Page 6 of Reverence

“Lucian-Sorel. It might’ve meant nothing to my American parents, but I have learned that here in France, I’d rather avail myself of my full name, if only to avoid any Stendhal associations.”

The minister smiled, a common reaction to a running joke Juliette had always used to her advantage. When she continued,she sensed him relaxing a fraction. “As for the president, the admiration is mutual.” She refused to hide that she didn’t know the minister’s name. She’d been in Paris seven years, and these men came and went along with the Seine’s water.

“The Soviet company are his honored guests and are here only because he personally made it happen, Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel.”

Even though his features were alight with good humor, she knew a warning when she heard one. What was it with men warning her off today? At least he deigned to use her proper name.

Juliette was certain the minister’s focus on the wordhonoredwas quite deliberate. She kept her face impassive as he went on, clearly choosing his sentences carefully, his tall, thin frame stork-like in both look and demeanor, all bony knees and assumed dominance. Too bad for him, Juliette didn’t particularly care for birds.

“I watched you tonight, Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel. You have hardly spoken two words to the distinguished guests. I’m sure some of them are quite displeased with your lack of warmth. After all, you are the face of Paris Opera Ballet. Surely after so many years in Paris, you’ve learned how to act according to your place in this city, and not as a touring American.”

Ah, so the complaints of a brown wrinkled suit were not the reason she was getting a governmentally sanctioned scolding. This was a chastisement for not playing nice enough hostess.

Juliette set her jaw. She had been spoiling for a fight ever since the early morning. Wishes really did come true. And while she knew that the bulk of her anger lay with the owner of the shit-colored tweed, this perfectly tailored suit would have to do. He was providing her with an outlet for all that pent-up rage. She was getting tired of men telling her what to do.

“I assure you, Monsieur le Ministre Lalande, Juliette has been the soul of welcome to the dancers of the Bolshoi company.”

Wishes be damned. Like a figment of her imagination, the voice interrupting an impending upbraiding of a French government stooge sounded absolutely disjoined from the body. And then, slowly, graceful despite the cane, Francesca Bianchi materialized at Juliette’s side.

The Director of Paris Opera Ballet, once a distinguished ballerina in her own right, walked with the same aplomb she had used to glide over the floorboards of the stage. A torn meniscus and a botched surgery had ended the Argentinian’s career quite prematurely, one of a series of events that, in turn, had ensured Juliette’s place at Palais Garnier.

Now the esteemed Madame Bianchi ruled over them all, coming up with ways to balance the delicate politics of the main French ballet company and occasionally finding herself in Juliette’s bed. Neither made a big deal out of either event. Francesca took her leadership over the dancers as a given and over the occasional night with Juliette as a fun diversion. Juliette chose not to dwell.

Except in moments like these, when Francesca was the cavalry over the hill. One that Juliette hadn’t summoned. She didn’t need protection, but it was nice to know that her back was well and truly covered, even when she was the one about to unleash the hounds of hell.

The man gave them both a long look, as if trying to figure out whether he was being dismissed or if Juliette had been firmly taken in hand. Perhaps seeing what he wanted to see, with a nod, he departed.

“Before you say anything to the contrary, amor, I could smell you getting ready to draw blood and was solely doing my custodial duty of overseeing the talent in my care.”

Francesca pushed back the too-long fringe on her stylish pixie cut and gave Juliette an appraising gaze. When she spoke again, her voice lowered into a whisper.

“Lalande is irrelevant. He likes to think he controls access to the president when it comes to arts, and that is neither true nor important. What is concerning to me is your morning adventure into saviorhood. The KGB people, or as they like to call themselves, ‘administrative officers for the Bolshoi troupe,’ have expressed their displeasure with your behavior.”

Juliette bit her lip to hide the smile that was trying to break through. So shehadmade an impression on the miserable little man, and he had run tattling to Palais Garnier leadership. Coward.

“Sadly, not even a magician like you can have it both ways, Cesca.” She infused her voice with as much sincerity as she could. No, Francesca wasn’t buying it, but they both enjoyed the game. “You can’t have me play nice and be welcoming to our guests and, at the same time, not displease the suits. I fear my mere presence is displeasing enough to them. A woman existing independently of their rule is an insult to them.”

It was Francesca’s turn to bite on her inner cheek, eyes full of mirth.

“Oh yes, because being hospitable and minding your own business usually don’t go hand in hand for you, amor. You’re a troublemaker, and you know it. Angelic face and all this black Lucifer hair make you even more of an alluring little devil, Jett. You have always been trouble. It’s one of the many reasons why the public adores you. You get away with anything. Everything, really.”

The compliment should have pleased her, yet it scratched at an old wound, the scab still occasionally tender. Juliette was usually much more careful not to rip it open again, as the bloodwas rather difficult to get out of the gauze and chiffon of tutus and leotards.

“The public appreciates me because I’m exceptional at my job, Francesca.” She tried to sidestep the oodles of failures that had marked both their careers in the past few years before realizing that her voice had slipped into that tone—the low, dangerous one—and she brought herself back to the present. The wounds, old and new, would have to wait.

“As for our esteemed, poorly dressed guests”—she allowed sarcasm to slip in—“and I mean ‘esteemed’ in the broadest of ways, so broad in fact that I leave no trace of any kind of real respect in that term…” She drew a breath, trying to calm her unexpectedly racing heart. Why was she getting so unnerved by this? “Cesca, you’d have done the same thing. He was manhandling her, and I wasn’t going to stand by while a woman was being abused five steps away from my rehearsing room.”

Francesca made a face, one that spoke of being torn and thoroughly disgusted. Then she closed her eyes and her shoulders drooped.

“You can’t get involved, Jett. Neither of us can. The issues surrounding Vyatka, Bolshoi, and KGB are so above any of our pay grades, they might as well be in the stratosphere. With Rodion Foltin defecting in London two summers ago, Bolshoi is under tremendous pressure to not lose another principal dancer.”

Juliette gritted her teeth but allowed Francesca to continue.

“They will be gone tomorrow, amor. And I will drink an entire bottle of chianti to celebrate never seeing them again. I call you a troublemaker, but this guest visit has been nothing but trouble to us as hosts. Not even my Prima Assoluta has ever caused me this much headache.”

She smiled to take the tiny sting out of the joke, and Juliette found herself vacillating between wanting to retreat intoher usual indifference and actually caring and respecting this woman—and not just because they chose to share a bed on occasion. In the end, she allowed herself to extend a hand and give Francesca’s forearm a gentle pat.

“You look tired.” At least she could still be truthful in some matters with Francesca. The past two weeks had clearly been brutal, and they showed in the faint lines on the face Juliette knew so well. Eighteen years her senior, Francesca was gorgeous, tired or not.

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