16 Chapter 16

Tasha shivered at her memory, at her first glimpse of the cruel part of him he kept hidden from her. She had been using a borrowed studio in Nice for several days, bringing the notice of the sophisticated dance choreographer that ran the place. The local company was down their prima ballerina as well as her understudy. The girl that was left was not nearly experienced enough for the part. Would Tasha agree to take the principal's place in the production? For just one night, until they could replace her?

When Tasha had demurred, the woman smiled knowingly. She had flattered the young ex-dancer and slyly told her she knew who the other woman was. That hiding her unique style and talent was impossible, and that Tasha should not be hidden away from the world by a jealous husband. She should take her place once more on the stage where she belonged.

It was perhaps unfortunate that this speech came at a weak point for Natasha. She had been only twenty and at the very height of her career when she had disappeared suddenly from the stage. Most dancers retired before thirty and she had only a few good years left at the top of her profession. She and David were just past their honeymoon phase where reality begins to intrude. Tasha was beginning to realize what she had given up to be with him. During his longer than usual absence it was hard not to resent him for taking professional dancing from her.

Tasha had capitulated and agreed to dance on stage. She excitedly threw herself into learning the program. It was a familiar dance with some new choreography that she picked up without any problems. The choreographer and director had both seen her dance before in Russia and were quite enthusiastic to be working with her. Once more flattered, Tasha thrust her absent husband and his overbearing edicts into the background.

Her one night on the stage had been such a success that she did another night, and another. David had called and said he would be another few days away. With only slight misgivings, Tasha signed on for another three nights, hoping her husband would stay away for the length of time he said. She would finish her run Saturday night, before David was due back. He would know nothing of her transgression.

Except, somehow, he did.

She was later to learn that David often hired someone to watch her whenever he was away. He had known of her plan to dance on the stage again almost right from the moment of its conception. He would have put a stop to it much sooner except business kept him away. He came back to Nice the moment he could.

She had been nearing the end of her last dance of the evening when the spot light above her had shifted momentarily, illuminating the audience. It flashed over David's features for a split second. Long enough for her to see both the aching desire for his wife and the blazing fury reflected in his face. To her credit, she didn't falter once during that last dance. If anything, she soared higher and danced more flawlessly, knowing the end was near. That glimpse of danger, of searing hunger, she had seen in him sent her heart racing in anticipation. David was angry but he wanted her. And, as he always did after staying away, he would have her. It would be delicious.

David's anger was terrible. He treated Tasha as though she was a child that couldn't understand how to listen to her father. She had tried to argue back that he wasn't her keeper, that she had every right to dance if she wanted to. Neither of them gave way to the other until David, frustrated, had thrown her down on their bed and proceeded to force her compliance using the best methods he could think of. She had exploded under his hands that night and agreed to do anything he asked.

"Crazy little chattel" she breathed, remembering the love-sick idiot she used to be.

Of course he hadn't wanted her dancing on stages across the globe. She had been too high profile. Half of Europe knew who she was. How could he work while toting a near-celebrity around? Finally, she had allowed him to convince her that their life of obscurity was what she truly wanted.

Tasha squirmed, attempting to find a position that was more bearable while cuffed. She gave up with an annoyed huff when the belt twisted and the knot bit into her waist between her body and the mattress. She froze when she heard the front door rattle and then open. She listened nervously as David crossed the floor to the kitchen. She heard the muffled sound of bags and the opening and closing of cupboards and the fridge. She held her breath as footsteps finally made a path to the room she was held in. David opened the door and stepped into the bedroom, his brown hair slightly damp from early spring snow. He shook his head, sending droplets flying. He paced to the bed, stopped and looked down at her bound disheveled figure as though trying to decide what to do with her.

The thought was terrifying. Mostly because Tasha was convinced David had planned on killing her. That bringing her back with him was never his intent. Now that she was here, laying in his bed, helpless and tied up for his pleasure, he was struggling to contain the darkness storming within. Would he could he still kill her? Was she safe from the possibility of death at his hands? Her throat still throbbed where his hand had squeezed the breath from her earlier, reminding her of exactly how vulnerable she was. As if sensing her thoughts, he finally spoke to her.

"I watched you with another man, Natasha," he said, his voice a seething snarl. His accent noticeable. "You allowed his touch with such ease and familiarity that I wanted to snap his neck in that moment and then claim my wife next to his dead body. Jordan Kent was closer to death than he will ever know." He paced away from her. Tasha's eyes followed his every movement, the way a terrified rabbit would watch a predator until her opportunity to run arose. Only Tasha was well and truly ensnared. "It was fantasy though. Because you were to die. A bullet through the brain by these very hands, Natasha."

He held his hands up to show her. They were the beautiful, long-fingered, veined hands that had always captured her interest and fascinated her, almost to the point of obsession. The hands that could pull so many feelings from the depths of her, both emotionally and physically. A pang hit her hard as the light glinted off the wedding ring on his left ring finger. He still wore that symbol of their marriage.

"David," she whispered, imploring him. "Please uncuff me I'll try to explain"

"Shut up," he snapped. "You do not get to talk to me. You can earn your freedom another way."

She wanted to ask him how and even opened her mouth the ask the question, but stopped herself. This was the David she had seen kill someone. This was David without the veneer of civilization. This was his ice-cold anger colliding with the searing rage of losing his wife for two years. This was his reclamation. She only hoped she survived the experience.

His dark eyes never left hers as he unzipped his coat, pulled it off his broad shoulders and tossed it over a chair. Tiny drops of melted snow fell on her as he threw the jacket. She shivered from the impact. He followed the movement, tracing every inch of her prone body from her feet, which she'd tried tucking up onto the bed, to her hands, cuffed above her head. He lingered on the metal attached to her wrists, the sight bringing a sadistic gleam to his eyes.

He reached for the buttons on his shirt, starting at the top and unbuttoning them one at a time. Her lips parted and the breath caught in her throat as he once more revealed to her the work of art that was his chest and stomach. The years hadn't changed his physique by much, except perhaps to chisel him even more. Each muscle was honed to perfection. Not too big like a bodybuilder, but lean and targeted for sleek strength. It was like his time apart from Tasha had driven his workout regime to even higher peaks. Now that he revealed the musculature beneath his shirt, each shadowy dip and hollow told the story of a man pushing himself to extremes. He had always been built to perfection, but this

He leaned over her prone body, his chest just barely brushing the tips of her breasts, until his lips were inches from hers and he whispered in Russian, "Vremya dlya oplaty, moya lyubov."

Her heart froze in her chest as his words hung between their parted lips.

Time to pay, my love.

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