Page 51 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

Vasily lounges on the soft couch, his leanly muscled body tan and long as he stretches out, reading a book. His hair is longer now, sun kissed streaks throughout. He wears a well-trimmed beard now, too. He looks different – sexier if that is even possible.

We both look different, less recognizable. I kind of like being incognito. I have always been Galina Gusev, daughter of Sasha Gusev. Here, I can pretend to be someone else.

“Good morning, love,” he says, looking up as I wheel myself over to his side.

He reaches out and pulls me to the couch, always so careful of my still- healing leg. It has been two months since I left the hospital and when we came here, to this island oasis, Vasily had already set up intensive, home-based therapy and a doctor in the town a few miles away.

“Morning,” I say, lying beside him as he kisses me lightly on the top of the head.

“Sleep well?”

“So good,” I say. “I love it here.”

He smiles and says, “Good.”

I scoot around so that I am half straddling him, giving me better access to his mouth. I kiss him deeply and he reciprocates, his book forgotten. Somehow, I end up on my back, Vasily’s hardness evident through my thin pajama bottoms.

“I love this,” I say against his mouth. “I love that we can make love wherever, whenever, we want. No more sneaking around.”

“And I love that you’re insatiable,” he grins.

“And I loveyou,” I say, grinning back.

He kisses me again and falls to my side. “You know, we have a doctor’s appointment in town today. We could head in early and grab brunch?”

“Ugh,” I groan “How about we stay here and don’t go into town at all?”

“Well, the doctor wants to talk about reconstructive surgery today,” he says.

“How about we don’t?”

“Don’t what?” he asks.

“Don’t do surgery. How about if we just let this heal the way it heals and skip any more surgery?”

Vasily seems confused. “But you’re a dancer.”

I lick my lips and roll away, biting the inside of my cheek as I sit up. Vasily rubs my back lightly in silent question.

“I don’t…” I start trying to figure out what I really want to say. “I just don’t know if Iama dancer anymore.”

I look down at my deformed calf, the muscles warped and atrophied from the trauma of being shot. It is not the structured, muscular calf of a professional dancer. I feel a small sense of loss, but the larger part of me feels this is a new opportunity. I have danced because it is all I have known. Now, I can learn new things and grow new interests.

“Well, I just feel like we should never close doors completely, if we can avoid it,” Vasily says. “You may want to find your way back to it someday.”

“Well,Ithink we are embarking on a new adventure, and I do not see myself dancing on stage for all to see when we are literally on the run for our lives.”

He sits up next to me, taking my hand. “I’m not trying to control you. I just want you to have the best chance to recover with full function of your leg.”

I groan.

“Would it sweeten the deal if I take you to that bakery in town for some of your favorite French pastries?”

“That is a dirty trick,” I say. “You know I love those pastries.”

He grins. “I do what I have to.”

An hour later, we are in Gustavia, a bustling, wealthy city ringed with expensive yachts. St. Barts is a French-infused island, bright and shiny with streets lined with designer stores and amazing restaurants and cafes. My favorite is a simple bakery with glass displays full of decadent French pastries and the most delicious coffee I have ever tasted.

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