Mercy (3 page)

“Did he cheat on her?”

“It doesn’t say. Hold on, I’ll try to find out.”

I rolled my eyes. Even if he discovered Mr. Norris was a cheating scumbag, he wouldn’t have told me because he clearly wanted me to hook up with him. Even if he discovered he had leprosy, ate babies in satanic rituals, and ran a meth lab, he still wouldn’t have told me on the off chance we’d actually go out.

“Damn, he has a girlfriend,” he sighed a moment later. Then, “Oh, they recently broke up. Ha!”
A triumphant laugh.
“He’s available, Lu!”

I didn’t reply but a part of me got excited.
He’s available.
Did he want me? He was a single man, rich, handsome, a patron of the arts.
Grégoire
said he’d been watching me during class...

But what did he actually want with me? The way he’d looked at me... He’d looked at me like he already knew me. He’d handled me in the hall like I was already his. That’s why it had felt so strange. It had been a possessive grip when he had no right to possession. He was clearly a man who was used to getting anything he wanted, but just because he donated to the company didn’t mean he could choose a girl from the ranks for his pleasure.
For his pleasure.
Why on earth did my mind automatically go there? Maybe he only liked my dancing. Maybe he just wanted to be friends.

No, I didn’t get that vibe from him. When he looked at me, when he’d touched me, it wasn’t friendliness I felt. My mind snapped from its train of thought when
Grégoire
started printing. “God, G.” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “What are you doing this for?”

“For you, dearest,” he said in my ear, and then dropped a photograph in my lap.

Yes, it was him, larger than life.
The blond hair, the blue eyes that haunted my dreams.
The broad face, the masculine features, the perfect smile. I shivered and felt strangely afraid. I handed it back to him. “I want you to have it. Something to stroke to while Georges is out of town.”

“Oh, come on!” He shoved the picture back into my hands. “It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to blow that up for you.”

“I don’t want it.” I ignored him even though he was inches from my face, smiling his mischievous smile. “I have absolutely no interest in this rich prick.”

“He’s not a prick. I know you’re not big on guys right now,” he said, “but this guy! What do you think he’s worth?
How many millions?”

“Why does that matter?” I shook my head. “It probably just makes him weird.”

“Weird?”

“Yes, weird. All rich people are weird. And he’s totally weird. I can tell that he is.”

“Georges is rich, and he’s not weird.”

“Yes he is, if what you tell me about your sex life is true.”

Grégoire
laughed, jumped over the sofa and curled up with his head in my lap.
“Oh, Lucy.”

I didn’t reply, just ran my fingers through his sleek black hair.

“You know what? I think you’re really, really sad.” He stroked my leg, soft and slow. “I think this thing with Joe has tripped you up.”

“It hasn’t. It’s just made me realize some things about love.”

“Love?”
Grégoire
snorted. “You don’t know anything about love, Lucy Merritt.”

He teased, but his words hit a little too close to home. Anyway, who was he to lecture me about love? “I’m going,” I muttered, pushing him out of my lap.

“Aw, don’t be mad.”

“I’m tired. It’s late, you stupid French pretty boy. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice night.”

“Don’t forget your photo,” he said, holding out the picture of Matthew Norris.

“Thanks.” I crumpled it into a fistful of paper before shoving it in my bag, feeling full of fear and frustration and lust.

* * *

As soon as I got home, of course, I took out the photo, smoothed out the wrinkles as best I could. I lay on my bed and looked at it a long time, trying to inure myself to the beauty of his face.

And yes, I found him unbearably beautiful, which was strange, because he was far from a classically beautiful man. He actually looked rather coarse and rough around the edges.
Animalistic
, my uncooperative mind whispered. Yes, that was exactly what he was, animal male disguised in a suit. The proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, and me, I was the sheep. I looked at his eyes a long time hoping and wishing it wasn’t true, but then I remembered his hand on my arm, his look in the rehearsal hall, and I knew that it was true. I was his prey.

As much as he compelled me, I was scared that he wanted me.
Really scared.
I was pretty sure he wasn’t a criminal or a rapist, and the truth was, if I didn’t want to see Mr. Norris, I didn’t have to. I thought about all the trivia
Grégoire
had yelled out to me.
He mentors inner city children for Big Brothers and Big Sisters! He donates a ridiculous amount of money to charities. He owns that beautiful new skyscraper over on Marsden. He’s made all his millions from
nothing,
he came from a dirt poor family in the Midwest!

