Page 208 of Captive Heart

I can see my ballet class gathering upstairs through the wide windows. I’m definitely going to be late. Tucking my head down, I push through the massive plate glass door, trying to calm my nerves.

Every ounce of my energy should be focused on this visit to the hallowed halls that I’ve dreamt of for so long. But a part of me is distracted.

Remembering with a shiver Mr. X’s gaze from the night before. Tall, dark, and handsome, he was the customer that every girl dreams about. He was so freaking hot, so demanding, and soon edge.

As I hurry up the stylized concrete stairs to follow my class, I bite my lip. There was a moment when Mr. X suddenly went stiff last night. Only a few seconds later did I realize that he’d… finished… It honestly surprised the hell out of me.

After that, he shoved a card carrying five thousand dollars at me and left abruptly. It all happened so fast that I just felt… confused, mostly.

It also made me wonder about Mr. X’s life. Who was he? Aside from his money, I wanted to know more about him.

I can still feel his deep blue gaze on my body as I rush along.

I come up to the top of the stairs, seeing my class on the other end of the airy hallway, moving into the doors of the largest theater. I run to catch up with them, trying to look dignified in my gray sweater dress and heels.

I miss the door closing by half a minute. When I push through the dark doors and enter the back of the theater, my dance teacher and several stoic looking New York Ballet representatives take note.

I swallow and blush furiously, rushing to file into the rows of seats with the rest of my class.

“Hurry up,” a silver haired man snaps at all of us. He is dressed in a light blue button up and dark slacks, but he has rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his top button. He’s classically handsome and very in shape. I would put money on his having been a dancer at some point.

As I sink into the velvet seat, I notice that Eric moves to sit next to me. I blush and give him a little nod, but there is no time to whisper.

“I’m Basil Smith,” the silver haired man announces, leaning against the wall of the stage. The stage behind him is dark, the curtains pulled tightly.

I try not to think of just how badly I want to be a featured soloist, dancing on point on this exact stage. I want it so badly that I can actually hear the applause of a ghost audience echo throughout the great hall; badly enough that sweat begins to break out on the back of my neck at the thought of looming interviews for the company.

“I am the main choreographer here at the New York Ballet. I’m joined today by Chase Gorley and Emma Rosenburg, who are on the NYB board.”

He waves his hand to indicate the two people beside him. Emma is probably in her fifties and petite, with a dramatic sweep of shiny dark hair and an immaculate navy sheath dress. Chase reminds me of a lot of Club X customers; he is older than Emma by at least a decade, well dressed in a dark three piece suit, and carries a great deal more weight on his frame than anyone else in the room. He cocks his head, seeming unbothered by this, and studies all of us instead.

“We have brought you all here today as the first part of our interview process,” Emma says. Her voice is high and reedy, her expression stern. “At the NYB, we want to evaluate each dancer on his or her strengths and see what they might add to our company. But just as important to the hiring process is making sure that all applicants get to know us and understand the unique and challenging environment of the company before continuing with the interviews.”

Basil smirks a little at her words. “Yes. Thank you, Emma. We will be giving you a run down of the history of the New York Ballet as a company, followed by a dance class focusing on the rigors of the NYB.”

Chase cuts in, his voice low and rough. “Only then do we start the interviews. And I have to say, we are selecting maybe five new dancers out of more than a thousand new applicants.”

“Joining this company is very competitive,” Basil agrees. “Only the creme de la creme need apply.”

Emma glances at her slender wristwatch. “Can we move things alone, Basil?”

Basil gives her a look so cold, I swear I feel its icy chill all the way here in the back row of students. I glance over at Eric, arching a brow silently.

His lips twist into a tiny smirk. He rolls his eyes.

“Yes, thank you, Emma,” Basil says, his tone dry. “The New York Ballet was formed in 1947, with a rather spectacular roster of dancers?—“

A muffled scream comes from somewhere far behind the curtain that hangs heavy across the stage. It’s a woman’s voice, tinged with a French accent, growing closer as it rises in pitch.

“You bastard!” she bleats. “You absolute… fucking… bastard!”

Basil slowly turns toward the sound, his expression completely unsurprised. “Honor, darling! I’m holding a class here and we can all hear you.”

That name gives me pause. Where have a I heard that before?

But before I can focus on that, it’s swept away by muffled footsteps approaching the curtain.

“Let go of me!” Honor shouts. “I’m going to tell everybody about our little affair, Mikhail!”

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