on well-defined ground. Had she read something about him that had turned her off?
The way she had stared at his scar had seemed to suggest so. Then she’d folded into him, almost as if she was ready to surrender regardless of what she thought of him, but he’d been stinging with disgrace. In one glance, she’d reminded him that it didn’t matter how mercenary she was, he still didn’t deserve to touch her.
Even she seemed to know it.
* * *
From inside the limo, his world gave an impression of chilly silence. The few people on the street wore overcoats and furred hats as they hurried down the street, breath fogging in the frosty air. Yet their very presence in the cold evening spoke of perseverance and a steadfast grasp on life, entrancing Clair into forgetting she didn’t want to fall in love with anything, even his country.
How could she stay immune, though, when he’d put her in the center of a fairy tale? The limo stopped and Aleksy left the car, holding a hand to help her stand, so courtly he stole her breath.
He wore a tuxedo with a white bow tie and gloves. It ought to have seemed affected, but his features were carved with masculine perfection, his brow stern enough to make everything about him serious and deliberate. Backlit by an enormous, columned building with a rosy-cream glow, he was devastatingly handsome.
She stood on unsteady legs, taking in the milling crowd streaming around the frozen fountain toward the spectacular entrance of the theater. This was the world he inhabited. Miles above any she’d ever thought to visit. Her treacherous emotions lifted with excitement, caught in a spell of beauty and wonder.
As if that wasn’t magical enough, his presence cut a swath through the crowd of people. One glance over their shoulder and people moved aside. Aleksy kept her pressed close to him as they climbed the stairs, coldly ignoring murmurs of “Dmitriev” and Russian phrases she didn’t understand, coupled with glances at his scar.
Taking her cue from him, Clair refused to acknowledge the morbidly curious looks, pretending to be absorbed in the grandeur of the theater. She was genuinely awed. The ornamental detailing and painted ceilings looked as if they’d been finished yesterday. For a moment time slipped away and she was a nineteenth-century aristocrat carrying a fan and wearing lace to her throat. The man at her side was an arranged-marriage husband—not a far cry from today’s situation at all, she thought with a wry, inward wince. He was supporting her and there was no hope for love.
An attendant approached to take her cape and Clair revealed the modern, off-one-shoulder sparkling blue dress that clung to emphasize her narrow curves and create more height than she really had. Aleksy procured them flutes of champagne and, after a brief consultation with the attendant, told her, “We have the czar’s box.”
She tried not to drop her drink.
As if this were any casual date, he guided her through a set of double doors that led through an ornate sitting room. Another set of doors ended on a grand balcony fit for, well, royalty.
Red velvet and gold struck her from the row of luxuriant chairs with their gilded edgings to the scalloped curtains framing the box to the auditorium beyond. A wall of balconies stretched away on either side in floor-to-ceiling rows, each separated by low walls decorated with gold leaf and glittering chandeliers. An enormous cake of sparkling crystals cast glamorous winks of light from high above, sparkling off jeweled necks and sequined gowns.
Clair sank weakly into the chair Aleksy pressed her toward. “I didn’t think Russia had a czar anymore,” she stammered, half fearing they’d be executed for trespassing.
His smile warmed her as if she’d gulped her entire glass of alcohol. “It’s actually the president’s box now. We could have used mine, but as this one’s empty tonight and I’m such a valued patron…” He shrugged self-deprecatingly.
“You must love the ballet. I mean—” The way his eyebrows climbed made her rethink presuming anything about him. “You have your own box and support the company. Everyone seems to know who you are.”
“Litso so shramom.” His expression altered as he repeated the phrase she’d heard as they entered. The carefully composed lines of his face revealed nothing—which was a revelation in itself. “Scarface.”
The bluntness of the moniker made her blink in shock, but she hid it, guessing anger on his behalf wouldn’t be welcome.
“I’m hardly anonymous anywhere I go,” he said, his jaw tensing. “And no, I don’t have a particular love of ballet. Coming here is merely—forgive the ancient metaphor—the quickest way to telegraph my return to the city. Do you like the ballet?”
“I’ve never been,” she answered, lowering her gaze as she absorbed his offhand question. Her preferences had obviously been the last thing on his mind. This was the most exciting outing of her life, yet he’d brought her here for reasons that had nothing to do with her. She had to stop wishing for more! She went back to the nickname. Irrepressible curiosity made her ask, “Does it bother you that people see the scar, not you?”
“There’s no separating one from the other, is there?” His look hit her like a face full of icy slush, his tone chilling her blood.
“I don’t know,” she replied, ignoring the bite of his hostility, fighting not to take it personally even though she sensed a hint of accusation in his demeanor. “Have you looked into plastic surgery?”
“Why? Does it disgust you?” His fingertip unerringly found the line of raised tissue. He drilled her with his eyes, but she didn’t have to lie.
“No. I don’t notice it more than any of your other features, like the shape of your nose or color of your eyes.” She stopped speaking as she heard how revealing that sounded. She was stunned to realize how thoroughly she had already memorized his face: the hint of a raised bump on his nose, the wicked slant in his eyebrows, the cleft in his chin. She had to force herself not to let him entrance her now.
“It’s an advantage,” he said flatly. “While people are trying to decide how many of the rumors they should believe, I’ve summed them up and leapt three steps ahead.”
“You like that it makes them nervous. Then they don’t try to get close to you,” she guessed, earning another baleful glance that made her breath stick. She was certain she was right, though, so much so that parts of her softened toward him as she recognized their similarity. She feared isolation, so she forced herself to find contentment in being alone. What did he fear that kept him holding people off so ferociously? Caring?
The thought was a double-edged sword of understanding and hopelessness so acute it made her head swim.
“This scar reminds me who I am and where I’ve been, which is a place you don’t want to go, Clair,” he said in a gentle warning that made her heart batter her ribs. So he had suffered a very deep wound. Nevertheless, she would listen to his story if he wanted to tell her. Had he ever told anyone, she wondered?
The lights faded before she could ask. Faces below rotated to watch the curtain rise. Music swelled as Petrushka began to unfold with its tragic puppet, considered cruel but instead capable of emotion, trapped in a cell, unable to reach the ballerina he loved.
* * *
Aleksy loathed small talk. It was a step into familiarity that he never encouraged. Clair had been spot-on when she suggested he was happier holding people at a distance.
