Chapter Four
The soft plucking of the strings filled the air as Irina pranced onto the middle of the stage. Her arms and legs moved with the strings for a few measures until a xylophone came in, and a small bound away from her starting position followed. The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy had begun.
She’d fought so long and hard to earn the solo, and now it was finally here. She even still suffered from Emma’s jealousy over it, but it didn’t matter. When the music started, there was nothing but the dancing.
Clarinet. Celesta. Flute. Oboe. Strings. Their notes all glided over Irina. It’s not as if she paid them much attention, other than as a light anchor in reality. The key to fluid movement was to remove the mind, to enter into a perfect form through practice and touching her own soul.
Beauty and grace. That was the essence of ballet. People were cruel and selfish, but they were capable of such moving achievements and inspiration when they let the light of beauty reflect off their souls.
She’d learned that growing up in Moscow. Her family hadn’t always had easy times, but one Christmas as a child her parents had taken her to see The Nutcracker performed by the Bolshoi Ballet. Seeing something like dance on a television or computer was one thing, but to feel the music and see the dancers before her was an overwhelming experience.
No words. No special effects. Just gorgeous costumes and people who had honed their very bodies into moving art. Glorious to behold and transcendent.
Heaven on Earth. Irina had never believed in it until then. At five years old, watching those dancers on stage, she knew what she wanted to do with her life.
Now, thousands of miles from her home, she could still live her dream. With each movement, with each step, more joy filled her heart. The darkness of Emma’s taunt receded.
Nothing was around her at that moment. Not an audience, not Emma, not even Yuri. Only the music and her movement remained, only the beauty.
As the music built to the finale, Irina initiated a series of fast pirouettes. Her movement ended in perfect sync with the end of the music.
The audience clapped her approval. Irina smiled brightly and curtsied.
Pure ecstasy flowed over her, but not from the applause. She hadn’t become a ballerina for attention or fame. She’d become one to embody the grace and beauty that had moved her soul years before. If she could pass that on to at least one more person, it’d make her career worthwhile.
Her breath caught, but she kept her smile plastered on her face. Her thick haze of achievement began to part, and familiar concerns filtered back in. She wasn’t a fairy in the end, just a normal woman. The dance over, suspicion gnawed at her happiness. She scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face.
As Irina left the stage, she tried to tell herself Yuri wasn’t there. It’d make no sense for him to come so far. Not only that, she wasn’t worth it.
She loved dance and worked hard, but she didn’t think she was the greatest dancer in the world nor the prettiest. Yuri could have his pick of among the best ballerinas in the world in Moscow. Coming to a desert town in America wouldn’t be worth his time, and it’d be risky.
Or so she hoped.
* * *
“You sure, Irina?” Alison asked.
Irina nodded slightly to the other dancer. “Yes. Thank you very much for the offer, but there are just a few things I want to do.”
“Well, if you change your mind, just give me a call, and I’ll let you know where we are.”
“Thank you.”
Alison offered a little wave and stepped toward the waiting car. Emma sat in the backseat on the far side, smirking at Irina in open challenge. If Irina came along, she’d just be subjected to the woman’s barbs, and if she didn’t come along, Emma would still think she won.
No. After the triumph of her performance that night, the last thing Irina wanted to do was spend an evening with petty Emma cutting her with sharp remarks. The other dancers might be nice, but few wanted to stand up to the woman either, perhaps afraid they’d come up in her crosshairs.
Irina sighed and headed down the sidewalk. She chuckled, her jacket a bit too heavy for the temperature. Some of the local stagehands had told her it was a bit warm for the area even by central Arizona standards, but they also admitted it was not by much.
She turned into an alley to cut through to another street, wondering what she was even planning to do. Wander Scottsdale at night?
Irina didn’t really have any strong desire to go to a bar or club, even though the area had plenty from what Alison had told her. Mostly, she just wanted time to think without any pressure or concern.
She sucked in a breath and slowly let it out, her hands shaking slightly. Now that she didn’t have rehearsal or the performance to distract her, Yuri’s threats echoed even louder in her mind.
Over and over she’d tried to tell herself he was just making threats, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. Her heart wouldn’t let her.
A hand closed over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the sweaty palm ate the sound.
Her heart thundered, and tears welled up in her eyes. Strong hands spun her around and slammed her against a wall.
A rough-looking man in jeans and a ragged t-shirt stood there, his eyes wide, a knife in his hand.
Irina’s gaze dipped to her purse. If she could get to the gun, she might have a chance.
The man slapped her with his free hand, drawing tears.
