Page 39 of Dancing With Desire

“Victoria, why are you so worried?” he asks, smiling. “They can’t be that bad.”

“Jesus,” I hiss, grabbing a pair of designer jeans and growling in frustration. “Why is everything fucking designer?” I yell, throwing them to the floor. “Where are my old jeans?”

Dmitry watches me as I rummage through the pile of jeans. “Why do you need your old jeans?”

“I need my old clothes!” I screech. “Where are all my normal clothes?”

He sighs, stepping into the wardrobe and placing his hands on my shoulders. “Victoria, what is going on?”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “They can’t see all of this, Dmitry. They can’t meet you looking like . . .” I wave my hand up and down his body. “Looking like that.”

He stares down at his suit in confusion. “Why?”

“Because . . . because . . . they’re just so . . . they wouldn’t understand.”

“I don’t understand,” he mutters.

“I told you, they’re not good people. My dad is an addict. He’s going to see all this money and try to rinse you for everything.”

Dmitry smirks. “You think your father will be the first man ever to try and get money from me?”

“No, but you don’t know him. He’s manipulative.”

“Get dressed,” he orders, picking up the designer jeans and picking out a white T-shirt.

DMITRY

The worryin Victoria’s eyes increases the second she sees Marshall pull up outside. She stares out the window while wringing her hands together anxiously. Then a smile spreads over her face. “Poppy is with them,” she says, rushing past me to go to the door.

I follow, staying back slightly while Victoria races down the steps and wraps her younger sister in her arms.

Poppy is the spitting image of Victoria—their hair colour, their features, even their skin tone matches perfectly. Next out of the car is her mother. She looks tired and washed out, like her skin hasn’t seen the sunshine for far too long. Her hair hangs limply, falling in her face. Marshall joins me, watching as Victoria’s father climbs from the car.

“An interesting bunch,” Marshall says as I watch Victoria hug her mother. “He’s Roger, she’s Cassandra, and the sister is called?—”

“Poppy,” I finish, and he nods.

“Phoebe said they only ever contact Tori when they need something, usually money. Roger is an addict—he gambles and drinks.”

I give a stiff nod. “Did they speak in the car?”

“Not really. It was strange. I get the impression he’s the aggressive type. Cassandra didn’t utter a single word.”

“Thanks, Marshall. Stick around. If this goes badly, I might need you to take them to the station. Pull the file on Victoria and find me a way to get rid of him for good without it being . . . final.”

“No problem, boss.” And he heads for my office.

I stand at the top of the steps, and her father finally looks at me, narrowing his eyes as I descend them and stand beside Victoria.

I place a hand on her lower back, and she stiffens. “Roger, Cassandra, it’s good to finally meet you,” I greet, holding out a hand for him to shake.

After a few long seconds, he shakes it. His grip is weak, just like I knew it would be. “And you are?” he asks.

“Dmitry,” says Victoria. “This is Dmitry.”

“We haven’t heard a thing about you,” he says, arching a suspicious brow, “so you’ll have to excuse us, we’re still playing catch up.” His eyes are cruel, and I don’t like the way they glare at Victoria.

She shrinks slightly before muttering, “Shall we go inside?”

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