The Sheikh's Bought Ballerina (The Sheikh's New Bride Book 6) Read online

  He rubbed the back of his hand against her arm reassuringly.

  “Well, then I’d say that’s a very human thing to connect with. I’d say that’s something we all feel. And maybe that’s part of why it resonates so well with the audiences here, as well as in the States. And why I think it’ll resonate with audiences wherever we go in the world.”

  She looked at him again, the outline of his profile against the dark background. She’d been instantly struck by how attractive his features were when she’d first met him. She hadn’t realized they were kind, as well.

  Ophelia changed the subject, bringing up some tiny detail she wanted to raise with the choreographer prior to the Madrid performance. Salim seemed to understand her wanting to shy away from the deeper waters they’d wandered into.

  Eventually, the adrenalin faded, and the tiredness that had begun this entire adventure returned. To his credit, Salim noticed, and suggested they go back. Heading back down was easier than going up, but with the cumulative effort of everything, Ophelia found that when she reached the pathway along the river, she was shaking.

  And then, suddenly, she wasn’t. Suddenly, in one motion, she was up in Salim’s arms, laying against his warm, broad chest.

  He wouldn’t kiss her, but he would carry her?

  She wanted to protest, but at the same time, she found herself grateful and settling into him.

  “It’s the least I can do,” he said, in response to her unspoken protest, or her unspoken thanks—she wasn’t sure which.

  Ophelia didn’t think she slept—not really—but she also couldn’t quite remember most of the trip back to the hotel There was a taxi involved, she knew that much, but she was back in Salim’s arms immediately afterwards, and the next thing she knew, she was standing at her door.

  He should kiss her. She thought it again. Now was the time.

  She waited.

  But instead, he reached down to her hand, laying loose at her side, and brought it up to his lips. Gently, slowly, he kissed it.

  “Good night, Ophelia,” he said, in that same, quiet voice that she’d come to like the best out of all his inflections.

  And then, he was gone.

  Chapter 15

  Salim

  Salim was at a loss. In many ways, things in London had gone to plan, and he was confident, at this point, that he’d piqued Ophelia’s interest. He’d gotten her talking. She’d been happy for him to carry her all the way back to the hotel. Exactly what he’d wanted to do, he knew he was on the way to accomplishing. If he could get her to be thinking only of him, then Nikolai had no chance at bedding her and leaving her as he intended.

  And yet, at the same time, none of it had gone to plan. He hadn’t waited until the end of their time in London. Why hadn’t he been able to? He had a system, and intention. It was all timed out to interest her just enough to keep her from Nikolai’s clutches, but not enough that her heart would be seriously wounded in his wake. He didn’t want to hurt her. What would the point of all of this be if he just ended up hurting her in the end, himself?

  And the way he’d gotten her attention bothered him. He’d given her too much of himself. He’d told her things he hadn’t told anyone else. He was invested more than he should have been in a woman who he only intended to help, to minimize the damage his friend would do.

  And then there was the issue with the company. How he’d let it take over his life so quickly. It had moved him, sure. But so had how many other pieces? He always responded the same way: he bought the piece, did right by it, and moved on. He didn’t pour himself into personally restoring it. He found the right people to do that for him, and he focused his attention where it would do the most good: on the next work.

  Always onto the next work. He never let one piece slow him down. He never let it get that far. How was it right that he should be doing this now? His rules of operation in one artistic medium shouldn’t differ from the next.

  He didn’t know which bothered him more: the things he had told Ophelia about how personally invested he was—and intended to remain—in the company and her career, or that he found, as he thought back on it all, that he meant them. He had gotten into this with one clear goal. And that goal had become hopelessly muddled and crowded with other things.

  With one thing, he thought wryly. His goals had become muddled and overcrowded with Ophelia.

  She wasn’t as straightforward as he had expected her to be. He’d known her talent going into it, sure, and that had made her one-dimensional for him, he realized now, looking back. He’d done what he imagined countless other men had done in her life: reduced her to a dancer and nothing more.

  But she was so much more. She was spontaneous and dedicated, but it wasn’t the kind of soulless, automatic dedication he’d imagined. Her artistry was hard fought. He found he admired her more and more—not for the talent she’d been born with, but for the way she’d nurtured it, even when it hadn’t been her choice at first. He admired her for not resenting the art or her family for pushing her to pursue it.

  And he admired her for the way she had flourished in this life, when he’d seen so many in competitive fields get burned out. She was in it for the long haul. And he knew, deep within him, that she would succeed, even if he didn’t nurture her talent. But he knew, with an equal certainty, that he would nurture that talent.

  That admiration, that dedication, wasn’t part of the plan. None of it was. Salim needed some perspective. He needed a chance to clear his head.

  So he made the best, healthiest choice for his current frame of mind. He stayed away from Ophelia for the rest of their stay in London. It was possible, he thought, that he already had her sufficiently on the hook to thwart Nikolai. And, besides, what was the point if he beat out his rival, only to lose himself?

