“Baker,” I said into the phone the second he answered. “You have to help me. Give me everything you have on Clara Simyoneva, and don’t leave anything out, no matter how small you might think it is. The New York promoters want a meeting later today, and I need to present all my reasons for picking her and why they should allow her another chance to perform on Broadway. Personally, I don’t give a fuck if she ever sets foot in the Big Apple again, but it would mean a lot to her. It would mean she’d been forgiven if she were allowed back into the fold no matter how unfair one group having that amount of influence might sound. I’m going to have to defend my decisions, and I could use everything you have.”
“Considering you sound desperate, I’ll forgive the fact you didn’t even bother to say hello before snapping orders at me,” Baker said. Before I had a chance to growl that etiquette was the fucking least of my concerns, he added, “Give me a second. Let me find my folder on her. I have everything I learned about her in there, and I know I have some good stuff.”
“I sure hope so.” I listened to the sound of drawers opening and paper being shuffled around.
“Your interest and unconditional support of the girl had me digging deeper even though I wasn’t assigned to do another piece,” Baker said. “There was something about the whole sordid story that kept nagging at me. Okay, this is what I’ve learned since last we talked.”
I hardly dared breathe as I listened to him run through all he had discovered. When he stopped talking, I let out a deep sigh of relief. “You’re a lifesaver,” I said.
This was going to be easy. I’d be able to do this. Once I told the promoters everything about the real woman Clara Simyoneva was, rather than the media fuck-up they’d seen and the lies that had been fed to any reporter willing to listen, then everything would be okay.
Well, it had to be… Volkov Ballet was on the line.14AlekDespite holding copies of my fancy spreadsheet and my newfound ammunition cramming my head, my heart raced the second I stepped through the door into the meeting with the New Yorkers because each one of them had the same stern expression on their face. They were clearly already annoyed about everything, which was going to make this so much harder.
“I think we all know why we’re here,” Jason Maxwell said, frustration and anger dripping from his tongue. “We need to discuss the latest… addition to your company.”
“Who the hell is responsible for this?” Justine Wiggington added.
It appeared even former prima ballerinas could set manners aside. I took a moment to meet every single pair of beady eyes staring at me as if attempting to look into my soul.
“I am,” I answered firmly and unequivocally. “Volkov Ballet needed someone worthy of taking the lead in the company, and, after taking the time to do my own research and not depending on yellow journalism, I offered Clara a chance to audition.” I gave every person another look, knowing my dig had hit at least a few marks as positions shifted in chairs. “We pride ourselves on being one of the top companies in the States, and we have some fabulously talented dancers.” I paused again for emphasis before stating, “Clara Simyoneva danced circles around every single one of them. We not only felt we’d be lucky as hell to have her join us, we know she has the potential to become one of the premiere dancers in the entire world.”
“So, you decided to bring someone in who is infamous for injuring another, one who was already a quite famous dancer, into a production and make us look like total fools? A woman who is capable of ending the career of another hardly deserves a chance to enhance her own, don’t you think?” Maxwell said.
“What I think is you didn’t listen to a fucking word I said,” I snapped.
A few gasps of surprise at my response told me I should probably apologize, but there was no fucking way that was going to happen. Sure, I could eat some crow and lay out all the figures to show the extra revenue she’d brought to my company and what she could earn if allowed to dance on Broadway, but that didn’t mean a fucking thing if they’d already made up their minds she wasn’t worth giving another chance. This wasn’t really about money. This was about her smearing dirt over their precious ballet. Dirt that might be impossible to wash away.
Bullshit.
Nothing was impossible. Hell, if I needed to shave my head and become Mr. Fucking Clean, I’d do so. Clara had proven to me she was worth the effort. It was now my job to convince the men and women seated stiffly before me they’d be the losers if they passed judgment without truly listening.