Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

He waited until the girls were seated before he showed his teeth in a wide smile.

“Sit a little closer. You’re so far away over there.”

So we all had to stand and shuffle forward awkwardly until we were seated next to our host.

“That’s better,” he laughed. “Shy showgirls—and boy—who would have thought it?” And he laughed again.

“Now, you must be Yveta,” he said to Galina, although I suspected he knew exactly who was who.

It was obvious that he was enjoying playing games with us. The thought put me even more on edge, although I tried to hide it. But at least Oleg wasn’t in the room. The relief was short lived.

“And you are Alja?, of course. I believe you like to be called Ash.”

I nodded, and thanked Marta as she handed me a drink without looking at me.

Yveta and Galina were worried, exchanging nervous glances.

“I’ve heard good things about you,” Volkov said, directing his eerie gaze to me. “Elaine is very pleased with rehearsals. She says you’ll be an asset.”

I forced out a smile, remembering Trixie’s orders. “Thank you.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friends, Andrei?” asked the other man in a suit, who’d remained silent until now.

Volkov hesitated for a fraction of a second then smiled coldly.

“Where are my manners? Yveta, Galina, Ash—this is my dear colleague Sergei. He’s in charge of security.”

Sergei stood to shake hands with us. He was maybe fifty, with steel-gray hair and eyes to match.

He smiled at me, his unblinking gaze crawling across my body.

“It seems to be my lucky night. It must be fate.”

I was about to let go when he gave my hand an extra squeeze, his fingers stroking my wrist.

I pulled free, inhaling sharply, but he just smiled wider, his dead eyes shark-like as they trailed over my body in a way that was deliberate and obvious. He could also tell that it made me uncomfortable.

I’m a dancer. I’m used to people looking at my body. After all, it’s my instrument, a powerful tool—I want people to look and admire. But it’s all about the dancing. Not about people fucking me with their eyes like this asshole.

A lot of people assume that all male dancers are gay. I’m not. Definitely straight. It doesn’t bother me what other men do. Getting hit on by gay guys is an occupational hazard when you’re a dancer. Most of them back off when they realize that you’re straight.

I wouldn’t say I was close friends with them or any other dancers because it was too competitive. Except for Luka, my friends were outside the life.

I’d guess that probably six out of ten male dancers are gay, and I don’t care whether it’s ballroom, ballet or contemporary, but that means that four are straight. So I’m a minority. That gives some guys I’ve known license to sleep with as many women as they can—real wolves in sheep’s clothing. I’m not like that. I’m not a monk either and I’ve had girlfriends, but it’s usually too much drama, so I steer clear. One night stands where everyone knows the score is more my thing, but even then, not all that often. I’m always training, always taking classes. And if I’m not doing that, I’m working. Girls don’t stay around if you don’t pay enough attention to them.

My dance coach, Lelyana, always said that the drama should be on the dance floor and not in your personal life. I wanted to win more than I wanted to screw around.

But Sergei . . . I got the feeling that he didn’t care if I was gay or straight. And that could be a problem, especially if he was close to Volkov.

I moved back to my seat, trying to relax the tension in my body.

Volkov had already lost interest and turned his attention to Yveta and Galina, chatting easily in Russian.

I wondered what was going on with Marta—and where was the other girl? If she hadn’t reminded me so much of Luka’s little sister, I probably would have kept my mouth shut.

“There was a girl at the airport . . .”

A sudden silence made me feel as if a spotlight was on me, and although the room was air conditioned, sweat trickled down my back.

“With Oleg . . .” I rasped out, my throat dry despite the drink in my hand.

Volkov laughed and glanced at Sergei.

“Oleg has a girlfriend? Why did no one tell me? Should we prepare for a wedding?”

His smile was wintry.

“I’ll make enquiries,” he said without much interest.

I wanted to say more, but I was nervous. The atmosphere turned arctic and those yellow lamp-like eyes burned coldly.

The biker shifted in his seat, his hand tightening on Marta’s leg until she let out a small cry.

Sergei stared at me, his face a wax-like mask, blank and expressionless, but utterly chilling.

I felt my courage shrivel and my body screamed for me to run. Sitting still, meeting his gaze, those were the mostly insanely brave things I’d ever done in my entire life.