Dance With Me (18 page)

“When I am inside you, I never want to leave. It feels like home,” he said.

She smiled, giving him a squeeze with her legs before releasing him and letting her feet drop to the floor. “I know. For me, too.”

He kissed her tenderly. Then he slipped out and rolled off her. They lay, knees bent, feet on the floor, fingers entwined, shoulders and hips and thighs touching, staring at the ceiling.

“This,” he gestured with his free hand to the room around them. “This is not home. London was not home. Do you know that after I quit the Royal, I had one week to leave the country. One week. After living there since I was thirteen.” He turned his head to look at her. His face showed neither anger nor sadness, just disbelief.

He returned his gaze to the ceiling. “And when I went back to the Ukraine, to Darnitsa and then Kiev, of course that was not home either. I was a child when I left. Nothing was the same.”

She rolled onto her side to face him. Curled into him, she stroked his hair. “That must have been hard. I kind of know how you feel. Growing up with parents from two different cultures, I wasn’t sure where I was from. I didn’t feel totally American, but I knew I wasn’t Singaporean, either. We went there every other summer to visit my mom’s family when I was a kid.”

He looked at her. “What is it like?”

“Hot. Humid. Like the city is in a constant war with the jungle and the rain. It rains every day, you know? The food is amazing, of course. There are these massive open-air food courts called hawker centers where you can get chili crab and chicken rice and giant mugs of fresh sugarcane juice. Oh, and carrot cake. Not like the sweet stuff you get here. More like a potato latke gone tribal. So good.”

He smiled, tracing a finger along her lower lip. “I want to go there with you.”

She looked at him, considering. “The food is the good part. But the people. Ugh. At least my relatives. They’re so materialistic. It makes me sick. They would hate you. Just because you’re not a banker or a brain surgeon.” She plucked at his t-shirt that she was still wearing. “They’d like your clothes, though. Do you have even have anything from, I don’t know, Target?”

He laughed. “What is Target? Is that like Tesco? A supermarket?”

She slapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, my God. You don’t even know what Target is. And you’ve been here how long?”

Rolling over to face her, he tugged on the hem of the shirt. “Three months. This was a gift, like everything in my closet. I don’t remember the last time I bought clothes for myself, except you know, underwear and dance clothes. The designers send them to me. Or the magazine editors give them to me at photo shoots.”

“Must be nice,” she said.

“Yes. It’s nice. I don’t care about fashion so much, but I like good quality. Most dancers can’t afford this.” He pulled at the shirt again, giving her a sleepy smile. “I think this should come off now, though. I want to fall asleep touching your skin.”

Sherry wriggled out of it and handed it to him. He sat up and pitched it at his duffel bag, landing a perfect shot.

“You have to show me how you do that,” she said, snuggling into him.

“It’s easy. Practice.” He pulled her closer to him and ran his hands down her back. “Mm. I will wear it to class and have your smell on me, like you are with me, like I am inside you.” She could feel him growing hard against her again. “Maybe this is a bad idea, this skin. We need to sleep.”

He pulled the duvet up over them, and after a chaste kiss on her mouth, rolled onto his stomach. She lay on her side, facing him, her hand on his warm back as his breath became slow and rhythmic. She knew she should sleep, too, but the emptiness in her belly was taking precedence. It was all that talk about the hawker centers.

Reaching down beside the bed, she grabbed the bowl of cold noodles and sat up cross-legged to eat them. As she chewed, her eyes traveled over Alexi’s naked back, taking in the tattoos there. He still hadn’t told her their stories, but she knew each one was an illustration of a painful memory. He would tell her, eventually, one by one, she knew, just as she would tell him all of her stories, her hurts and failures, her joys and triumphs.

The ones on his chest she could have drawn from memory. But she hadn’t spent much time looking at his back. Lowering the duvet, she examined each one. The Cyrillic lettering on his left shoulder blade. The winged serpent along his spine. The dove on the back of his bicep. She had just lifted the duvet and was about to bring it up over his shoulder when she saw it. There on the curve of his right hip was a crest of a double-headed eagle. The same one Peter had taken a picture of in the office of the sham accountants. The symbol used by the Russian separatists in the Ukraine.

Chapter Twenty

It should have been hard. Deleting all the files on the shared drive, the documents from Kat, her interview notes, and her almost-finished article should have been the hardest thing she had ever done. Her reporter’s instinct told her that the article would have been her Olympic gold, her Everest summit, her ticket to international recognition. It would have given her everything she had devoted the past nine years of her life to but was never sure she could achieve. And yet deleting it was the easiest thing. Select all, backspace, done.

The tattoo of the double-headed eagle didn’t definitively prove that Alexi had anything to do with the embezzlement of funds and distribution of them to support an illegal war, but Sherry wasn’t taking any chances. She couldn’t lose him. It was as simple as that.

After powering down her laptop, she sent a text to Kat.

Sorry. Legal says we can’t print the article.

Powering down her phone, she crawled back into bed and nestled against Alexi’s strong, warm body. He rolled toward her and wrapped his arms around her. Within seconds, she was asleep.

