The Redemption of Darius Sterne

Andy drew her breath in sharply. ‘Not any more,’ she bit out stiffly, very aware that her face had paled in shock, and that it was no longer just her hands that were trembling but all of her. ‘Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom!’ She quickly gathered up her black clutch bag before moving along the leather seat, with the intention of making good her escape.

Only to find that escape circumvented as one of Darius’s hands moved quickly across the table and his fingers clamped about her wrist. Not hard enough to actually hurt her, but definitely firmly enough to prevent her from escaping.

The intensity of his penetrating gaze was enough to cause her protest to die in her throat; she knew instinctively, that Darius simply wasn’t a man who took orders, from anyone.

Andy blinked hastily as her vision blurred. She wouldn’t cry. Not here, and certainly not in front of Darius Sterne. ‘Please let go of my arm, Mr Sterne.’

‘Darius.’

She gave a protesting shake of her head. ‘Please, release me.’

He didn’t remove his hand. Andy instead felt the soft pad of Darius’s thumb move caressingly, soothingly, against the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. Increasing her physical awareness of him, despite the fact that seconds ago she had just wanted to escape from the painful memories his words had evoked.

‘I was there that night four years ago, Miranda,’ Darius stated evenly, able to feel the wild fluttering of her pulse beneath the pad of his thumb, to see the look of pained shock in those green eyes for exactly what it was, as well as the deathly pallor of her cheeks. ‘I was in the theatre that night,’ he added, so that there could be no doubts left in her mind as to exactly what he was talking about. ‘The night of your accident.’

‘No!’ she protested weakly.

‘Yes.’ Darius nodded grimly, remembering clearly, as if in slow motion, watching the young ballerina on the stage as she seemed to stumble, attempt to stop herself from falling, before losing her balance completely and crashing down off the stage.

The whole audience had gasped, including Darius, followed by a hushed silence as the music and other dancers froze, and they all waited to know the extent of her injuries.

The realisation that she was the same Miranda Jacobs, the up-and-coming ballerina who had been lauded by the press and critics alike but had been forced to retire four years ago, following that aborted performance as Odette in Swan Lake, now explained so much about her.

That recognition Darius had when he looked at her, for one thing.

Her natural, almost ethereal slenderness, for another.

That fluidity of grace she possessed, just walking across a room. A gracefulness that was apparent in everything she did. Sitting, crossing her ankles, or lifting her champagne glass to her lips.

Everything about this woman was innately graceful.

Even the pained vulnerability he could now see in her eyes.

He had touched on a subject that so obviously caused her immense pain and distress.

Not surprising, when just four short years ago Miranda Jacobs had been called the Margot Fonteyn of her age. She had been an absolute joy to watch that night, mesmerisingly so. And that hadn’t been just Darius’s opinion, but also that of all the reviewers and the newspapers the following day as the headlines had delivered the news of the terrible accident on stage that might possibly mark the end of such a young and promising career.

That had been the end to Miranda Jacobs’s career as a professional ballet dancer; those same newspapers had reported just days later that her injuries were so extensive she would never dance professionally again.

Well, that might be true professionally...

Darius stood up abruptly before moving round the table and exerting a light pressure on Miranda’s wrist as he pulled her to her feet beside him. ‘Let’s dance.’

Her expression was panicked as she pulled against that hold on her wrist. ‘No.’

Darius stilled. ‘Is there any medical reason that says you can’t do a slow dance?’

Her eyes flashed a glittering emerald. ‘I’m not a cripple, Mr Sterne, I’m just no longer capable of dancing in a professional capacity.’

‘Then let’s go.’ His tone brooked no argument as he released her hand to instead place his arm firmly about the slenderness of her waist, holding her possessively into his side as he strode towards the dance floor, deliberately catching the eye of the DJ and giving the other man a barely perceptible nod of his head as he did so.

Mere seconds later the tempo of the music changed to a slow love song.

‘That was convenient,’ Miranda bit out abruptly as the two of them stepped onto the dance floor.

‘No, actually, it was deliberate,’ Darius dismissed unapologetically; he wanted this woman in his arms, and he wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.

She gave a protesting shake of her head, the straight curtain of her hair moving about her shoulders as she placed her hands against his chest, with the obvious intention of pushing him away. ‘I really don’t want to dance.’

‘Liar,’ Darius stated arrogantly as he refused to release her; he had felt the increase of the pulse in her wrist, and his arms about her waist now allowed him to feel the fluttering of excitement that ran through the whole of her body. Very like that of a caged and wounded bird longing to be set free.

Damn it, he was starting to sound poetic again!

If nothing else, his mother’s distant behaviour towards him these past twenty years had taught him that women were fickle and cold and not to be trusted with his feelings.

Nor did he become involved, in any way, with women who were complicated, or wounded, as Miranda Jacobs so obviously was. He carried around enough emotional baggage, the rest of his family’s as well as his own, without taking on someone else’s. Hell, he didn’t become involved with women at all, except in the bedroom, and even then only on a purely sexual basis. Just a scratch to his itch.

But having forced the dancing issue he could hardly back down now. ‘Move your feet, Miranda,’ he encouraged huskily as he lifted her hands up onto his shoulders before pulling her closer still as he began to move slowly in time to the music, leaving Miranda with no choice but to follow his lead.

She was so slender in his arms that Darius almost felt as if he might bruise the willowy slenderness curved against his much larger and harder frame. And if he feared bruising her, just from dancing with her, how much more likely was it that he would completely crush her if he were to ever attempt to make love with her?

That was no longer even a possibility.

Making love to this woman was a definite no-no as far as Darius was concerned. Knowing who she was, who she had been, he also knew this woman was just too vulnerable, her past making her far too emotionally complicated, for him to even contemplate continuing his pursuit of the attraction he felt between the two of them. One dance together, and that was it. Then he would take her back to her booth, before returning to his office until she and the rest of her family had left the nightclub.

Never to return.

Yes, that was what he would do.

Her hair felt smooth as he rested his cheek lightly against it, those silver-gold tresses smelling of citrus and some deeper, enticing spice, that caused his hardened body to throb achingly as he breathed the scent deeply into his lungs. An arousal that Miranda, with the proximity of their two bodies, couldn’t help but be completely aware of.

* * *

Andy was too disturbed at first, at finding herself dancing in public again, albeit in a crowded club, to be aware of anything else. But as her nerves slowly settled, and the trembling stopped, she couldn’t help but become completely aware of the man she was dancing with.

She was five-eight in her bare feet, and even adding a couple of inches for the heels on her sandals Darius still towered over her by a good five or six inches. The width of his shoulders felt hard and muscled beneath her fingers. His chest and abdomen felt just as firmly muscled as he curved her body against and into his. As evidence, perhaps, that he didn’t spend all of his time behind a desk counting his billions.

Well...no, she was sure that Darius spent a lot of energy exercising in his bedroom too. Horizontally!

None of which changed the fact that being so totally aware of the hardness of his thighs, and the heavy length of his arousal pressing against her contrasting softness, had completely taken her mind off the fact that she was actually dancing in public again. More of a shuffle, really, but it was still dancing.

And it was with Darius Sterne.

Darius had to be at least ten years older than her, as well as far more experienced and sophisticated. He was a man who no doubt changed the women in his bed as often as some minion changed the silk sheets for him afterwards, which would be often.

Andy already knew those silk sheets would be black—

Already knew?