Anew: Awakened Part 18

By which I gather that he does not want me to bring it up again. Even so, I persevere. "I don't understand why the men who a.s.saulted him aren't being held to account. What they did was wrong."

"You may think so," Edward says quietly. "But there are a great many who disagree with you. As I am sure you have no wish to draw unwelcome attention to yourself, you should forget what you saw."

I understand his concern for my sake but his seeming callousness disappoints and worries me. Softly, I say, "I can't forget it and not withstanding my respect for your advice, I won't. I am not a child to be shielded from unpleasant realities. Nor am I willing to ignore rank injustice."

"Then you will place yourself in danger," Edward says. I have never heard him speak so coldly. "And others with you. Is that what you wish?"

"Of course it isn't but--"

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "Enough. This is neither the time nor the place for any such discussion."

Reluctantly, I have to admit that he has a point. We are arriving at our destination. Getting out of the car, I am still dwelling on his uncharacteristic behavior when I notice a nearby building of such extraordinary size and beauty that it eclipses everything else around it.

Constructed of black steel and silvered gla.s.s, it is far taller than any other in the city. There is no indication of what goes on inside but I can't help wondering what the view from the topmost floors is like. There must be days when the inhabitants are far above the clouds, unfettered by the world. I envy their freedom, however illusionary it may be.

A few minutes later, I step off an elevator in the smaller building where the soiree is being held. The elegant apartment looks as though it was taken directly from an English country manor. Tufted sofas and wingchairs are upholstered in chintz and strewn with needlepoint pillows. Marble-topped tables hold crystal vases overflowing with flowers. The paintings are old, heavily framed, and mostly of horses and dogs. The effect is warm and gracious even if I can't imagine myself ever living with it.

Our hosts, a couple I remember meeting the previous evening at the opera, greet us in the entrance hall. Beyond them a hundred or so people are gathered for a private performance by a world-renown cellist. Servers circulate with hors d'oeuvres and champagne. I sip a little of the wine but forego any food until I can figure out how to juggle both while shaking hands and smiling non-stop.

Edward and Adele introduce me to yet more people. Those I didn't meet at the opera have nonetheless heard about my arrival in town, no doubt thanks to the private link on which Society exchanges news and gossip. I'm wondering what I might learn from it about Ian when a frisson of awareness interrupts my thoughts. I look up.

He is standing not twenty feet away, watching me.

Chapter Nineteen.

Amelia "Ian," Adele says with a smile. "What a surprise." She leans toward him and drops her voice a notch. "I thought you detested such events yet here you are for the second evening in a row."

"Could it be that I've suddenly acquired an interest in culture?" he asks, grinning down at her.

"Of course it could be, dear boy," my grandmother replies. "I just don't think it actually is."

Observing them, I realize that of course Adele knows Ian. Indeed, in all likelihood she knows him well. Moreover, she regards him with affection.

Questions tumble through my mind. Why is he here? Why does he have a look in his eye that I recognize all too well--dark and smoky but also hard and a little frightening? What on earth am I supposed to say to him?

After my bold declaration that we were done, I'd expected at least a little time to sh.o.r.e up my defenses before having to face him again. Yet first I find myself supporting him against Davos, then he sends me lewd flowers, and now he shows up where I had no expectation he would be.

"Amelia," he says, the husky timber of his voice threatening to melt me. Before I can even think of stopping him, he takes my hand, turns it, and holding my eyes with his, presses a velvety warm kiss into my palm.

The flute of champagne I am holding only just makes it to safety on a nearby table.

"Ian," I murmur because apparently I'm incapable of saying anything else.

He smiles and without a flicker of hesitation, says, "Will you excuse us, Adele? Amelia and I have a few things to discuss."

My grandmother--who until now I have believed truly has my best interest at heart--waves a hand. "Of course, dear boy. Take all the time you need."

Traitor! I cast a frantic look around for Edward only to discover that he's on the other side of the room deep in conversation with Ian's sister, Marianne. Edward is always so imperturbable that it's difficult to imagine what he's thinking but just then he looks unusually intent. I can't help wondering what Marianne could have said or done to prompt such a reaction.

Any such curiosity will have to wait. I have other, far more immediate concerns.

Ian is still holding my hand, having tucked it into the crook of his arm in a seemingly gentlemanly gesture that might fool others but doesn't deceive me for a moment. He is leading me away from the soiree toward a small room off to one side. The d.a.m.n man must have a mental map of every trysting spot in Manhattan.

My traitorous body stirs in antic.i.p.ation. But this time I am fiercely determined not to give into it. I dig my heels into the plush carpet and hiss, "Let me go. I'm not interested in discussing anything with you."

He stops but doesn't release me. To the contrary, his hand tightens on mine. He looks strangely pleased as though my refusal, far from angering him, is what he wants.

