Page 35 of Dance of Devils
I grin. That’s my Maya.
Maya Garza
Sorry, not trying to freak you out. He probably WAS with your lawyer. I just thought I’d let you know.
I thank her again, then shake my head as I heft my dance bag crammed full of leftovers onto my shoulder and finally leave for the day.
I step out the back door to the theater, and instantly jump a step back when I see him standing there, leaning against the Aston Martin.
Kir cocks his head, his eyes running over me in a way that elicits that slithering heat in my core again.
“Let’s go for a drive, Ms. Ellis.”
8
BROOKLYN
Heat throbsinside me as the sleek, black sports car bombs through the neon streets of New York. Just being in the same tightly-enclosed space with this man sets me on edge.
It also weirdly puts me at total ease.
Nirvana plays quietly through the car speakers as we drive in otherwise silence. I don’t know where we’re going, and he hasn’t volunteered that information, but somehow, I don’t care. I’m certainly not worried about it.
“I wanted to check in on you,” he finally murmurs in that smooth, honeyed, hormone-stoking voice.
“Oh.”
Fuckingoh?
Just kill me now.
I don’t know why I’m so awkward around him. Why he makes me so nervous, so anxious in a tingly, teasing sort of way.
“Thank you again for the other night…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Sir.”
Fuck, why does saying that give me such a thrill?
Kir nods, his eyes on the road as we drive seemingly aimlessly through the city.
“I’d like you to try to think, now that you’ve had some time to recover from the shock, who the men who attacked you were.”
My head snaps to the side. “I-I really don’t know. Just some drunk assholes.”
Kir’s eyes tense slightly, his grip tightening on the wheel.
“And what, Ms. Ellis, were you doing alone in that neighborhood?”
It’s the mix of stern and strict blended with nurturing and protective that has my core melting just a little.
“I was meeting a friend,” I lie, forcing an embarrassed laugh from my throat. “At that strip club. Her idea,” I finish, like that somehow absolves me of any blame in this totally fictitious version of events.
“A friend,” Kir echoes.
I nod. “Yep.”
“The same friend who lives at the address you have on file with the ballet?”
My head snaps to the side, eyes widening at him in shock. Kir just calmly watches the road, driving with one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick shift.
