Page 63 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

She nods, swallowing heavily.

“You don’t have to say more,” I say quickly. “I just…I am…I was…Gigi’s boyfriend. Thank you for what you did for her there.”

“It is you I should be thanking, I think,” she says. “I remember seeing you at the hospital, but I did not know who you were. You saved us, yes?”

I nod. “I mean, I organized the rescue. Paid for it.”

“I thought it was her father for the longest time, but Gigi told me it was you. So, thank you. I am grateful.”

I peer at her in confusion. “What do you mean, Gigi told you? When would she have told you?”

“Oh,” she says. “When she agreed to testify against her father, one of her demands was to be able to talk to me, to know where I was and how to stay in touch.”

It feels like I have been punched in the gut.

“Are you okay? You look a little sick,” Elena says.

“It’s just…is Gigialive?”

“Did you not know?”

“No,” I say, sounding desperate and crazed. “After Brazil…I thought she was dead. No one told me she was alive. No one… Isearchedfor her.”

Elena makes a sound. “Weren’t you also offered protection for testimony?”

“Yes, but I refused it. I will not live in the shadows, in fear. I wanted to be able to see my family again.”

“Well, I was happy to take the deal,” Elena says. “I am anonymous here. I feel free and safe.”

“That’s good,” I say, and I mean it. But Gigi… She isalive.

“You should go see her,” she says. “I can give you the address.”

She pulls a pen from her purse and, moments later, I have Gigi’s location written on my palm.

CHAPTER 29

Galina

My favorite horse is Fred. Well, actually, his name is Whispering Thunder, but as a retired racehorse, it feels he should be set free of his own proverbial shackles with a new name. So, I call him Fred.

His silky fur is so brown it is nearly black, and he has one white patch around his right eye and another on his rear. I like that he has two little imperfections – they remind me of the two scars on my own body – proof that I survived.

Fred and I are getting some exercise, riding loops around the large riding ring that came with this lovely little farm in rural Virginia, when I see a car making its way slowly down the long, gravel driveway that runs from the road to my small farmhouse. It is rare to have visitors, so I am automatically on alert.

I dismount and lead Fred to graze, then make my way quickly to the house, where I check that the shotgun is close by and loaded. My nearest neighbor is a mile away, but he is an old farmer who told me that a woman living on her own in a remote area should always know how to scare someone away with a good shotgun.

I purchased one, and he taught me to use it.

I walk through from the kitchen to the living room, opening the front door with my weapon in hand, but when I see the white Tesla, I know.

My feet start moving without my permission, carrying me onto the porch, down the steps. Vasily steps out of the car and my breath leaves my lungs. I thought he was dead. I think about all of my questions and I realize now my mistake. The agents said they found him, that he had been shot, but they never said he was dead. I assumed he was. They never told me he was dead, and I feel so stupid that I start laughing uncontrollably.

“I confess,” he says from where he stands, half-obscured by the still-open door of his car, “that I didn’t imagine you laughing at me the first time we saw each other again. And definitely not while holding a shotgun.”

“I’m laugh-crying,” I say, carefully balancing the shotgun against the porch. “I just… Vasily, I thought you were dead.”

He pushes his lips into a thin line and nods. “Same. I mean, I thought you were dead, as well.”

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