Page 18

“There’s no other choice?” I rub the bridge of my nose and toss the stack of newspapers on to the dark coffee table in Uncle Ian’s office.

The headlines of the financial section are seared into my memory. “Amid the Patterson trial, Bank of Columbia’s apology tour comes to a grinding halt,” “Pledges to non-profits to be revoked with ballet tour at risk?,” “Disaster on stage—ABTC lead ballerina hurt in premiere,” “Even Sir Ian can’t save Bank of Columbia.”

Bethany fractured her ankle during the ending scene of the ballet last weekend—a mishap with her shoes caused her to plummet right as the curtains closed.

She won’t be dancing again anytime soon.

“This is a disaster,” Ian mutters, raking his hand over his disheveled hair. “But I don’t see any other choice—there’s only one understudy for her role—Taylor. She isn’t ready.”

My jaw twitches at the mention of the minx and an uncomfortable heat swirls in my gut at the memory of our terse exchange before disaster struck.

The hatred in her voice, the fire in her eyes. The flash of pain, followed by the completely blown out of proportion response when I mentioned how she was wholly unsuitable to dance Odette.

She’s completely wrong for the role. A walking disaster.

And now she’s supposed to save the tour? Most likely, we’ll be met with angry mobs requesting refunds after the performances.

“Fuck. Sponsors will pull out if this tour goes under.” I pace the room. “And God knows what’ll happen if we can’t fund the pledges to the sexual assault organizations—not with the cash tied up for other purposes. The press will eat us alive if that happens.”

A years-long assault committed by a high-ranking management member of the bank is hard to overcome as is. Then, the same bank renouncing on donation commitments to the very victims’ rights organizations?

A catastrophe.

Even Uncle Ian and his reputation for being a champion of women’s rights in the arts won’t save us. Not to mention, with the trial going on, we’re appearing in the news daily. We need some good to offset the bad.

I need this tour to go well.

“I’ve called Taylor over. She’s on her way up.”

As if on cue, a knock sounds from the door. My shoulders stiffen and muscles tense—every inch of me preparing to go to battle against this hellion.

“Come in,” Ian commands before heaving another heavy exhale and settling into his desk chair.

Taylor strides in, her posture stiff but head held high. She’s wearing another ill-fitting ensemble—an oversized gray sweatshirt and black leggings this time. She startles when she notices me, her stormy eyes flashing with ire. I sit back on the sofa and force my body to relax—not wanting to give away the pulse of heat surging up my insides at the spark of challenge in her gaze.

She fucking drives me crazy.

Taking a seat in the armchair across from me, she ignores me and addresses Ian. “You asked for me, sir?”

“I have Charles here because, as you know, with Bethany injured, you’ll need to step into the roles of Odette and Odile for the rest of the tour.” My uncle leans forward and clasps his hands on the desk. “This tour is important to me, to ABTC, and to Bank of Columbia. And I don’t need to remind you what is at stake for you.”

Taylor freezes, a pink flush slowly crawling up her neck. “The promotion?” she whispers.

My uncle nods. “This tour will be the ultimate test for you. If the tour is well received, I will allow you to sit for the evaluation for the principal position.” He stands up and prowls around his desk toward her.

Taylor’s eyes widen at his approach, her complexion suddenly paling. A pulse batters against her neck and her breathing quickens. I’m thrown back to the fear in her eyes the day when I first met her and how I don’t ever want to see her like that again.

“You won’t mess this up for me.” I slap my knees and draw her attention away. Look at me instead.

Her eyes are wild as her gaze darts from Ian to me, then back, then finally settling on me again. She blows out an exhale.

“This is more important than your promotion. The success of this ballet will impact the bank—my family’s legacy, and you better not mess this up. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be dancing this role because you’re completely unsuited for it.”

The familiar fire in her eyes sparks again, and a crushing sense of relief washes over me. The fiery minx is back. “Your family’s legacy is none of my business, so don’t you try to pin this on me. It’s not my fault someone was so oblivious he let a sexual predator work under him this entire time without noticing.”

Guilt slices through me. The minx seems to know where the weakest parts of my armor are. Taylor stands up and glares at Ian, then at me.

Ian arches his brow, a sharpness in his eyes.

“Ballet is my life. I live and breathe it. I will do my part.”

Taylor strides in front of me and I’m hit with a whiff of patchouli and vanilla. A spark of awareness lights up my gut. Slowly, I rise from my seat, enjoying the way she needs to arch her head back to glare at me.

The defiance in her eyes awakens the inner beast I struggle to control, tempting me to unleash the turbulent emotions I’ve kept restrained, to overpower and tame my prey.

“You better not disappoint me.” I watch in fascination the way her pulse jumps when I speak.

She gasps, the little sound fanning the flames in my chest and I lean down a fraction, just to drive her crazy.

She narrows her eyes, her voice taking on a throaty tone. “I’m not dancing for you, Charles.”

The sultry image of her writhing her lithe body in those ballet shoes for me has me almost rearing back in horror.

Slowly, she rises to her tiptoes and whispers, “I’m dancing for myself. Your opinion doesn’t matter. You can take your misogynistic attitude and shove it .”

The fire is now burning hot inside my chest. My nerves spark alive at our proximity. Time slows to a crawl and I clench my fingers, fighting an irrational impulse to reach out and feel the rapid pulse feathering her neck.

How will it feel to have her burn me alive?

To feel the flames at the source?

Complete insanity.