“Look at me, bitch, not anywhere else,” the man shouted. “If you try and scream, I will fucking gut you.”
“How much is Yuri paying you?”
The man laughed. “What’s with the accent? Yuri? You Russian, bitch?”
Irina bit her lip. So, the man wasn’t working for Yuri, but that did little to calm her. Getting assaulted by some random thug wouldn’t be any better.
The man moved the knife until the tip was all but touching her throat. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you, you fancy bitch?”
“I… I don’t have a lot, but I’ll give what I have. Please… just don’t hurt me.”
The man’s face twisted into a vicious grin. “You stuck-up bitch. I can see it in your pretty face. You think… what, you the girlfriend of some rich business douche? Is that what it is?”
“You don’t understand… no, please.”
“Let the lady go,” a low voice boomed.
Her gaze darted to the side. A large-chested dark-haired man in a suit stood near the front of the alley.
A moment of panic struck her, despite the fact that a man had a knife to her throat. After a few seconds, she realized the new arrival wasn’t Yuri.
Too young for one thing. This handsome man looked like he was in his late twenties. Yuri probably had a good ten years on the man, not to mention this man was clean-cut.
He also wasn’t as tall and broad as Yuri, but he was close. His hazel eyes narrowed on the mugger.
“Fuck off, hero,” the mugger said. He tossed the knife into his other hand and then slammed his fist into Irina’s stomach.
She gasped and fell to her knees, bile rising in her throat, and her eyes watering up.
The new man let out a low growl. “You’re gonna regret that, asshole. Really, really regret that.” He stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
The mugger moved the knife back over to his right hand and waved it around. “I punched that foreign bitch because I didn’t like the way she was looking at me. If you don’t wanna end up dead, you better run, hero.”
The dark-haired man took a few steps forward. “So, here’s how things are gonna go. I’m not gonna kill you, but I can’t let you walk out of here without a few lumps after what you just did to that woman.”
Irina gasped, sucking in air and wiping the tears out of her eyes. The gun. She needed to get the gun. She reached into her purse to feel around.
There was no gun.
She almost wanted to laugh despite her pain. She’d forgotten it. Maybe it wouldn’t have helped her much with Yuri, but it would have at least helped her against the mugger, and now some poor man was going to get stabbed over her.
“Just go,” Irina said, sniffling. “He’ll hurt you.”
“Listen to the bitch,” the mugger said. “I’m getting real impatient here. You don’t turn around right now, you’re dead.”
The other man grunted and scrubbed a hand over his face. “God, I’m turning into Thomas.”
“Huh?” The mugger’s face scrunched up in confusion.
The new man sprang forward, smashing his fist into the mugger’s face. The thug sailed back several feet and rolled as he hit the ground. His knife clattered along the asphalt.
Irina’s savior froze, just watching the other man with narrowed eyes, his hand still clenched into a fist.
The mugger rose, blood gushing from his now twisted nose. “You fucker.”
“Before you had a knife,” the suited man said. “And I laid you out with one punch, and trust me, asshole, I didn’t put all my strength into it. Now you’ve got a busted nose, no knife, and I’m getting damn tired of this situation. If you come at me again, I guarantee you at least something else gets broken. You leave now, all you have to deal with is your broken-ass nose.”
The mugger raised his middle finger and sprinted the opposite way.
The dark-haired man watched him, his face twitching, as if he were deciding whether to chase him.
“Thank you,” Irina said, pushing off the ground, her legs weak.
“You okay?” He glanced down at her stomach. “He hit you pretty hard. Do you need to go to a hospital?”
She shook her head. Her stomach ached a bit, but she’d dealt with worse pain before. “No, I’m fine. I just… thank you. I guess I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t have to save me.”
“Not gonna let some asshole carve up the Sugar Plum Fairy.” He grinned.
Heat rushed to Irina’s cheeks. “You saw my performance?”
“Yeah.” He gestured to his suit. “Even bought new clothes for it, but then, well, heck half the people in there weren’t exactly dressed up.”
Irina laughed despite the strange situation. “Yes, people in this area are very informal from what I’ve seen.”
The man nodded toward the street. “Maybe we should get you out of the alley, Ms. Petrova.”
She was about to ask him how he knew her name, but considering he came to the performance, and she was a soloist, there wasn’t a great mystery. A short biography was included in the program.
“You can call me Irina. It’s the least I can do for the man who saved me.”
He nodded, something approaching discomfort appearing on his face.
“And who are you, my valiant knight?” she asked.
“Malcolm Smith.”
“Thank you again, Malcolm. May I take you out to dinner?”