Midday sun was streaming in around the blinds when the banging on the door woke her. She sat up with a start, clutching the covers around her. Alexi was sitting up, too, his eyes wide. The look in his eyes told her he was thinking the same thing. It had to be the Russian thugs. He put a finger to her lips and pointed at her phone.

“Stay here. Dial 911. If it is them, I will cough loudly and you will call.”

The pounding on the door echoed throughout the apartment again. He picked up his phone and left the room, not hurrying. “One minute,” he called out. She heard the closet door open.

Sherry leapt out of bed and grabbed a t-shirt and a pair of jeans from her bag. As she pulled her clothes on, she could hear Alexi shouting in Russian and rustling in the closet. Then sound of the closet door closing, the locks on the front door rattling. Then chaos.

“Whoa. Drop the gun, Mr. Davydenko. Put the gun down now!” a voice, definitely not Russian, yelled.

A metallic clatter.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Alexi said.

Thumps. More metallic sounds.

“We just wanted to ask you some questions, but now we’re going to have to bring you in.”

“Gentlemen. It was a misunderstanding. I thought you were someone else. No need for the cuffs, really.” Alexi’s voice was calm.

“We’ll be the judge of that.”

Sherry burst through the swinging doors. “Officers,” she said, trying to rein in the wild beating of her heart. “This isn’t necessary.”

Officers Lloyd and Fletcher, the men who had spoken to her in Frank’s office, were standing there with guns drawn. Alexi had his hands cuffed behind his back, silk bathrobe falling open to reveal his inked chest.

The men looked at her in surprise then looked at each other. “Two for the price of one,” Lloyd said. “Today’s our lucky day. We should buy a lottery ticket.”

“You want to take him down to the station? I’ll stay here and question her.”

“Sounds good.” He picked up the gun Alexi had dropped.

“Wait,” Sherry said, appealing to the blond. “What is going on here? Nobody has to go anywhere.”

Fletcher steered her back toward the kitchen. “Calm down, Ms. Wilson. I’m just going to ask you a few questions.”

Ignoring him, she called to Alexi. “You don’t have to go anywhere. You have rights.”

“He just pulled what I’m guessing is an unregistered firearm at a police officer, ma’am. That pretty much wipes out those rights.”

“Jesus, what is this, Abu Ghraib? At least let him put some clothes on,” she said, her eyes on Alexi.

“It will be fine,” he said. His expression was carefully neutral, but who knew what was really going on behind those green eyes.

The two police officers exchanged glances. The blond shrugged. “Get him some clothes,” he told Sherry.

She opened the closet door and pulled his biker jacket, a pair of trousers and a shirt from their hangers, still talking. “What is this about?”

“You should know. It’s your name in the byline.”

Sherry’s heart sank as her stomach lurched to her throat. “What are you talking about?” she said, but inside her, she knew. Frank had published the article. He must have made a copy off the shared drive and gone ahead and published it without her say-so. This was bad.

Officer Lloyd ignored her question. “Help him get the pants on. He can put the shirt and jacket on at the station. Until then the cuffs stay on. Not taking any chances.”

Quivering with helpless rage, she helped Alexi into the trousers, while Fletcher read him his rights.  Still addressing Lloyd, she said, “This is insane. Surely you can see that.”

Alexi smiled down at her. “It’s fine. It will all be fine. These are reasonable gentlemen. Don’t worry.”

“Will it?” she asked Lloyd.

He smiled. “It all depends on how cooperative Mr. Davydenko is.”

Fletcher shook his head. “Still, being in possession of an unregistered firearm. Not great for an alien, legal or not.”

“It is registered,” Alexi said, quietly. How he managed to look so dignified in handcuffs and a robe while facing potential deportation, Sherry didn’t know. “To Sergei Antonov. He lent it to me. For protection.”

Her heart sank further, knowing that Sergei was probably already behind bars and would use any means available to deflect blame from himself, including Alexi.

“Damn it.” Sherry closed her eyes, leaning against the wall. Why had she put the article on the shared drive?

“It will be all right, my flower,” Alexi said Lloyd led him away.

But would it? Turning back to the dark-haired officer, she unleashed cold fury. “Hope your union has some good lawyers on retainer, because you and blondie are going to get your asses sued.”

He gave her a wan smile. “Are you trying to intimidate a police officer? Not really helping your sweetheart’s case, are you?”

Sherry swallowed bile. “Ask your damn questions.”

He closed the door behind him and led her back to the kitchen. “Let’s start with your relationship to Alexi Davydenko. He’s your lover. Is he your source, too?”

“I don’t see how this is relevant,” she said.

“Little bit of a conflict of interest going on, I’d say, given the nature of your article.”

“That article wasn’t supposed to be printed. My boss must have gone ahead without my okay.” An idea was forming in Sherry’s mind. It was going to hurt a hell of a lot worse than deleting the article had, but it would be worth it.

Fletcher was looking at her, waiting.

“Look, I know my rights. I don’t have to answer your questions. And I have nothing more to say to you until I have a lawyer present. Right now, I have someplace to be. So if you don’t mind…” She swept her arm toward the door.

He looked at her coldly. “You might regret this.”