I'm thoroughly confused, more than half convinced that I will never understand this mercurial man.

Softly, he says, "Whatever you say, sweetheart. We can have this out right here."

As much as I don't relish the thought of a scene, I have to know. "Have what out? There's nothing for us to discuss." With rash impulsiveness bordering on madness, I add, "Unless you'd like to apologize for what you said? Explain why you are such an a.s.s? I'm willing to listen to that."

His jaw clenches. The hardness in his eyes is even more p.r.o.nounced but so is the dark seductiveness.

"You're seeing Sergei Zharkov."

That's what he wants to talk about? How could he possibly even know? Adele couldn't have told him, she was with me from the time we arrived. Edward must have but why? And why would Ian care?

"I am taking cla.s.ses with Sergei but I don't see what--"

"I don't want you to."

My mouth drops open but I recover quickly. There is only one possible response and I don't hesitate to give it.

"You don't have any say in what I do."

I wait, silently daring him to claim otherwise. If he starts in again about owning me, I swear I won't be responsible for what happens next.

Ian's eyes narrow. He casts me an a.s.sessing look, as though trying to judge how serious I am. His mouth tightens. "You know Zharkov likes women? A lot."

Sergei likes women a lot or he likes a lot of women? I'm confused but I don't really care. It has nothing to do with me. The Russian certainly is a very attractive man, superbly fit and with a wild edge to his nature that I find undeniably appealing. If I have a 'type', I think I've figured out what it is. But Ian, heaven help me, is the original. Everything else is a pale reflection.

"I don't see why that matters," I say. "He's an incredibly talented ballet master. Taking cla.s.s from him is a privilege."

Ian's jaw is clenched. I stare at it in unwilling fascination. His thoughts and emotions are usually so contained but not now. I don't need any special insight to understand that he's fighting the urge to tell me again not to see Sergei. But I do feel dangerously curious about how he imagines that he could enforce such an order.

At length, he says, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" I ask. "Living my own life? Making my own choices?"

"Driving me crazy," he says.

My eyes widen. Where is this intensity coming from? Can my spending time with another man possibly disturb him this much? If he really is so possessive, why did he let me go in the first place?

Mindful that we are standing in a crowded drawing room, I say softly, "Ian, I want to dance. I need to. But to do it safely, I have to be in proper condition. I'm not going to make the same mistake I did in the studio."

That over exertion landed me in his arms. Memories of what followed dart through my mind--the ma.s.sage room, the shower, the tent afterward-- I really do not want to go there especially not when the light in his amber eyes makes it clear that he's more than willing to come with me.

My explanation or perhaps the memory it evokes seems to improve his mood. He smiles and without warning asks, "Did you get the flowers?"

I glance around nervously. No one is close enough to overhear us but I catch several cutting looks from young women who don't like the fact that I'm monopolizing the most attractive man in the room.

"You shouldn't have sent them. If Edward or Adele had been there when they arrived, I would have been horribly embarra.s.sed."

"Edward always leaves early for the office and Adele is a late riser. I knew you'd be alone."

I'm relieved he thought of that but I'm not backing down. "Hardly alone. Two dozen people work in the house. The fact that they're servants only means that they're likely to be more aware of what's going on around them, not less."

"They know better than to gossip," he says defensively. "Every worker in the city has signed an iron-clad non-disclosure agreement. It would be worth their jobs--and any future job they ever hoped to have--if they said anything."

This is news although it does fit with what I've observed about how jealously the elite guard their privacy. Curiosity gets the better of me. "Has Hodgkin signed an NDA?"

The sudden shift of focus takes him by surprise. "Of course not and I'd never ask him to. He's an old friend. I owe him a great deal."

I can't help myself, I have to know. "You didn't get along with your father when you were younger but you did with Hodgkin?"

At first, I think he is going to refuse to respond but slowly, not taking his eyes from me, Ian nods. "Hodge used to be in the military. When he saw that I wasn't happy with the plan my father expected me to follow, he made sure that I was aware I had options. He opened my eyes to the possibilities and left the rest to me."

A little piece of the Ian puzzle falls into place. Hodgkin--Hodge--enabled him to make a choice that put Ian on the road to becoming the man he is. A man who cares about finding ways to feed less fortunate people and preventing the very kind of strife from which he can personally profit. The steward had done what a good parent, as opposed to one merely interested in control, would do.

Is that where Ian's control issues come from, his dealings with his father?

Before I can get up the nerve to ask him that, he asks softly, "What did you do with the flowers?"

"They're in my bedroom."

His smile deepens. I get the impression that this is exactly what he intended when he sent them. "Good."

He is close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath along the curve of my cheek. A pool of liquid heat gathers between my legs.

"c.l.i.toria," he says softly, "emit their scent at night. Think of me when you smell them. Imagine what I would be doing to you if I were there."

