’ll perform for you, Sir Belikov.”

“Your phone number, please.”

“Do you ask for every new performer’s number this way? Or just mine?” She has spunk, and I find it highly attractive. I’m almost certain Burkenstein briefed her about me before he released her from his compound back in Switzerland. We hold gazes a short while longer before she blinks and says, “Very well then.” Reaching into her purse, she pulls out a piece of paper, scribbles her number onto it, and hands it back to me.

A throat clears beside me. I turn and find Paolo standing next to us, waving his hand and wagging his eyebrows at me. “I’m Paolo. The dance coordinator.” He holds out his hand for Alese.

“Nice to meet you,” she says to my eager assistant. So innocent, yet deadly, I am sure.

“Yes, this is my choreographer of the group that needs him right now, I do believe.” I don’t even need to look at Paolo in order for him to hear my message between the lines.

“I’m getting lost now. Ciao, Alese with the belissima name.” He blows a kiss, and I do glare at him this time. Right away, he turns and scurries toward his ballet troupe.

“I apologize for the interruption.”

“It’s okay, really.” She smiles widely, her grin lighting up the drab auditorium.

“Be on the watch for my text tonight,” I state and walk around her.

“I’ll be ready,” I hear her reply as I walk toward the exit, heading to my secret room in the basement and prepare to relieve myself.

CHAPTER 7

~
Alese
~

The apartment I’m renting in downtown Milan is surrounded by lights, design houses, and the tempting aroma of every kind of dish imaginable, which drift into my windows and fire up my hunger pangs in all hours of the night. Rudolph has given me just enough amenities to live comfortably without allowing me to get too settled in, and Signor Belikov has given me the code I was looking for when he suggested tonight’s rehearsal.

Thinking about him as I finish unpacking my suitcases brings to mind bright lights for some reason. It’s odd. The moment he glanced at me with those gloomy but gorgeous blue-gray eyes, I was taken aback, my heart punctured by the sadness swimming inside of them. It was almost as though we knew each other before meeting tonight, but that’s not possible.

“Yeah, whatever, Alese. The guy is smokin’ hot,” I say aloud as I walk into the bathroom and set the faucets to the sweet spot between hot and cold. The water slaps me on top of my head because I’m leaning too far into the surround.

Glancing at the showerhead above me, I reach up to adjust the water’s spray pattern. At once, I’m standing inside of a new bathroom, and I’m doing the exact same thing I was preparing to do inside of this one, but instead of white tiles there are blue ones all around me. I’m wearing a dress, a God awful creation that has red flowers all over a white background, which is completely opposite of my normal wardrobe filled with black, white, and light blue—the colors of blood, death, and life.

As it happens each time I have this particular vision, I hear a voice in the background, but I can’t tell if it’s male or female because it’s distorted, reminding me of something from an old horror movie. I turn around, and right away, I sense the danger inside of my compact bathroom. My body fills up with nervous tension just before I see the knife in my hand, dripping rivulets of blood from its tip. It’s always there at the end. Always making me feel as though I’m going insane because I keep fantasizing about murder and death. Heartbeats thud all around me. Someone’s screaming in the hallway. I drop the knife and slam my hands over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut and waiting.

Gunshots slice through the air next. They’re coming from the room down the hallway. My fear turns to rage. I can feel it flowing through my body in waves as I bare my teeth and yell at whatever—or maybe I should say whoever—isresponsible for the gunshots.

Blood, it’s dripping from the knife. Faster, harder, thick streams of crimson. Glancing down at my feet, I find enough blood pooled around my toes to cover up an army. My chest starts heaving and my mind goes blank.

The vision swarms out of my head with as much violence as it did when the images first entered, leaving me crouched on the floor beside the bathtub in my apartment. Next comes the headache, stinging pulses of pain that assault my frontal lobes.

Closing my eyes, I brace for the final throb before the torture ends. I concentrate on the song from a music box I no longer own, the one made of glass that has a ballerina dancing inside to the theme song from Romeo and Juliet, a gift from my father before he died fifteen years ago. The throbs die down and my breathing evens out. The music from the box fades into the recesses of my mind, leaving me with that constant emptiness in my gut, a feeling that something is missing.

Yes, I know that I work for Burkenstein now, but I don’t understand these flashbacks to a different time which I don’t seem to remember. When I asked my grandparents about them a few days ago, they simply said I was hallucinating again, something that always happens around each anniversary of the time when my parents died on that fateful day in March.

“Get your shit together, Alese,” I whisper, my voice raspy from all of the heavy breathing I’ve been doing. The text message indicator on my phone chimes through the bedroom across the hall, startling me.

“Someone who’s this screwed up in the head does not need to try and become an assassin.” Standing, trudge through the hallway to my bedroom.

With shaking hands, I lift my iPhone and slide my finger across the screen. The text message is from Nikolai Belikov.

N: Hello, Alese Ballentine. Would you do me the honor of joining me for a dance session this evening?

What the hell? A dance session?
That must be his cryptic way of saying he wants to begin our training tonight. The man is a walking contradiction in the study of intrigue and ego, with a huge emphasis on the ego part.

Me: It’s almost 10 p.m.

N: The perfect time.

Me: Should I bring my harp?

N: Not this time. I will send a car for you.

I inhale deeply, feeling grateful for this much needed distraction.