  He busied himself with the other things he liked to do in London. He met up with his friends, although he never did get around to seeing that woman he’d been thinking he’d pursue. Something about it didn’t seem right just now. He blamed that on Ophelia, and told himself that the next time he would be in London, he’d be out from under whatever Nikolai had gotten him into, and he’d be able to get back to normal.

  On the day he and the company were to fly to Madrid, he almost didn’t go. The trip to Madrid felt, strangely enough, like a threat. Some part of him felt as though staying in London would be safer, somehow.

  He shook off the unaccountable worry. There wasn’t much he’d ever been afraid of in his life, and with good reason. He was the son of the ruler of a small but powerful nation. And Madrid was a perfectly fine city. There was nothing he had to be afraid of.

  Then, there was the bet with Nikolai. He had Ophelia going in the right direction, but it had all happened when Nikolai was nowhere to be seen. Salim had to be there, to be certain that Nikolai would not be successful. Without actually seeing him, there was no way he could be sure.

  So, he went. But still, as he boarded his plane, he couldn’t help but feel that all the clarity he’d been seeking in London by staying away from the company, and staying away from Ophelia, was doomed to swiftly evaporate. He was back in whatever this was, now. And there was nothing he could do about it, prince or not.

  Chapter 16

  Ophelia

  Ophelia was angry, and she was struggling with the intensity of it. It wasn’t fair of her. It wasn’t the way she was raised. She’d spent her whole life being proudly free of the kind of small, childish drama that she saw herself getting caught up in now, like it was some foregone conclusion out of her control.

  And Salim was the cause.

  It wasn’t just that he hadn’t properly kissed her goodnight. She didn’t understand that, but there were probably plenty of explanations. She didn’t think he knew about her lack of experience, but maybe it was a kind of vibe that she was putting out without realizing it that he should go slowly. Or maybe there were some cultural differences. For all she’d asked him under the bridge about Al-Shyla, there was still so
much she didn’t know. She’d never been anywhere in the Middle East, and her knowledge was limited.

  No, the kiss on the hand instead of the mouth was forgivable. And really pretty sweet, in a way; as upset as she was that it hadn’t been a bit more, she still couldn’t help but smile every time she remembered it.

  But going completely with no contact for the rest of the time they were in London? Having a night like that, which had quite unexpectedly turned into one of the best nights of her life, and then not so much as showing up to a performance?

  She was livid. Livid at him, and livid at herself for having gotten her expectations up so much higher than they should be. She was angry, and then angry at herself for being angry.

  She was so angry, that she did something she hadn’t done since college: she called her mother to rant about a man.

  “And has your performance suffered?”

  That was what her mother had to say, when Ophelia laid the whole thing out to her. She’d told her mother about the feelings involved. She’d told her how open she’d been with Salim, and how open she felt like he’d been with her. She told him how hard it was to try to separate his motivations, the artistic and the personal, but how certain she had felt that there was ample of both.

  She’d told her mother how it was that very certainty, and then his behavior that immediately contradicted it, that made her feel as though nothing in her life was certain. More than anything else, she told her that she was angry at Salim for making her mistrust her own judgement.

  And yet, still:

  “He’s not distracting you, is he? You can’t let him, you know. This is too important for your career.”

  Yes, Ophelia knew that a romantic entanglement with her boss wasn’t conducive to giving sublime performances night after night. She knew that much. And yet, at the same time, it didn’t matter. No matter how concerned her mother was, Ophelia knew that she could handle it without allowing her golden opportunity to be wasted.

  She had practice. She’d performed in all kind of emotional states before. She’d performed as an anxious middle schooler and a sulky teenager. Throughout all the ups and downs that college life had brought her, as it brought everyone. She’d danced through all that, so she could dance through one entitled, stupid, handsome Sheikh.

  By the time the company flew to Madrid, she’d pushed down all her feelings of the night—and what it should have started, and what it apparently did not—so far down, that she was shocked by how strongly they all came rushing up to the surface at the sound of his name.

  “Is the Sheikh not flying with us?”

  Katie’s innocent question, asked, thankfully, to someone else, was all it took. Immediately, the feelings of the night overwhelmed her. She remembered their walk along the river and up under the bridge. She remembered her spontaneous climb out over the water and the way his presence had pushed her on, even while every muscle in her body was exhausted.

  She remembered the conversation—not what they’d said, but how they’d said it. The way so many meaningless little details and stories from their lives seemed to take on an intense importance.

  And with the recollection came the shame of the slow realization that he wasn’t calling, or stopping by, or anything else. And the second-guessing of every word, every thought, every glance that had passed between them.

  Ophelia couldn’t tell if it made it better or worse that, while she was angry, she was also still living in a kind of luxury she’d never known before this tour. As in London, everything had been upgraded. The hotel, the limos, the incredible theater. It was all finer than she’d ever experienced, and the constant background noise of approval and excitement from the other dancers couldn’t help but remind her of Salim, and why he said he was doing all of this.