She gave him a wan smile. “Regret and I are like this.” She held up two fingers, crossed. “We have a tight relationship.” She held the door open for him.

After the police officer had left, Sherry called Ken Wu.

“Sherry.” He sounded unexpectedly pleased to hear from her, given the events of the previous evening.

“Look, Ken, sorry for bailing on you last night. I can’t explain right now, and what’s worse, I’m actually calling you to ask you a favor.”

“Okay.” There was a new wariness in his voice.

“Remember I was telling you about my friend, on the work visa?”

“The one who might have done something wrong.”

“Yeah, well. He hasn’t. But he’s just been arrested.”

“Well, that was fast. On what charges?”

“Um. He pointed a weapon at a police officer. But it was a mistake.”

“I’d say.”

“No, I mean, he thought they were the Russian Mafia. They broke into my apartment and … look, it’s a long story, but the point is, he needs legal help. You’re the only immigration lawyer I know.”

He sighed. “Sounds like he may need a criminal lawyer instead, but I’ll see what I can do.” He paused. “I’m guessing he’s more than a friend and a do-over on the date isn’t going to happen.”

“No.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. She could feel a headache coming on. “But I could probably get you a date with a ballerina, if you’re interested.”

He gave a sad little chuckle. “I’ll let you know. Tell me where they took him and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

After hanging up with Ken, she did a quick clean-up job in the bathroom, tying her hair into a knot on top of her head and washing her face. Every thirty seconds, she tried Frank on his cell, only to be sent to voice mail. Of course. Given the enormity of the accusations against ABC every phone in the office would be blowing up.

Pulling on her utility jacket on, she grabbed her phone and left.

As if fate were directing her actions, a cab was waiting right outside the building. “Brooklyn,” she told the driver. “Flatbush.”

Still not getting through on Frank’s cell or any of the office numbers, she called Peter.

“Are you at the office?”

“And good morning to you. As a matter of fact I am. It’s our day to host craft day at our place, so I suddenly found I had some work to do. I couldn’t have picked a better day for it. It’s quite lively here.”

She could hear a hum of chatter, punctuated by a multitude of ring tones. “Frank printed my ABC story. It wasn’t finished.”

“Ah, yes. The word is a woman claiming to be your source called and said if we didn’t print it, she would be more than happy to give the same information to
The
Times
. You know Frank. He’d rather wear a tutu than get scooped by
The
Times
.”

So Kat was to blame for this,
she thought.
Of course, she couldn’t know that Alexi might be involved
.

“Look, Peter. I’ve got to let you go. My phone is dying. I’ll be there soon.”

But she wasn’t. As the taxi approached the Brooklyn Bridge, traffic had stalled to a standstill. Peering over the driver’s head, she could see red and blue lights flashing. As they inched forward, she saw the boys in blue stopping each car to look inside. When they reached the cops, Sherry rolled down her window.

“Press!” she shouted. “Who are you looking for?”

The police officer gave her a weary look and waved them forward.

By the time the cab deposited her in front of the nondescript building that housed
The Sun
, the waning light was painting it red. The fingers of her left hand, too, were red and pulpy as rare sirloin. She had bitten down her nails down to the verge of drawing blood. The first bite had been heaven, like a smoker’s first puff after a long hiatus. Now she just felt sickened. But her mind, at least, was clear. She knew what she had to do. She wasn’t happy about it, but she had no other choice.

Normally, the newsroom was quiet on a Sunday, but most of the desks were manned. And, as predicted, most of the reporters were on the phone. Ignoring the hushed whispers and outright stares of her coworkers, she made a beeline for Frank’s office. Even Kim’s knowing smirk didn’t stop her. Peter stood up as if he was going to follow her, but she gave him a look that stopped him in his tracks.

“Later,” she hissed.

Frank’s door was locked and the blinds were drawn, but that wasn’t going to deter Sherry. She pounded on the door.

“Open up, Francis. We need to talk,” she said, her voice just below a shout.

The door opened, and Frank stood in the doorway, his bulk blocking the way. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating with champagne? That’s quite a piece you wrote. The phones have been ringing off the hook. You’ve managed to generate quite a shit-storm.” He gave her a sly smile.

“It wasn’t ready to go to press, Frank, and you know it. What’s going to happen when the lawsuits roll in?”

“Sweetheart, I knew this was going to be big. I’ve had the lawyers on it from day one. It’s airtight.”

“That’s impossible. I just got the docs from my source last night.”

Frank crossed his arms, poker face firmly in place. “Same source who threatened to take the story to
The Times
? The fact-checkers are on it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not going to like what they find. We’re going to have to retract it,” she said.

He looked at her, steadily. “The hell we are.”

She took a deep breath as if she were about to plunge over a cliff into the sea far below. “The story is complete bullshit. I fabricated it. There is no proof to back any of the claims. That source, those documents? They don’t exist.”

Frank looked at her for a moment. His features didn’t move a fraction of an inch, but something in his eyes changed. Then he gave her an almost tender smile and shook his head. “How long have I known you, Sherry?” he said, softly.

She didn’t answer, looking at her shoes.

“I’m not retracting the piece,” he said, turning and walking into his office.