Free The Siren's Dance by Amber Belldene Page A

handed her a business card.
    Her long, thin fingers were cool as they slid over his to accept the slip of paper.
    A hinge creaked in the back hallway, and a man came through the opening door. Younger than the dance teacher, he wore slacks and a sweater, though when he crossed the room with an elegant saunter instead of the beefy strut of most men, Sergey could well imagine the man was a dancer. He came to stand at her side and wrapped an arm around her waist, cupping her hip. His nostrils flared when he looked at Sergey.
    Sergey was not especially into older women, and he inched back a little, hoping to signal to the man he had no designs on the teacher.
    “Alexei, this is Inspector Yuchenko from Kiev. He’s searching for someone named Stas Demyan, who might have operated a dance school here back in the sixties.”
    “Demyan? Never heard of him.” Alexei crossed his arms over his chest. “Leyna, isn’t your class about to begin? I’ll show the inspector out.”
    She smiled at Alexei as if he hung the moon before bending to retrieve her clipboard. “Yes. It’s time to open the door.” She waved toward the street.
    On the sidewalk outside, girls of nine or ten had begun to line up, their mothers exchanging greetings.
    “If you will.” Alexei extended his arm toward the exit and took a step as if he expected Sergey to follow immediately. He must have been awfully worried his lady might exchange him for an even younger model. A pulse of pure masculine rivalry rose up in Sergey, and he wanted to punch the guy, wanted to prove himself better, stronger, like a peacock showing its feathers, or a walrus ready to lock tusks to win a mate.
    The other man lifted his chest, narrowing his eyes to crescents, as if somehow he’d sensed Sergey’s rush of testosterone. “She’s mine.”
    Reason broke through the primal haze that had taken hold of Sergey, and he took a couple slow breaths. Where the hell had that need to posture come from? He was not prone to fits of machismo.
    He held up his palms. “I’m just here to ask some questions.”
    “Sure you are.” Alexei cracked the door and the girls rushed inside. He flashed perfectly charming smiles at all their mothers, though his hostile stare stabbed at Sergey the moment the path was clear.
    There was something familiar about the man. Had he gone to school in Odessa? Or had Sergey met him elsewhere? His accent wasn’t local, maybe even Belorussian. Sergey held the jealous gaze for a long second and grabbed a brochure from a holder hanging outside. “For my goddaughter.”
    Alexei bared his teeth and closed the door loud enough that a few of the dancers started and turned to stare. Sergey marched back to the car, giving silent thanks Anya had enough sense to stay out of sight. Behind the wheel, he put the brochure on the dash.
    The ghost eased up out of the foot well and peeked at the studio. “There’s a man staring at you.”
    “I know. But he’s not a lead, just a guy jealous I’m going to steal his cougar.”
    “He has a cougar?” Her brows furrowed as she continued to stare at the man.
    He chuckled. “Not exactly.”
    “Oh.” She pursed her lips, not liking being laughed at, even a little. God, this little vila could use a sense of humor.
    “Did you learn anything?” she asked.
    Sergey blew out a breath, rubbing at an itch on the back of his neck. He glanced one more time at the Académie de Ballet, where Alexei stood like a sentinel at the door. “Nope. Complete dead end.”
     
     

Chapter 9
     
    The ballet class came to order inside the studio, the redhead clapping and pointing at where she wanted the girls to stand. It stirred memories inside Anya, of a pure time before ambition and obsession, when she’d just loved to master steps and sway to music, loved to watch the beauty of bodies lengthening and leaping in the mirror and to emulate them.
    The man in the door remained, a dark silhouette looming like the Stas of her memories, tainting the