Chapter One ‘Da! Leave me, I’ll do it,’ she said, her accent thickening with impatience, as the dresser struggled to find the front of the tutu. This one, whisper-pink with real diamonds sewn into the tulle layers, had a thong attached, carnivale style, at her specific behest. She stepped into it, completely oblivious to being half naked in front of a roomful of strangers. She slipped her arms through the ribbon straps for the overscaled tulle wings and jiggled her breasts in the balconette bra. She admired her reflection in the mirror. The audience wouldn’t even notice the pink diamonds on the million-dollar bra. No one worked a tutu like Pia Soto. ‘Miss Soto, if you’re ready . . .’ the dresser said nervously, frightened of upsetting the notoriously temperamental diva. She motioned towards the director, who was standing at the top of the steps by the stage, a mic wired to his ear and a clipboard in his hand. His face wore a calm smile, but his fingers were twitching against his thigh and she could see the terror in his eyes. Just ten more feet. Ten more feet, then she’d be on the runway, the finale would be underway and he could run screaming for the Seychelles. Pia pointed her four-inch stilettoed foot and checked the pink ribbons that were criss-crossed all the way up her thighs, then walked towards the eight-foot-square white glittering box, held together by a giant pink satin ribbon. She looked sensational. She stepped into it and the director shut the door behind her, as relieved as a prison warder to have his charge behind bars. He placed his hand to his ear and spoke to the DJ. Expertly, seamlessly, the familiar tinkling of the Sugar Plum Fairy began to thread into the funk of ‘Superfreak’ as the box was mechanically levered up through the trapdoor in the stage. Inside the box, Pia placed her foot on the taped square, and assumed the position. As the box reached stage level the footplate began to revolve smoothly. Outside, she could hear the scantily clad models lining up on each side of the box, hands on each other’s hips as they played tug of war with the ribbon. She heard the bow give, and the sides of the box fell down, bringing the audience to their feet as they saw the baddest and most brilliant ballerina in the world pirouette before them like their very own music-box fairy. Pia rotated four times, letting them absorb the bombshell body that was usually hidden beneath tights and classical costumes and some inappropriate lover. Although, at five foot five, she wasn’t tall, she had a figure that was rarely seen on pointe. For a start, most of her sixty-five inches were in her limbs – long slight arms that, with the tiniest movement of her wrist and fingers, could phrase a feeling better than any poet; and lithe lean legs she could famously lift and hold at 180 degrees. But it was her curves, squeezed closely together on a tiny torso, which so scandalized the purists of the ballet world and had Sports Illustrated begging her to do their swimwear cover. Her C cup threatened to spill out of every tutu, something she actively encouraged by insisting on designing her own costumes. And her handspan waist – which the male dancers loved to encircle when lifting her – sat atop an unashamedly high and rounded butt. ‘My Brazilian heritage,’ she would exclaim, defiantly. ‘What do you want me to do about it? Stop dancing so that you don’t have to look at it?’ The cheers bounced off the walls as she stepped out of the pirouette and stalked ferociously down the Victoria’s Secret runway like a tiger in the grass – chin down, glass-green eyes glittering, her mane of tawny hair blowing wildly behind her. Hands on hips, feet apart, she stood at the end, staring past the white-hot lights she was so used to. The slick Manhattan crowd roared with delight as ticker tapes fell from the ceiling and the other models, as gangly as giraffes by comparison, lined up behind her. She knew she’d be on every front page tomorrow morning. Just like she knew her artistic director, Monsieur Baudrand, would be on the phone first thing, bawling her out. He’d specifically vetoed this type of event. ‘Charity or not, it is no good for the image of the company,’ he had shouted, pushed to breaking point by his young star, who acted more like a pop singer than a principal dancer. There was no doubt she had done more to raise ballet’s profile and introduce it to a younger audience than anyone since Rudolf Nureyev. She had single-handedly sexed it up. Performances by the Chicago City Ballet Company (ChiCi) were sold out a year in advance because of her and they were being invited to tour all over the world. Pia Soto