My knees sag. This is so screamingly unfair. He manipulates my emotions as easily as he does my body. In a room full of people, I'm becoming intensely aroused. Worse, Ian knows it. The look he gives me is more than a little smug.

I take advantage of his complacency and slip my hand from his. "What a fascinating idea but actually, I'll be getting a good night's sleep. I have another session with Sergei tomorrow and I need to rest up."

Before he can respond, I step away. To my regret, he doesn't try to stop me.

I have no reason to believe that the cello performance is anything other than sublime but I'm hardly aware of it. For the remainder of the evening, all I can think of is Ian. He does not approach me again but I see him chatting with other guests. The men treat him with cautious respect whereas the women-- Young, beautiful, eager women, far too many of them vie for his attention. As much as I would like to put that down to the rarity of his attendance at such events, I can't. He would attract their interest under any circ.u.mstances. Nor does it matter that he treats them all no more than cordially. I am painfully aware of them all the same.

By the time the soiree is over, my claim that I'll be getting a good night's sleep mocks me. Lying in bed that night, breathing the tantalizing scent of the c.l.i.toria, all I can think of is the man who sent them.

I'm vividly aware that it would be far too easy for me to lose myself in Ian. If I have any sense, I will do everything necessary to avoid that including not being alone anywhere with him in the future and definitely not accepting any more of his gifts.

That plan makes perfect sense and I know that it's in my interest to embrace it if I am to do what I must--find my own ident.i.ty and create my own life. None of which explains why I toss and turn through the long, perfume-scented night, torn between desire and desolation.

Sergei raps the end of his staff down so sharply on the wooden floor that I feel the reverberations under my feet.

"When you come here to my studio," he says in a measured tone, "to be instructed by me, I expect you to be at your best." He paces closer, an irate lion displeased by what he sees. "Not to arrive like this, wilted and with shadows under your eyes. When you neglect to take proper care of yourself, you are wasting both your time and mine."

I swallow against what I know is his valid complaint. "I'm sorry, Sergei. I didn't sleep well."

"Why not?" He shoots me an all-too-perceptive look and comes to his own swift conclusions. "Ah, of course, a man. It would have to be."

My back stiffens. Surely, I'm not that transparent? "Why do you say that? There could be some other reason."

He laughs, a deep, knowing sound. "Don't be foolish, You are far too strong to be disturbed by anything less. And you are far too lovely not to attract the sort of man who inevitably will disturb you."

I sigh, no longer trying to deny what is obvious, at least to Sergei. Still, I say, "It's complicated."

He scoffs. "Complicated? The Rose Adagio in Tchaikovsky's 'Sleeping Beauty' is complicated. Rachmaninoff's last composition, 'Symphonic Dances' is even more so. But what happens between a man and a woman is either simple or it is nothing. We give each other what we need. All else is mere distraction."

I can't help but smile at Sergei's way of seeing the world and relationships. But I suppose his ruthless dedication to dance doesn't allow for complexity in any other part of his life.

"You're going to tell me to put this 'simple' matter out of my mind and concentrate on what I'm doing right now," I say.

He touches a hand lightly to my cheek and smiles. "On the contrary, I am telling you to use your emotions instead of trying to deny them. Imagine this man, whoever he is, is here right now watching you. What do you want him to see? This pale, wane creature who barely holds up her head? Or a woman of pa.s.sion who is his equal in every way?"

My shoulders straighten. Meeting his gaze, I say, "I think we both know the answer to that."

An hour later, I spin in Sergei's arms as he guides me through an intricate series of steps that tax my ability yet also exhilarate me. Coming out of the final pirouette, I can't help smiling. Imagining Ian watching me has proven to be truly inspirational. I feel energized and focused in a way I definitely didn't when I crawled out of bed this morning.

"Bravo," Sergei says softly. He releases me and takes a few steps back. His expression turns solemn. "Whoever this man is," he says, "I hope he appreciates his good fortune. Because if he does not--"

To my relief, he leaves the rest unspoken. More than any of the men I have been introduced to at social events, I can respond to Sergei in a way at once disquieting and rea.s.suring. Objectively, I suspect that we would be good together. Emotionally, I have no desire whatsoever to find out if I am right.

On the contrary, all I can really think of is Ian throughout the remainder of the day and well into the night. Lying in my bed, the scent of the c.l.i.toria once again heavy in the air, I imagine him as I slip my hand down between my thighs. Ian touching me... Ian's breath against my throat... Ian's mouth on mine... slipping down my body... finding the core of my heat and need-- His presence is overpowering in my mind but the o.r.g.a.s.m that ripples through me is once again a pale reflection of what I know I can experience. If anything, it leaves me even more unsatisfied.

Sighing, I turn over in the bed and confront the truth. My body misses Ian desperately. But so does my heart.

Chapter Twenty.