Chapter 2

Valentin

The boy had been staring at me. He looked young — early twenties, maybe — with a face that was neither handsome nor unpleasant, but the kind of face that struck me, at a single glance, as entirely unworthy of her.

"This is none of your business," he said.

"You're right, it isn't," I said. "Which is why I'm asking you, rather than simply putting my hands on you."

He clearly wanted to say something back. He didn't. He only held my gaze, and I held his.

Then he looked at her. He grabbed her by the wrist, sharp and sudden, and pulled her away.

She turned back once and gave me an apologetic smile — her lips forming what looked like sorry — but he was already yanking her forward, and she stumbled a step before falling into stride beside him.

"Mr. Radu." Marcus called my name.

I pulled my gaze from the direction they'd gone and glanced at him. "Did you get the documents?"

"Yes, sir."

I pressed my cigarette out against the car door, dropped it, and got in. Marcus pulled the door shut behind me and took his seat across from mine.

The car was quiet.

He opened the folder and began his report. "Lauer confirmed the structure. Final terms Thursday. Luxembourg call at eight tomorrow morning. Meridian came back at forty-two million — below the floor."

I was listening. My eyes, however, had drifted to the window.

New York was backed up again. It always was on rainy nights — a fact I had complained about more times than I could count. Tonight, though, I found I had very little to say against it, because where we had stopped placed us close enough to that couple that I could watch them without any particular impropriety.

The boy was looking at his phone. She was standing beside him, talking — or trying to — and he was giving her nothing in return, not a word, not a glance.

Once my eyes found her, they didn't move.

The rain had soaked through the shoulder of her coat. She didn't seem to notice. She kept leaning toward him, kept talking, and he kept offering her the same blunt silence. I had nearly settled into the comfortable cynicism of having seen this before — another girl making herself small to keep a man's attention — when she stepped back.

She extended both arms, shifted her weight forward onto her toes, and rose. The arabesque was clean and precise, held for only a moment before she came down, and then she jumped, turning once in the air.

My hand moved to the door handle.

She didn't stop when she landed. She stepped close to him, looped her arms around the back of his neck, and said something against his ear. He finally looked down at her. He smiled — that slow, indolent smile people reserve for animals that have just done something charming — and reached up to pinch her cheek before pulling her in.

I watched her rise onto her toes and kiss him.

He kissed her back.

Their foreheads came together. Her fingers laced behind his neck.

I took my hand off the door handle.

I was trying to remember what the boy had called her, earlier —

Solange.

I narrowed my eyes and watched her through the rain-streaked glass, the way a thief watches something he has no right to want, letting myself imagine things I had no business imagining. I thought about the softness of her cheek against mine.

I thought about the scent of her — something like daisies. I thought about what it would feel like to put my hand at her waist, to press my face into the curve of her collarbone, to let my lips find the hollow of her throat, to feel her breathing change as I kissed down her chest. I wanted her — entirely, without apology — wanted to do things to her that her idiot boyfriend would never think to do, wanted to keep her close enough that she would never have reason to leave.

I became aware that my trousers had grown uncomfortably tight.

I crossed my right leg over my left.

The sensation itself surprised me. I was not a man who was easily unsettled. Before I leaned back against the seat and made the deliberate choice to pull my attention from the window, I spent a few seconds in honest assessment of my own condition — I was drawn to her, genuinely interested, and I wanted to know who she was.

"Mr. Radu." Marcus paused. "Are you still with me?"

"I am," I said. "Meridian — counter at forty-eight million, add a revised profit adjustment clause, give them room to negotiate. If they come back below forty-five, pull the offer."

"Understood." He noted it down.

I didn't bring my eyes back from the window. "Marcus. The woman from earlier."

"I saw her."

"Her name was something like Solange. Find out what you can." I kept my voice even.

He didn't ask anything further. He took out his phone. About a minute passed before he looked up. "Principal dancer with NYM Ballet. Solange Sinclair. There's a public performance tomorrow evening at Lincoln Center — Giselle. She's the lead."

Solange Sinclair.

NYM Ballet.

Tomorrow evening's performance.

I thought that would be the most natural occasion for us to meet again.