The Siren's Dance. Amber Belldene

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Lisko, Ukraine had declared its independence from Russia and established a democracy while she’d danced aimlessly and watched leaves swirl in the river. If only her parents could have lived to see the change. It would have made her father very proud.

      In places, the city looked fresher, full of sparkling windows in bright buildings that had once been dingy and sooty. In other places, Kiev looked worse than ever.

      “Is it better now, do you think?” she asked.

      His puzzled glance told her she’d been unclear.

      “Ukraine. Life here.”

      “I don’t know. We’re a country divided. Some people wish to draw close to Russia again, and others lean toward Europe. Too often, they disagree violently.”

      “Which side are you on?”

      “I try to stay off any side, keep my head down, do my job.”

      Of course he did. He would be a fence sitter.

      “What about Lisko?”

      “Oh, he’s a smooth operator. He’s on both sides at once, though neither knows it. He’s loyal to profits and his own power, and his only ideology is his family name.”

      “Whereas, I suppose a guy like you actually believes in justice. You were probably destined for this work--wanted to become an investigator ever since you were a kid, playing cops and robbers, or pretending to solve mysteries.”

      “Pretty much.” He leveled a good-natured and gorgeous smile at her. Fortunately, she didn’t go for golden guys like him. Otherwise, the electric hum he stirred inside her could be dangerous.

      “My turn?”

      She shrugged. “If you want.”

      “I’m guessing a girl like you just had to become a dancer. To push yourself to the physical limit, to defy gravity and physiology to be, what, the best? Or maybe because it was the only arena where you were encouraged to hone your sharp edges, rather than blunt them.”

      Regular seams in the asphalt of the highway caused the tire wheels to thump, thump, thump, like a slow and thunderous heartbeat, each one emphasizing the failure of her repartee. She wracked her brain but could not compose an appropriately sharp reply.

      “How’d I do?” he asked.

      You cut way too close to home, you presumptuous puppy, was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it to say, “What makes you think that?”

      “Your nasty slipper, your battered feet, and your perfect thighs.” He didn’t glance away from the road.

      That hot, electric energy wafted through her again. “Oh.”

      “Also, my mom was a dancer. I understand what goes into that life, and you have it written all over you. Or am I wrong?”

      “You know you’re not, but guessing I was a dancer when you’re carrying around my shoe hardly makes you Sherlock Holmes.”

      “Guess not.” He chuckled again in that annoyingly self-effacing way. “So why dance?”

      “I was better at it than Sonya.”

      “Huh.” He nodded as if he were trying not say what a terrible reason that was.

      “I know it sounds petty, and it was. Completely. She was older, smart, and sweet, could sew, draw, and paint. She even knit tiny caps for newborns. My fingers were clumsy. I didn’t like to read much…”

      It had been so painful to grow up in her shadow, to sense how everyone at school and in the neighborhood had measured her according to Sonya and found her short. How their parents, with the same kindly temperaments as her sister, winced when Anya’s prickly side appeared, liked they’d been sent home from the hospital with the wrong child.

      “But dance, it was the one thing I could do better than her.”

      “Yeah. Maybe just a little petty.” He held up his finger and thumb as if he pressed a die between them.

      She laughed. “Let me finish. It became more than that. It became everything, and for a time, I had a chance at becoming a prima ballerina. But even then my parents always thought it was only about my rivalry with Sonya.”

      They hadn’t understood obsession any more than they’d comprehended her tendency to sarcasm, her acerbic comments--all had been labeled flaws with a cluck or a hush or a raised eyebrow. Mama and Papa had never been cruel. They’d simply treated her like an odd and alien creature in their home, keeping her at a slight distance from the intimacy the rest of them shared.

      “I’d think you would have had to fall in love with it to get so far. What was your favorite role?”

      If he’d expressed sympathy or judgment, she’d have shut down. But the question sounded so casual, almost careless. Just making conversation on a long drive. So she considered it.

      She’d been Clara in the Nutcracker, an understudy to Odette in Swan Lake, but Demyan had groomed her to be Giselle. The role had been the most coveted by all the dancers, the part she’d truly craved. This universe, with its fixation on justice and vengeance, also seemed to have a sense of humor, making her a vila, just like Giselle. Irony? Fate? Who could say? But she did prefer wind to water, so this role she’d been cast in was far better than being a rusalka.

      “Odette was my favorite,” she lied. “I was the understudy. I performed in the prima’s place for two matinees. The two best days of my life.”

      “So you were a junkie for the applause?”

      “Jun-key?”

      “Oh, sorry. It’s a bit of English that snuck into usage at the station. A junkie’s a drug addict.”

      She’d been deaf to the applause of anyone but Stas, could hear his palms slap together over the sounds of the whole house bursting into cheers.

      “Something like that.”

      A crisp memory of his darkly sensual smile came to her. He’d been standing in the wings, his gaze piercing, always evaluating her. His black dance shirt open wide and low to reveal the smattering of hair on his lean, muscular chest. He’d been everything a young ballerina could want--an older, experienced man, a skilled dancer whose touch activated all her instincts so that her movements flowed from pure emotion.

      And now, also straight from her emotions--the hate and anger building inside--wind like the fiercest storm churned inside her. Fog appeared on the car windows, and Yuchenko flipped on the defroster. By sheer force of will, she kept the energy inside her, ordered it to still, but it fought for freedom like it never had on her riverbank. It was possible, as the chance of finding Stas became real, that she wasn’t in quite as much control of her powers as she’d thought.

      * * * *

      Sergey couldn’t resist watching her whenever she angled away from him. Even in profile, the lines of her features were dramatic and elegant, and they came alive when she spoke, even in anger, turning her outright beautiful.

      She СКАЧАТЬ