One Last Dance by Angela Stephens Page B

was that other Henry, the one who did those things? If only
he was here, instead of this brusque man who was hurrying her out the door.
    Her purse was here too. She
snatched it up almost angrily. Not almost. Beneath the confusion, a small
cauldron of resentment was beginning to boil. She stalked to the stairs,
determined not to be brushed off like some one-night stand. Even if she had
sort of acted like one. Well, that changed now.
    “Henry,” she began, walking up to
where he waited by the private elevator. “I think we should talk.”
    “Of course, but not now. I really
do have meetings.” He flashed her a quick smile as he ushered her into the
elevator, but it was a shallow one. Flashy and handsome, but not real.
    She crossed her arms, eyes
narrowing. “Last night—”
    “I agree. It was amazing,” he
interrupted. “Better than I imagined. And I did imagine a lot, Sophie. You are
a talented woman.” The smile he gave her at that moment was more genuine, with
a bit of dimple and a brief glance from his hot black eyes. Sophie felt the
blood in her cheeks and ground her teeth. She was trying to talk seriously and
he was making her blush. It threw her off balance.
    “Uh, thank you, but—” The
elevator doors slid open. The ride up yesterday had been interminable, but this
morning barely a minute seemed to have passed. Sophie blinked and stepped out
of the elevator car. Henry held the door, but remained inside.
    “Maurice!” he called, raising his
hand to the doorman who stood at attention across the lobby. Maurice looked up,
nodding courteously.
    “Morning, Mr. Medina.”
    “Call Sophie a cab, would you
please?”
    Maurice was already opening the
door. “Of course, Mr. Medina!”
    Sophie stared up at Henry, heart
crawling up into her throat. He finally met her gaze. The look in his eyes was
unreadable. His left hand rose and touched her cheek softly.
    She turned into the caress,
seeking his warmth. For a moment, it seemed he was going to kiss her. His head
bent slightly and that odd flat look in his eyes softened. But then he froze
and thrust something into her hand. “Here,” he said,“for the dance last night.
And the first one.” Henry stepped back quickly and the elevator doors closed,
as if in collusion with him on his swift escape, leaving her alone in the
palatial lobby.
    Her heart squeezed like a fist in
her chest and tears stung her eyes. She glanced down at the envelope he’d
shoved at her. It wasn’t sealed.
    Inside was a thick sheaf of green
bills. Sophie swallowed hard, thumbing through them. They were hundred dollar
bills. The tears that had been threatening filled her eyes, spilling out over
her lower lashes and dripping onto the envelope.
    This was far more than he’d
offered her for her time. What was the extra money for? Unless...
    Unless, he was paying her off,
like she was some whore. That cauldron of anger that had been heating in her
belly cracked, spilling fury into her veins. Beneath the molten anger was the
acid sting of hurt and a curl of smoking shame. She knew this melange of
negative emotions well. She’d last felt them when Christian had left her on the
rehearsal room floor, walking away from her.
    Who does this? Why the hell would
this man go through so much trouble just to humiliate her? She thought of an
old joke she’d heard in college: you don’t pay whores for sex, you pay them
to leave . And here she was, walking out the door as Henry went back up to
his penthouse for “meetings” and whatever else he had to do. It didn’t really
matter; she had to get out of this man’s life and not come back.
    She flung the envelope at the
elevator doors, heedless of the thousands of dollars spilling from it, and spun
on her heel, the swish of the dress’ skirt around her knees only fanning the
flames of her wounded emotions. If only she could tear it off and toss it after
the envelope. She wished she had something else, anything else, to wear.
    Get home. That’s what she