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A laugh caught in her throat as she remembered the one time they had been in a restaurant together. Roman, trying to make his way as a boxer, had taken her out for a Valentine’s Day dinner, using his winnings from a fight.
Valentine’s Day had still been relatively new in Russia but Anya had wanted to celebrate it.
She had wanted flowers and, of course, chocolate.
Roman had taken her to a restaurant, though.
The first restaurant they had been turned away from as Roman had not had a jacket and tie, and in the other restaurant it had been just as much hell on the inside.
A menu had been handed to him, when he had never known such a thing even existed.
There had been a wine menu too.
He had wanted to give her everything, except he’d had nothing to give.
Nothing.
But he had taken care of her aching body after rehearsals and soothed her panic as she’d prepared for an important audition.
They had lain in his room and talked, they had glimpsed a future, even if Katya had said it would be an impossible one.
And then, without warning, he had gone.
‘You left me...’ She said it with the pain she had felt then and his hand was warm over hers as she jabbed at his chest.
‘Anya, I had to. You would not be where you are today had I stayed’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘But it’s true,’ Roman said. ‘You wanted to get to Saint Petersburg and you did.’
‘You could have come too. We could have got a flat—’
‘It would never have worked, Anya. I could not afford a flat for us and neither could I sit back and say nothing about...’
He did not finish, both knew what he referred to.
Oh, their night at the restaurant had been such a disaster.
They had left and gone back to the small bedsit he’d had and it had been the blackest of Valentine’s Days. Roman had lain there, knowing that he had embarrassed her with his unpolished ways.
No.
Anya had stared at the ceiling, wondering how she might excuse that three-course meal. There had been steak and hren, a horseradish relish that she adored, as well as wine. A large meal, though, was the very last thing she’d needed before such an important audition. She’d known he had spent everything that he’d had. Roman had thought good food would help her tomorrow. Yet it had sat on her stomach like lead and she’d known it would weigh her down.
Once she’d been sure he’d been asleep she had crept to the tiny bathroom and knelt down and done what she’d had to do to make the next day work.
Her shame when the lights had gone on she felt again now.
The row that had followed had been as passionate as they.
‘What the hell are you doing to yourself?’ Roman had shouted.
‘You don’t understand how tough the competition is.’
‘Nothing is worth that! Anya, your mother is wrong to tell you...’
He never got to finish.
Embarrassed at being caught, still trying to save the situation, Anya had jumped to Katya’s defence. ‘She does what is best for me. Roman, you don’t understand families.’
She’d regretted her choice of words so badly because Roman’s eyes had shuttered.
It was the last conversation they’d had.
No, Anya thought, perhaps he could not have sat back idly as she’d done what she’d had to in order to get where she was. She had never made herself vomit since that time. Instead she controlled her portions and worked hard on her body, but few understood the discipline required.
‘Where have you been?’ Anya asked.
‘France,’ he said. ‘Corsica...’
‘So you did join the Foreign Legion?’ She just stared at his huge hand over hers and tried to hold tears back.
‘Yes.’
Anya knew about the French Foreign Legion because during their precious time together Roman had hinted that it was an option, and so when he had left she had looked into it. Legionnaires were given a new identity, passport and birth certificate.
Their pasts were wiped clean.
And it meant that the soldier you loved so much might die but you would never know.
‘Rather than be with me?’
‘I needed it, Anya. I needed a new start.’
‘So what is your new name?’
Again he didn’t answer her and Anya knew he would not be allowed to reveal his new identity. He should not even be here as visiting the past was strictly forbidden.
‘Roman.’ Anya answered her own question, for he would always be Roman to her. Yes, maybe the details had changed but he was still Roman to her heart. The feelings she’d had for him had never left, now though they heightened.
‘Are you still in the legion?’
‘No.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Ten years.’
Which would have brought him to twenty-eight, and, given he was almost thirty-two, it meant that there were four years missing.