I looked into Mr. Norris’s sharp, piercing eyes and tried to imagine him as a young child, poor and hungry. I studied his perfectly tailored suit and crisp white collar and tried to imagine him in ill-fitting clothes, no books or toys to play with, no trips to the doctor when he was sick. I thought I could see it there a little, in the small wrinkles around his eyes. Or maybe he was just tired. I didn’t suppose rich, sexy businessmen like him had much use for sleep. I’d grown up poor too, in the Deep South. Raised by a single mother who’d sacrificed everything—her youth, her money, her happiness, so I could dance the way I’d been born to. Just after I’d finally “made it,” been hired into a company in Atlanta, she’d been hit by a car walking to work.

I crumpled the picture back up. Ludicrous to think we had anything in common. Just because we were both born poor trashy people didn’t mean we belonged together now. All we really had in common was that he was a new patron of my dance company, and that he seemed to have a hard on for the talent, which was me. I
uncrumpled
it and tore it into a thousand pieces so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at it again.

I lay in bed late into the night though, trying to erase the photo from my mind.
Trying to erase the feeling that we had more in common than dirt poor beginnings.

* * *

I was really tired the next day and dragged myself to rehearsals in a funk. I avoided
Grégoire
and hid out in my dressing room until
Elinor
arrived, at which point I grabbed my
pointe
shoes and settled on the floor in the hall. I buried my face in the newspaper, working on the crossword puzzle. I was just tying my shoes, trying to figure out a nine letter word for love, when I saw a pair of expensive loafers come to a stop on the floor beside me.

Holy shit.

I looked up at him. My heart pounded in my chest and I had to make myself breathe.

“Hello, Lucy,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Norris.”

He frowned a little. “How did you know my name?”

“How did you know mine?” I said right back, before the politeness filter in my brain kicked into gear.

He laughed. “Please call me Matthew.”

“Okay, Matthew.” But it felt strange to call him Matthew. He looked like someone I should call Mr. Norris, especially looking down his nose at me as he was. I looked back at my puzzle and recommenced tying my shoes. My heart was beating so hard I was sure he would hear it.

“You can do that without even looking.” He sounded impressed.

“Yes. I’ve tied these shoes thousands of times.”

I looked up again and he smiled down at me, and I hated how I felt under that breathtaking smile. He offered me his hand.

“We haven’t met properly, have we?”

I stood up then because he expected me to. It’s more accurate to say that he pulled me up, although he did it so naturally that there was no hint of force. But I came to my feet as if something propelled me, and what propelled me was his large, impossibly strong hand. He introduced himself formally, in a deep voice that held only a trace of Midwestern accent.

“Matthew Norris. I’m a big fan of your dancing.”

“Lucy Merritt,” I replied.
“Merritt with two
t’s
.”

That seemed to amuse him and he smiled.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lucy Merritt with two
t’s
.”

I stood there feeling ridiculous, seeing
Grégoire
out of the corner of my eye, and a few other dancers eavesdropping on our conversation like a bunch of gossip whores.

“So what are you doing here again?” I asked, a little peevishly. “Don’t you work?”

“Oh, yeah, I work,” he said, and the smile he gave me then didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“A busy patron of the arts... So you’re here checking out your investment?”

“One of them, yes.”

I looked down at my feet, hating the blush in my cheeks. I was irritated that he made me feel this way. I couldn’t quite believe he’d come out and said that to me, especially with half the company watching.

“I find your dancing very inspirational,” he continued. You’re a true pleasure to watch.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled to the floor.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“A little.”
I looked pointedly at the dancers milling around.

“I’m harmless, I promise.” He leaned closer and I had to look up at him, look in those piercing eyes that seemed far from harmless to me. “I just appreciate a thing of beauty when I see it, Lucy Merritt.”

I panicked. I threw a glance at the other dancers and
blushed
an even deeper shade of red.

“I’m not a
thing
,” I finally managed to say. “And I have to go to class now. Excuse me.”

I didn’t wait for a reply, just shouldered my bag and practically ran down the hall. And prayed, really prayed that he wouldn’t be watching class today. Thankfully he wasn’t, although
Grégoire
frowned at me from across the
barre
.

“What is wrong with you?” he sniped while we stretched. “You really pissed him off, you know.”

“So what?
He’s a big boy.”

“Yes, he’s a very big boy and he just donated a lot of money to the theater.”

“So that means he can take his pick of the dancers?”

“Oh, come on. He’s interested in you. What’s so bad about that?”

“He’s weird, G!”

“No, he’s not. I talked to him after you left. He’s a really nice guy. I tried to defend you, you know. I told him you were actually a pretty nice person.
Which you used to be.”

“I don’t need you apologizing on my behalf. Anyway, he called me a
thing
.”

“He was complimenting you, Lucy. I heard the whole conversation, believe me.”

“Well, he looked at me like I was a thing.
Like I was
his
thing.
Just because he donates money to the company—”