Page 7 of Reverence

“I need sleep. I might need you, too. Though I heard from the grapevine that Helena has been calling, and I will not add more lesbian drama to your plate.”

Well, Francesca had always been very direct. And Gabriel had always had a big mouth.

“Oh, don’t blame the boy, he worries about you.”

“Why is it that he gets to be a boy, and I get to be the troublemaker? We’re both twenty-five.” Juliette raised her chin higher and turned away from Francesca, who chuckled behind her.

“I know you hate the title, but you are the Princess of Paris, amor. They don’t call you that for nothing. And he never got to be crowned as Prince. The press merely calls him ‘the Irishman.’ So I get to remind both of you of your places and of the ways of this ballet company.”

With a thin smile even she knew was not sincere, Juliette left Francesca to her nicknames and gossip.

For the next hour, she managed to be the soul of the party. She talked to people, schmoozed the important ones, and stayed away from the Bolshoi company without being a cold fish. Still, it was getting late, and she had done more than enough to assuage any of her detractors.

There. Mission accomplished.

Juliette thought of her cozy apartment on Rue de Rivoli, warm from the evening sun slipping through the massive windows overlooking the Tuileries Gardens. She would kick off her high heels and pour herself two fingers of Aberlour.

With one last look around, Juliette turned to go, only for a gaggle of Bolshoi ballerinas to catch her eye, giggling and pointing in the direction of the balcony. They were looking at Gabriel, who was busy charming one of the soloists. Of course he was. Despite not being attracted to them, he had a good eye for women. The Russian was beautiful. Not a match for Katarina Vyatka, but then there probably weren’t many who were. Juliette was quite grateful for that.

She tried not to think about the prima. Or the vulnerability she kept witnessing in those massive eyes. How sad and lonely they looked when Vyatka thought nobody was watching. And how angry they were when they met Juliette’s. But sad or angry, they tugged at something in Juliette, some kind of recognition that she desperately tried to ignore.

And speaking of sadness, something tickled the back of her neck, like a feather, tender yet inescapable, and Juliette couldn’t resist turning, her own gaze running smack into the ice-blue eyes she kept telling herself she was not thinking about.

Vyatka was alone, standing in the corner, her long, slim fingers wrapped around a champagne flute that appeared thoroughly flat. Her knuckles white, her lips in a thin line, and her chin raised, she had an air about her that Juliette recognized all too well—the “leave me alone” vibe where any and all approach would be immediately prevented. She looked tense, a sprinter preparing for the starting gun. And something in that steady dark glare pulled at Juliette yet again.

Time stood still for a moment, as did they, and then suddenly, like a thread tangled and knotted, their connectionbecame taut. Juliette had a feeling that if she were to turn and run, that thread would pull, tearing flesh with it.

The image was rather gruesome, and Juliette almost rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. Except she couldn’t, not really. Not when the tug of the thread was so real, just as real as their eyes steadily looking at each other.

A large group of guests passed between them, and by the time the last straggler moved along, Vyatka was gone, the lonely flat flute of champagne on the sideboard the only piece of evidence left behind.

Finally free, Juliette did roll her eyes. She was acting out of character. And she’d had enough of being on display.Juliette passed her own flute to the closest server before making her way toward the side exit. There would be photographers outside, and she had already run the gamut of them on her way in.

It would not do to appear to leave alone when she had arrived with Gabriel. They weren’t in the business of fooling anyone; those who wanted to look closer would easily see that both of them were quite queer. Americans detested the word, but Juliette had not been an American in over twenty years, since her parents put her on the plane to London, and so she quite enjoyed shocking everyone by using it blatantly.

Loud laughter sounded behind her, and she turned her head to stare at whoever was making a spectacle of themselves. The next thing she knew, in her forward motion toward the door, she had collided rather painfully with someone, knocking knees and shoulders.

The wide eyes were familiar, since Juliette kept telling herself she wasn’t thinking of them at all, and the scent, the clean, subtle yet unmistakable perfume, the same orange blossom from earlier, was unmistakable.

She had her hands full of Katarina Vyatka. Now that was a sentence Juliette had never believed she’d be able to put together in her thoughts, yet here she was.

Except, the silent, arrogant, brilliant, and unapproachable prima was shivering in her arms. Juliette was quick enough to find her footing despite holding double the weight, and, as she was ready to let go, she squeezed the other woman’s shoulders for encouragement to do the same. But Vyatka only held tighter, clinging to her for a long moment before Juliette felt more than heard the deep inhalation.

The image of a sprinter getting ready for the start of the race popped into her mind again, and just as she was about to ask if she could help in any way, Katarina exhaled and then, in very clear, perfect if quiet English, without the barest of accents, uttered four words.

“I wish to defect.”

4

OF RECKLESS DEALS & PROMISES MADE

In the immediate aftermath of the collision, several things became clear to Juliette. First, Katarina Vyatka had been gearing up for the race of a lifetime, because as Juliette tugged her along the winding corridors of Palais Garnier, she kept up with the ease and poise of a seasoned runaway. No hesitation, no sign of regret. The hand in Juliette’s was warm, steady, and slightly callused from the barre. It didn’t shake, and its owner no longer trembled.

Second, Juliette remembered her earlier thought and Francesca’s decree that she couldn’t get involved. Well, the evening had proven them both wrong. Hearing Vyatka’s plea, there was no force in either the known or unknown universe that would have stopped Juliette from gently untangling their gowns and proclaiming loudly that they needed to go to the bathroom and set themselves to rights after Juliette’s unexpected and uncharacteristic clumsiness. That she led them instead past the bathrooms and through the labyrinth of hallways, away from the pursuing crowd of brown rumpled suits, was the logical choice, given their predicament.

The office of the Director of Paris Opera Ballet, ensconced on the third floor in the deep bowels of the Palais Garnier building,became their sanctuary. And it was in this sanctuary that they faced the first consequences of their escape.

“You did what?”

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