‘So, why are you here now?’
Because, despite so many promises to himself, he’d been unable to stay away.
‘I had to see for myself that you are okay.’
‘Then you’ll leave?’
‘Yes.’
He had to.
He did not want to complicate her life.
Always he had.
And he had read that she was dating Mika. He had always assumed male dancers were just pretty boys in tights.
His opinion had changed tonight.
‘Anya, I just came to see that you were doing well and it is clear that you are.’
‘Then go.’
Yet he did not.
They stood there, staring at each other, having a conversation, not with their mouths but with their eyes, just as they had in the early days. Then she would look across the sparse dining room and meet his solemn gaze.
Did you miss me? she asked without words.
His eyes told her that he had. They were black, the colour of coal, and they glinted the same way and could make her burn too.
His gaze moved down to her painted mouth and he would kiss her, she knew, because he had taken a tissue from her dressing table and was now removing her lipstick.
And she let him.
Even as he wiped off the crimson to expose the flesh of her lips, Roman knew he should walk away.
What the hell had he been thinking, that he could come and watch her dance and then simply leave?
Not a chance.
They were staring deep into each other’s eyes and their breathing was in the rhythm of the first time just before they had kissed.
Then Anya had come out of the stage door and faced Roman, then a man.
Tonight, though, as she put her hands up to his face, unlike then, he didn’t flinch.
He just felt the soft probe of her fingers explore his face.
Such a beautiful face, Anya thought. High cheekbones, black eyes that were embedded in her mind and the lips that had taken her to heaven would let her glimpse it again now.
‘I kiss you goodbye,’ Roman said.
He did not say, Can I kiss you? Roman had never needed to ask.
His kiss was gentle and it surprised her for his kisses had previously been hot and rather rough. Now, though, he lowered his head and cupped her chin and softly kissed her lips, and they rediscovered each other. Anya’s lips parted and he slipped his tongue into her mouth. They tasted each other, when they had starved for each other, but then he kissed her roughly again.
He pulled her tight into his body and she had never been held as Roman could hold her. He just owned her body and as her tutu was crushed against his suit his mouth ravaged hers.
He took her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that made her hands move to his chest just to feel the strength and the power, never to push him away.
He pulled her harder into him. His hand was in the small of her back, warm and sensual, yet the barrier of the fabric of her tutu briefly halted it from moving lower. It did not perturb him for long, and now his hand roamed her bottom.
Their tongues were mingling, their passion building, and it was a kiss that could no longer be classed as a farewell kiss for their bodies were greeting each other’s again.
She could feel him pressed hard on her stomach, and his other hand now touched her breast, and though they rued the fabric that separated their skin, still it felt blissful. His thumb caressed her nipple and she ached for her breast to be naked in his hand.
‘Tatania...’ There was a knock at the door and she could hear the dresser wanting to come in.
They stopped kissing but still he held her, still he stroked her breast, and they stared into each other’s eyes. She could feel his erection and, more than that, she could feel his body was broader, more primed, and she ached, simply ached for him, for the years he had denied her his touch, his body.
She should tell him to go, and now was her chance to do just that.
Roman knew too that he should leave.
Once, their eyes said.
Just this once.
Their bodies could kiss the other goodbye.
‘I will deal with my costume,’ Anya shouted through the door in Russian. ‘You are to leave me.’
Roman would deal with her costume, Anya knew, as without a word he went and turned the key in the door.
He was back.
For their closing night.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ed9eb046-4aa8-5756-948c-cb1a7ef178ab)
ANYA SHIVERED WITH want now, rather than stage fright.
Her legs, which had just a short while ago performed the most amazing feats, barely remembered how to walk as he took her by the hand and led her to the dressing-room chair. He moved it so that she faced to the side and he came round and got down on one knee.
He undid the silk ribbons of her pointe shoes and slipped them off, and Anya grimaced as he did so. Always, after a performance, it hurt to remove them.
