Page 3 of Revenge

Pride made my chest swell. If I could impress a Paris-educated classical musician, I could probably impress the triumvirate. “Thanks. So do you.”

He held out his arm, and we strolled out of the marble reception room, into the crisp, London evening, and to his limousine. I settled into the plush, leather seat, and he joined me opposite. Then the blond bodyguard from the interview stepped inside, sat to my right, and gave me a nod of greeting.

The limo pulled out from the curb and drove through central London. I’d seen it all before in the daytime, but after dark, the city looked magical lit up with Christmas lights fashioned in a multitude of festive shapes. I glanced at Sergei, wondering why someone as sophisticated as him had asked me out.

“How long have you been working with the newspaper?” he asked.

“A few weeks.” I straightened in my seat. “It’s sort of a holiday internship. I’m supposed to be going back to school in January.”

His dark brows rose. “You study here in London?”

“No.” I swallowed hard. “My academy is a boarding school in Mercia county.”

The blond bodyguard twisted in his seat. “You have a boyfriend in this school?”

An iron fist of betrayal clutched at my heart and twisted. How did I answer a question like that? I’d had three, but they all turned out to be bastards, and now I can’t stop thinking about them. Sorry, Mr. Bodyguard, but I’m dating your client under false pretenses.

Sergei patted my left hand. “Andreo is too curious. I can tell someone broke your heart. You don’t have to talk about it if it still hurts.”

I dipped my head. “Thanks.”

Minutes later, the limo joined a line of similar vehicles outside the Royal Academy, an imposing building built like an opera house with a vaulted ceiling for acoustics. Dozens of paparazzi stood outside, snapping pictures of the guests. An empty pit opened up in my stomach, filled by the flutter of a flock of butterflies. I held my hand over my heart and gulped in lungfuls of air. How did Mom cope with being a society wife, going to function after function and finding her pictures plastered all over the news and the internet?

“My commission doesn’t start until eleven.” Sergei glanced at the time on his phone. “That gives us plenty of time to have fun at the ball.”

I smiled and nodded, but my stomach churned as our limo rolled to the red carpet. Sergei stepped out first, then took my hand and helped me out of the vehicle.

Cameras flashed. I blinked into the blinding light. Photographers closed in on us like a gauntlet, and my chest tightened. The feel of hot, angry bodies pressing in on me, raining blows on my arms, my head, my back, returned as though I was still on the ground floor of Elder House.

“It’s not real,” I whispered under my breath with a fixed smile I hoped wouldn’t look too strained. “It’s only photos.”

We walked arm in arm toward the building with Andreo and five other men in suits close behind.

I glanced at them over my shoulder and stiffened. “What’s going on?”

“They’re bodyguards,” murmured Sergei. “My father made a lot of enemies before he died.”

Oddly, the thought of these enemies didn’t frighten me as much as the notion of photographers piling on top of me and crushing the air out of my lungs. The investigative journalist part of me itched to ask more questions, but I tamped down my curiosity. I hadn’t heard from Mom since leaving New York, and the loss of contact was an ache that wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a parent die, and I wouldn’t probe.

I gave Sergei what I hoped was a sympathetic smile, and we followed the red carpet through a grand hallway that boasted pictures of musicians from all eras. Sergei pointed out a photo of a severe-looking man with strong, angular features, cast mostly in shadow. It was his father, Vasily Bachmann. I glanced at Sergei’s softer features. Whoever his father had married, she must have been beautiful.

The Royal Academy ballroom had the feel of a cathedral. Tall pillars on the edges of the dance floor stretched up into arches that supported a vaulted ceiling three stories high. Behind them stretched dining tables and chairs, already occupied by those not dancing. Arched windows ran along the highest levels of the ceiling, which would have brought in a spectacular amount of light during the day. At the far end of the room stood a raised stage for the orchestra with a grand piano.

At the sight of the elegant couples swirling around the dance floor, my stomach flip-flopped. They were all dancing the Viennese waltz, a fast version of the dance where the female partner leaned backward and spun in circles around the dance floor. My dance instructor at Park Prep had said I didn’t have the aptitude for this type of movement and had advised me to feign tiredness to avoid humiliating myself at a ball.

Sergei squeezed my hand. “I never asked…Do you waltz?”

I gave him an embarrassed smile. “Not the Viennese.”

He patted me on the hand. “This piece is nearly finished. If the next one is to your liking, maybe we can dance.”

I was about to ask how he knew the end of the song, then I stopped myself. Someone who went to a fancy music academy in Paris would have picked up the knowledge of more than a few pieces. As the music stopped, and people offered their applause, I spotted a figure who towered above most of the dancers. Blond, broad-shouldered, and breathtakingly stunning in a black tuxedo and a forest green cummerbund with a matching bowtie, he could only be one person: Henry.

The bastard looked even more handsome than I had remembered. His football player’s body filled the outfit, which had clearly been tailored to give him long, sleek lines instead of bulk. Blond waves surrounded his face like gilded frames, setting off chiseled features and those verdant, green eyes.

My heart halted to a stop, and my gaze traveled down to the girl on his arm. It was Charlotte, wearing a silver, lace bodice that accentuated her voluptuous breasts. She’d darkened her long hair, letting it flow over her shoulders and down her back in loose curls. Henry escorted Charlotte off the dance floor, the pair of them chatting like old friends. As they’d known each other since they were eleven, they probably were.

The crowds covered my view, but between the throng, I caught sight of Edward walking off the dance floor with the doppelgänger, Patricia, on his arm, and Blake with Wendy, the girl who had pretended to be friendly with me on my first day.