Considering Kate
Page 42

It was a viciously demanding solo. Fast, lightning fast and wildly flamboyant. Her muscles responded, her feet flew. She ended with a snap, in precisely the same spot and in the same position where she'd begun.
Heart pounding from the effort, she shot Davidov a defiant, and unscripted look, then pirouetted offstage as her partner leaped into his cue.
He'd never seen anything like it. Hadn't known there could be anything like it. She'd been… magic, Brody thought and was still trying to process this new aspect of her when she flew back onstage. They danced together now, Kate and the man in white. He hadn't realized ballet could be… sexy. But this was, almost raw, certainly edgy, a kind of classic mating dance with arrogant male, defiant female. He didn't see the small balancing steps, the sets, the releases. Didn't see how she helped her partner lift her by springing with her knees, or how the muscles in her legs trembled with the effort to keep them extended in midair.
He only saw the speed, the dazzle. The magic. And was jerked rudely out of the moment by the shout.
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Davidov threw up his hands.
"What is this, what is it? Do you have hot blood, do you have passion or are you strolling through the park on Sunday? Where is the fire?"
"I'll give you fire." Kate whirled on him.
"Good." He grabbed her at the waist. "With me. Show me.'' He hoisted her up even as she cursed him. She came down like a thunderbolt, hearing the music only in her head now, soaring into a series ofjetés. He caught her again, spun her into a triple pirouette, then lifted her, lowering her until her head nearly brushed the stage. Sharp moves, challenges, and she was backen pointe, her eyes firing darts into his.
"There, now. Do again. Stay angry."
"I hate you."
"Not me. Him." He flicked a hand and brought the music back.
"What the hell does he want?" Brody demanded, forgetting himself. "Blood?" The woman in the row ahead turned, gave him adazzling smile. "Yes. Exactly. He always has. A difficult man, Davidov."
"Daddy says he ought to be shot," Jack added, helpfully.
"Your father isn't alone in thinking that." She laughed, turning farther in her seat as the dancing, and the cursing continued onstage. "He's harder, much harder, on the dancers who are the best. I used to dance with him myself, so I know."
"Did he yell at you?"
"Yes. And I yelled right back. But I was a better dancer for it, and for him. He still made me very, very angry, though."
"What did you do?" Jack's eyes were big as saucers. "Did you punch him in the nose?"
"No. I married him." She grinned at Brody. "I'm Ruth Bannion. You must be a friend of Kate's."
"Excuse me, I'd like to get my foot out of my mouth."
"No, no." She let out a low, delighted laugh. "Davidov brings out the best, and the worst. That's what makes him what he is. He adores Kate, and is still mourning she's left the company." Ruth glanced back toward the stage. "Look at her, and you can see why."
"All right, all right. Enough." Onstage, Davidov let out a windy sigh. "Go rest. Perhaps tonight you will find me some energy."
The blood was pounding in Kate's ears. Her feet were screaming. But she had enough energy, right now, for a short tirade.
When she was done, and simply panting, Davidov lifted his eyebrow. "You think because I'm Russian I don't know when a Ukrainian calls me a man with the heart of a pig?" Her chin shot up. "I believe I said theface of a
Pig."
She stalked offstage and left him grinning after her. "See?" Ruth smiled. "He adores her." Chapter Eleven
Kate was busy kissing the Russian when Brody came to her dressing room door after the evening performance. She was wearing a robe—short and red—and full stage makeup. Her hair was still pinned up in some sleek and sophisticated knot, the way it had been during her second dance—the Spanish one, in the sexy little tutu.
The audience had gone wild for her, and so, Brody thought, had he.
Now, he'd come back to tell her only to find her wrapped around the Russian she'd cursed only that afternoon.
He wondered which one of them he should kill first.
"Sorry to interrupt."
Kate merely turned her head, eyes brilliant, and beamed at him. "Brody." She held out a hand, but Davidov merely shifted his arm around her shoulders and eyed the intruder coolly.
"This is the carpenter? The one who wants to shoot me? Now, I think, he wants to shoot me more. He doesn't like that I kiss you."
"Oh, don't be silly."
Brody cut his eyes back to hers. "I don't like that he kisses you."
"That's absurd. This is Davidov."
"I know who it is." Brody shut the door behind him. He preferred spilling blood in relative privacy. "I met your wife today."
"Yes, she likes you, and your little boy. I have a son, and two daughters." Because he rarely resisted impulses, and it was delightful to watch the man's fury heat, Davidov kissed Kate's hair. "She knows, my wife, that I've come back to kiss this one. Who was," he continued drawing back, his hands sliding down her arms to link with hers, "magnificent. Who was perfect. Who I don't forgive for leaving me."
"I felt magnificent. I felt perfect." Still so perfect none of the aches could push through. "And I'm happy."
"Happy." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "As your director, what do I care if you're happy as long as you dance? As your friend." He heaved a sigh and kissed her hands. "I'm glad you have what you want."
"We'll all end up a lot happier if you step back," Brody commented. Kate frowned. "Jealousy isn't attractive—and in this case certainly misplaced."
"Murder isn't attractive. But it really seems to fit."
"One minute," Davidov said, dismissively, to both of them. "You want to snarl at each other, wait until I finish. I wroteThe Red Rose for my Ruth," he said to Kate. "My heart. There's no one but you who has been Carlotta as she was Carlotta."
"Oh." Tears swirled into her eyes, spilled out. "Damn it."
"You are missed. So I insist you be very, very happy, or I will come to your West Virginia and drag you back." Now he cupped her face, spoke quietly in Russian. "You want this man?" She nodded. "Da."