  She wondered if he were here. She wondered if he still meant any of it—about the company and how he planned to shepherd it and nurture it. She wanted to write it all off as just the words of a man who was trying to—as Mr. Ansaroff had so indelicately put it in New York—“get into her pants.” But at the same time, if that was what he was trying to do, then why would he had not pushed harder?

  If that was what he was after, why had he held back?

  All the questions about Salim swirled around her as she recovered from jet lag, and rehearsed in the space with the other dancers, preparing for their short Madrid run. She did the best she could to set them aside.

  But still, as they were preparing to go on for her first performance in the city, Ophelia couldn’t stop herself from joining a group of her fellow dancers and crowding around a vantage point where they could see the audience and not be seen.

  “I haven’t done this since I was at the academy,” Ophelia said, almost under her breath. “Is the Sheikh here? Is that what we’re looking at?”

  “No!” Katie said, a little louder than she probably should have, to pointed looks from other dancers. She continued more quietly, “At least, I don’t see him. But look who is here.”

  Ophelia looked out into the crowd, and then, thinking better of it, looked up into the boxes. Even though Katie had said that Salim wasn’t there, part of her was hoping to see him, anyway. Instead, her eyes widened when they came across Mr. Ansaroff.

  “What’s he doing here?” she asked aloud, to very similar pointed looks from the other dancers as Katie had gotten.

  “I don’t know,” Katie said. “But he was in New York, too. And they say that he went to several performances of the St. Petersburg Ballet before he bought the company. And they say that he competes with the Sheikh about a lot of things. So, maybe—”

  “What did he say to you in New York, Ophelia?”

  It was Eliza’s voice, much closer to Ophelia’s ears than she was expecting, that interrupted Katie.

  “Nothing!” she answered, too defensively and caught off guard. “He didn’t say anything interesting, anyway. Nothing about buying the company.”

  Eliza shrugged.

  “Maybe he wasn’t interested until his rival decided he was.”

  And just like that, yet more questions began to swirl around Ophelia’s head, and continued to do so, right up until the moment she stepped on stage to dance.

  Maybe this was the missing piece to explaining Salim’s behavior. She’d come across a few photos of Mr. Ansaroff and the Sheikh together when she’d done her research, but she hadn’t thought too much of it. Sure, they knew each other, but there were an awful lot of photos with him and an awful lot of rich people.

  Apparently, though, she hadn’t read the right articles if the other dancers knew of this rivalry, and she didn’t. And, if it made sense that Mr. Ansaroff wouldn’t be interested in something unless his rival were, maybe the opposite held true, as well.

  Between her exits and entrances, the questions gnawed at her, and being out on stage started feeling like a welcome reprieve. She began dreading intermission, when she would be stuck for a full twenty minutes without anything to stop her from thinking about it.

  When intermission did eventually come, Ophelia tried to go to her dressing room, so she could at least be wondering miserably in solitude. But she was stopped by Katie, who was standing with a very similar group of dancers who had been standing around the spying place at the beginning of the show.

  “Did you hear?” Katie asked, and Ophelia shook her head. “He is here for a reason. Mr. Ansaroff. Nikolai. He’s invited the whole company out for drinks after the show. He’s reserved a whole night club for us! You’re coming, right?”

  All her miserable questions felt like they were answering themselves before her eyes.

  “I…I’m not sure…” Ophelia answered, hating the way both of these men made her so uncertain of herself.

  “You know, you really should,” Eliza broke in. “If he was interested in talking to you in New York, he’d probably want to see you there tonight. If he’s considering buying the company, then don’t you owe it to us to keep him interested?”

  Ophelia frown
ed. There was something cruel and mocking in Eliza’s expression, as there often was. And, as she often did, Ophelia had a hard time telling exactly what.

  “The company was just bought out. Do you really want us to get passed around from rich man to rich man? Since when are ballet companies the new fashion accessory?”

  Eliza shrugged.

  “And see how much better things got? You can hold on to your pride if you want to, but those of us who aren’t in starring roles don’t see anything wrong with being in demand.”

  Again, something behind Eliza’s eyes. Like she knew something. And Ophelia wasn’t sure what it was, but she was sure that she didn’t want Eliza knowing it.

  “I…I don’t know. I’ll see how I feel after the show.”

  That wasn’t the answer Eliza was looking for, Ophelia knew. But it was the only answer she was going to get. Ophelia went off into her dressing room.

  She didn’t know why she was surprised that Nikolai (when had she started thinking of him as Nikolai?) was attending the performance. He’d said that he would be back when she’d had time to change her mind. He hadn’t seemed interested in buying the company before, but maybe he had changed his mind. It was hard to say. How could she know what was going on in there? He was as inscrutable as Eliza.

  The amount Nikolai reminded Ophelia of Eliza sent a chill down her spine. She thought back to the photos she had come across when she originally looked into the man who’d bought the company with no notice—Salim. Something was bothering her about them, and she wasn’t quite sure what.

  Quickly, she grabbed her phone from the pocket of her street clothes. Usually, she made a rule of it not to look at her phone until after the curtain call, but the point of that rule was to keep her mind on the dancing, and that ship had long since sailed.