may have been only twenty-four but she was already an international sex symbol, and the face of everything from Chanel Allure Parfum, Chloé and Tod’s to Adidas, Patek Philippe and Lancôme. Her airtight contract meant she couldn’t endorse anything that undermined ballet’s prim image but, even with that restriction in place, what she earned in sponsorship deals dwarfed her dancing salary, giving her financial independence from the company and the power to behave like a brat. The tail was well and truly wagging the dog. Backstage now, the atmosphere was electric. All the tension that had suffocated the room just minutes earlier had released into laughter and expansive spirits. Champagne corks were going off like party poppers, and boyfriends and journalists trooped backstage for telephone numbers and sound bites. ‘You! Keep them away, will you?’ Pia ordered the dresser, who had – mistakenly – assumed all the hard work was over. The director was nowhere to be seen, but paparazzi flashbulbs were going off. Turning her back, Pia untied her shoes’ silken bondage straps and shimmied out of the priceless bra and tutu, quickly pulling on the silky body stocking she’d arrived in. She smoothed some black leg warmers all the way up her long legs and stuffed her feet into some battered Uggs, as Sophie dashed over, checking her watch. ‘You’ve got nine minutes,’ she said, picking up the diamond-encrusted bra from the floor and handing it to a security guard. Pia nodded, grabbing a hairbrush and bashing out the backcombing the hairstylist had perfected only ten minutes before. She winced as the brush caught in the tangles. Sophie took the brush from her, and spritzing some detangler onto her hair she began expertly smoothing the thick, wavy, toffee-coloured mane that seemed to colour-match Pia’s skin. With a small, straight nose, sparkling light green eyes and pillowy lips that retained an adolescent pinkness, she wasn’t just a precocious talent – she was a notable beauty too. It was little wonder American Vogue had just put her on their cover. In the mirrors, Sophie could see her own copper ringlets bouncing up and down like Bo Peep’s. She personally bankrolled the John Frieda haircare empire with her mass-volume buys of serum, trying to keep her frizz under control, and she knew her pale Irish complexion was only ever going to have the ‘interesting’ gig going on. Aged twenty-two, she had been a lanky five foot eleven since she was twelve, and still had no bum or bust to speak of. It wasn’t that she was unattractive – far from it – but compared to the exotic promise of Pia Soto, Sophie O’Farrell felt as plain as they came. ‘You really rocked it out there tonight,’ Sophie said as she gradually tamed Pia’s hair, pulling it up into a high ponytail. ‘The Goldman Sachs table was going bananas.’ Pia rolled her eyes. That figured. From behind her, there was a discreet cough. Turning, she found herself staring at an elegantly tailored back belonging to the CEO of Victoria’s Secret. ‘It’s okay. You can turn around, Mr Spence. I’m decent.’ ‘What a shame,’ said another voice, from the far side of a hanging rail. A tall man stepped forward, one arm resting nonchalantly on the rail, the other in his pocket. He was wearing Brooks Brothers’ black tie and a self-assured smile. His dark brown hair was worn long on top, and he had deep-set grey eyes and a Roman nose that looked as though it may have been broken once. Judging by the cockiness radiating from him, Pia was quite sure he’d deserved it. Pia raised an eyebrow and looked at Bryan Spence questioningly. His dove-white hair was offset by a mahogany Caribbean tan. ‘Please. Forgive my companion’s insolence,’ he said, bemused. ‘I hope you don’t mind our intrusion backstage. It’s just that when Mr Silk here—’ ‘Will,’ the handsome stranger offered, bowing forward like Hamlet. ‘When Will heard you weren’t staying for the auction, he offered a rather substantial sum to the charity if I would introduce you before you left.’ Mr Spence shrugged apologetically. Pia smiled back at him. ‘Well, seeing as it’s for the charity . . .’ She looked at Will Silk. ‘A pleasure,’ she said demurely, offering an elegant hand, every inch the poised ballerina. Will took it and kissed it. Pia withdrew her hand quickly. ‘But I’m afraid I really can’t stay.’ She turned her head slightly towards Sophie, who checked her watch again. ‘Seven minutes,’ Sophie said. Pia shrugged. ‘I have to fly.’ ‘Of course,’ Bryan smiled. ‘So soon?’ Will said, astonished. He looked at Bryan. ‘That must have been the most expensive minute of my life.’ ‘I did tell you.’ ‘Well, never mind. We shall become better acquainted soon enough,’ he said, slipping a casual hand into his trouser pocket as he watched Pia. Sophie was tucking and spraying the last stray tendrils into her bun. Pia cocked her head, irked by his self-assurance on the matter. ‘Will’s going to be among the many bidders trying to win the lot for the private solo and dinner with you, Miss Soto.’ ‘Trying?’ Will retorted. ‘You know me better than that, Bryan.’ Bryan Spence nodded his head, laughing. He turned to Pia. ‘Will heads up the Black Harbour hedge fund and he’s known for his . . . uh, winning streak.’ ‘It’s true. I never lose,’ he shrugged. Pia stared at him, a scowl beginning to form across her pretty features. ‘Is that so?’ she asked. ‘Five minutes,’ Sophie whispered, beginning to break into a cold sweat. This was cutting it too close. She held out Pia’s voluminous orange quilted parka and helped her into it. ‘I’m also a patron of the Royal Ballet in London,’ he added, aware that his formidable business renown had failed to impress her. ‘Unlike most of the men who’ll be trying to win you tonight, I do at least know the difference between a pirouette and a profiterole.’ ‘Win me . . .’ she echoed quietly, before suddenly shrugging. ‘I’m just amazed we’ve never met before now.’ Sarcasm hovered above her words but too lightly to settle. Will tried to read her eyes but Pia looked away. She grabbed her duffel bag and shook Bryan Spence’s hand quickly. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Bryan,’ she smiled, her eyes twinkling. ‘The pleasure has been all ours, Pia. We’re on course to raise over three-quarters of a million dollars here tonight and in a very large part that is directly due to you. So thank you. You are truly our angel.’ Giving Will the briefest of nods, she ran lightly to the back door, turning to Sophie as she got there. She whispered in her ear and handed her the duffel bag. ‘I’ll see you back there.’ And then she ran out into the snowy night, a woodland nymph swaddled against the New York winter. Adam was already back on stage, when she burst in through the Met Opera’s stage door ninety seconds later. ‘Oh my God! Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea the worry you’ve caused? The panic that’s been going on?’ ranted Raymond, the stage manager, as she sat on the ground and pulled off her snowy boots. Her shoes and costume – a diaphanous white tulle dress – were exactly where she’d asked Sophie to leave them. Quickly, Raymond spoke into his mic. ‘It’s okay. She’s back! She’s back! Tell Ingrid she’s off the hook, and she’s Willi number four again.’ Raymond looked down at Pia. ‘Do you have nothing to say?’ he demanded hissily. ‘You walk out during the interval and tell no one where you’re going? It’s been bedlam back here. We thought you’d been abducted. Old Badlands has practically had a stroke. The orchestra has had to play the overture twice, not that the audience seems to have noticed. Oh but, please God, don’t let that bastard critic Bowles be out there tonight.’ He rocked his head dramatically in his hands. He could feel one of his migraines coming on. Why did artistes have to be so damned . . . unpredictable? Pia began tying the ribbons around her ankles, stretching and pointing her feet in the blocks, and resolutely ignoring him. She needed to get her muscles warm again, and immerse herself in solitude and calm. She needed to get back into character. Giselle was weak, broken, and if Pia got into a confrontation now she’d be anything but. Standing by the podium in the wings, hidden by the thick velvet curtain, she stretched her arms into port de bras, slowly unfolding a leg like a flamingo. She extended a leg, in attitude devant, her supporting foot flat, before raising herself effortlessly on pointe, moving through la seconde to arrière. Instantly entranced and silenced, Raymond stepped back out of her orbit. And not just to let her concentrate. Getting in the way of one of her powerful legs would be like being hit in the face with a mallet. He knew better than most the tension at the heart of ballet: brute strength cloaked in delicate fragility. ‘Okay. We’ll talk about it later, then,’ he said quietly. Right now, the show had to go on. Pia heard the music rise, the first flute beckon, the oboes soar. She didn’t need to count the bars. The music was calling her, an irresistible pull tearing her from the shadows, drawing her out into the limelight and back onto the stage, the only home she had ever known. Only when she was on the stage did she realize she still had the black leg warmers on. An hour and a half later, and for the second time that night, Pia found herself stealing out of the Met Opera before anyone could notice. ‘A secret assignation perhaps?’ Will Silk quipped, leaning against a limo. Pia frowned at him. What was he doing here? ‘I decided that for the amount I had paid to meet you, the least Spence could do was tell me where you had escaped to,’ he explained, walking towards her. His black cashmere coat was turned up at the collar, his hands stuffed into his pockets. ‘Starring at a charity gala midway through a performance, huh? Did your bosses even know?’ ‘I guess they will tomorrow,’ she shrugged, looking down the street for her car. She needed to get away from here before Baudrand came after her. The leg-warmer gaffe wouldn’t be easily forgiven. ‘Do you fancy that dinner now?’ ‘No. I’ve got a flight to catch.’ She stared at him levelly. ‘Besides, you didn’t win.’ Will shifted, surprised. ‘How do you know? You weren’t there.’ ‘I have my spies,’ she replied coolly. ‘What did it go for in the end anyway?’ Will frowned. ‘So you don’t know.’ ‘No, I do,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I just don’t know for how much.’ Sophie came jogging up the street, Pia’s duffel banging on her shoulder. She hit an icy patch just as she reached the duo, careering past in a flurry of limbs. Will reached out and hooked an arm gallantly around her waist. ‘Careful there,’ he grinned. Sophie blushed. ‘Thanks.’ She looked quickly at Pia, terrified of being bawled out. ‘The car’s just coming. Sorry. It was still outside the Mandarin Oriental. Miscommunication on my part.’ She dug into one of her pockets and handed Pia a form to sign. ‘Here. You just need to sign on the dotted line.’ Pia autographed the form just as the limo purred up to the kerb and the driver got out to open her door. Pia nodded. ‘Two hundred and forty thousand dollars? I thought you never lost, Mr Silk.’ She gave the form back to Sophie, who in turn handed over some flight tickets. Will stared at her, baffled. What was that she had signed? ‘Well, to be honest, I thought I could probably persuade you to have dinner with me anyway. I had already paid a similar amount just to get backstage. My accountants would have been very displeased with me if I’d shelled out over half a million dollars just to be introduced and have dinner with you.’ He shot her a winning smile. ‘So, you assume I can be bought, Mr Silk . . .’ Pia said slowly, her tone deliberating. He thought she sounded like a Bond Girl. ‘But that I’m only worth a certain price.’ She looked at him coldly. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ he said, surprised. She was unbelievably prickly. Everything he’d heard about her was true. ‘But I apologize if I’ve caused offence, and insist that you let me make it up to you. What are you doing this weekend? Come to Europe with—’ Pia started walking away. ‘I’ve already told you I’m going away, Mr Silk,’ she said, bored by his charm offensive. ‘Anywhere nice?’ he persevered. He didn’t usually have to try this hard. ‘Given that I would now define “nice” as anywhere you’re not, then yes,’ she said rudely, stepping into the car. She just wanted to get into the mountains and ride her raw, poor, wicked lover. The driver shut her door and walked around the car. Will Silk stood in the cold night and stared at the car’s blacked-out windows, which remained defiantly shut. ‘Something tells me we’ve got off on the wrong foot,’ he said with impressive understatement to Sophie, who was standing beside him, utterly mortified. He turned to face her. ‘What is that piece of paper you’re holding anyway?’ he said, taking it from her hands before the words were out of his mouth. ‘Oh no. I really don’t think you should . . .’ There was a stunned silence. ‘She was the winning bidder?’ he asked incredulously. ‘She bid for herself?’ He glared at Sophie furiously and she cowered beneath his gaze. ‘Why would she do that?’ ‘So that . . . you wouldn’t . . . win, I think,’ she said quietly, not able to meet his eyes. ‘She paid two hundred and forty thousand dollars not to have dinner with me?’ ‘Something like that,’ Sophie muttered. ‘Basically gave her advertising fee back to them.’ Will looked after the car as it slipped into the inky night. A small part of him was impressed. Not much surprised him, but he hadn’t seen that coming. ‘Well, I’m delighted to have made such a strong impression on her,’ he said finally, a smile back on his lips. He turned to face Sophie again. ‘But tell your boss that she’s thrown down the gauntlet and I am obliged to pick it up. I won’t allow her to get away from me next time.’ And with that, he strode back to his car, angry, intrigued and smitten. The game was on.