Page 31 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

And yet, I really want to get her away from all of this. I want her to be free to live her life the way she wants. And I care about her.

Still…

I stare at her beautiful face, her creamy skin, her full lips. I take in the sight of her in this haphazard outfit, scarfing down spaghetti like it’s her last meal. I want to take her in my arms. I want to take her away. I want to wake up to her on a sunny morning, light streaming onto her face as she sleeps. I want so much, and I can see the story unfolding before me.

But can I really do this? Can I really pick up and leave? Can I take this woman on the run? Will we ever, truly, be safe?

I feel shame for having offered this thing that I do not think I can actually produce. I feel shame for disappearing from my job, at letting down people I respect highly. I feel shame for making my parents worry. I would feel more shame should I be arrested for aiding the daughter of a criminal.

Pragmatism, as it almost always does, wins out.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, pulling my wallet from my jacket, pulling a stack of bills out to throw on the table. Gigi stares at me in confusion. “I can’t do this.”

I push out of the booth and lean over to kiss the top of her head.

“I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I am truly sorry. I cannot see a future for us.”

I do not give her a chance to tell me what a hypocrite I am. It was my idea to run away, of course, and I changed my mind in the span of two minutes of panicked consideration. But truly, if she thinks of this with depth, she will realize that the plan was insane and impossible. Where amIgoing to get us new identities? I follow the law – I am a lawyer, after all. I do not have connections like that. Damn, I am an idiot for offering, for getting her hopes up.

I am an idiot for caring for her. I always pick the wrong women. And I am, it turns out, a bit of a coward. I will reckon with that later. For now, I just need to get away from this beautiful mess of a girl before I do something that leaves my life in complete shambles.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I walk to the Metro. I took the train tonight, thinking it might be unwise to drive my own car. If anyone has been watching carefully, they would have seen Gigi get in and out of my car several times now. I did not want to take any chances.

When I get off at my stop, I walk several blocks while nursing a growing sense of foreboding that starts in my gut and then spreads to my whole body via hair-raising chills.

Someone is following me.

I am only a block and a half from my building, so I pick up the pace, but just as I pass an alleyway between buildings, I am shoved to my knees, the toe of a leather boot kicking me in the chin.

“Where is Galina?” one of Gigi’s big bodyguard’s growls. It is the bigger of the two, the more menacing of the two.

“Who is Galina?” I ask, tasting the coppery tang of blood in my mouth. I must have bitten my tongue when he kicked me.

He hauls me to my feet, only to punch me in the stomach, the wind gushing out of me in a loud wheeze. “I am not a fucking idiot.”

The other guy holds my arms back behind my back, but I do not struggle. There are two of them and I am strong, but not strong enough to take on two trained criminal bodyguards.

“Make it easy,” the one behind me says in my ear. “Just tell us where she is, and we will let you go.”

“I do not know who you are talking about,” I say, teeth gritted.

The bigger guy slams his fist into my jaw again. My teeth rattle. My brain rattles. It hurts. I have never been punched before.

“You have been with her several times,” the one in front of me says. “We know it. But please, keep lying. I love punching lying fucks until they are nearly dead.”

He meets my gaze with a simmering, gleeful challenge. I have no doubt he means to leave me hanging onto life by the thinnest of threads. He wants to hurt me, and he will, regardless of what I say or don’t say.

So, I spit blood onto the front of his jacket. “Fuck you.”

Another jab to the gut sends me sagging in the grasp of the second man, who says in Russian, “Davay prosto poydem.”

“Let’s just go.”

“Nadeyus’, vy oba budete gnit’ v adu,” I snarl through the blood in my mouth.

“I hope you both rot in hell.”

That glimmer of glee intensifies as I am dropped limply to the concrete, boots kicking at my kidneys, my head, my back, all as I try to crawl into a ball to protect myself. It is the best I can do at the moment. I am no fighter, though I realize that learning how to defend myself may have been a good thing. Might still be a good thing. All I can do is take the onslaught of kicks and punches, hoping they leave me conscious enough to get myself up and out of this alley.

---