Danielle Steel - Zoya

“jLet's go for a walk, shall we, mademoiselle?” She felt safe with her hand in his arm. “And then perhaps a glass of champagne.” They wandered to the Rodin statue and back, talking about Paris, the war, subjects that were less painful to her, and then with a smile she looked up at him.

“And where are you from?”

“New York.” She had never thought too much about the United States. It all seemed terribly far away.

“What's it like?”

He laughed as he looked down at her. “Big, busy. Not as pretty as this, I'm afraid. But I like it there.” He wanted to ask her about St. Petersburg, but sensed that this wasn't the time or the place. “Do you dance every day?”

“Almost.” And then she laughed up at him. “Until tonight's performance, I was enjoying a week off.”

“And what do you do then … in your spare time?”

“I go for walks with my grandmother, I write to friends, read … sleep … play with my dog.”

“It sounds like a pleasant life. What kind of dog do you have?” They were silly questions, but he wanted to keep her close to him, and he wasn't sure why. She was clearly half his age, but so beautiful, it tore at his heart.

“A cocker spaniel.” She smiled. “She was a gift from a very dear friend.”

“A gentleman?” He looked intrigued and she laughed.

“No, no! A girl! My cousin, in fact.”

“Did you bring the dog from Russia with you?” He was fascinated by her as she bent her head, the cascade of fiery red hair hiding her eyes.

“Yes, I did. I'm afraid she made the journey rather better than I did. I arrived in Paris with measles,” She looked up at him again and grinned, looking once again like a child. “Stupid of me, wasn't it?” But nothing about her seemed that to him, and then he suddenly realized he didn't even know her name.

“Not at all. Do you suppose we ought to introduce ourselves?”

“Zoya Ossupov.” She curtsied prettily, and looked up at him.

“Clayton Andrews. Captain Clayton Andrews, I suppose I should have said.”

“My brother was a captain too … with the Preobrajensky Guard. I don't suppose you've ever heard of them.” She looked up at him expectantly, and once again he saw her eyes grow sad. Her moods seemed to change with lightning speed, and as he looked at her for the first time he understood why people said the eyes were the windows of the soul. Hers seemed to lead one into a magic world of diamonds and emeralds and unshed tears, and he wanted to make her happy again, to make her dance and laugh and smile.

“I don't know very much about Russia, I'm afraid, Miss Ossupov.”

“Then we're even.” She smiled again. “I don't know anything about New York.”

He walked her back inside the main ballroom then and brought her a glass of champagne as the others danced the waltz.

“Would you like to dance?”

She seemed to hesitate, and then nodded. He set her glass down on a table nearby, and led her onto the floor in a slow and dignified waltz, and once again she felt as though she were dancing in her father's arms. If she closed her eyes, she would be back in St. Petersburg … but his voice broke into her thoughts.

“Do you always dance with your eyes closed, mademoiselle?” He was teasing her and she smiled up at him. It felt good to be in his arms, good to be dancing with a tall, powerful man … on a magical night … in a beautiful house …

“It's just so lovely here … isn't it?”

“It is now.” But he had enjoyed his time in the garden with her. It was easier talking to her there than with the music and the crowd. And at the end of the dance, General Pershing signaled him so he left her, and when he came back to look for her, she was gone. He looked everywhere, and walked out to the garden again, but she was nowhere in sight, and when he inquired, he was told that the first truckload of the Ballet Russe had left the party. He walked back to his own quarters thoughtfully, as he meandered down the rue du Bac, remembering her name, thinking of her big green eyes, and he found himself wondering who she really was. There was something deeply intriguing about her.

CHAPTER

14

“The next time I send Feodor somewhere with you, Zoya Konstantinovna, you will please have the goodness not to send him home.” The old Countess was furious as they shared breakfast the next day. Feodor had come sheepishly back to her, and explained that the soldiers had invited the corps de ballet to go out somewhere, and he wasn't included. Her grandmother had been waiting for her when she got back, almost too angry to speak to her, and by morning, her fury was still white-hot, as she glared at Zoya.

“I'm sorry, Grandmama. I couldn't take Feodor with me. It was a beautiful reception at General Per-shing's quarters.” She remembered instantly the gardens and the Captain she had met, but she said nothing to her grandmother about any of it.

“Ah! So it's come to that, has it? Entertaining the troops? And what is next? This is precisely why proper young ladies don't run away to join the ballet. It is not suitable, absolutely not. And I won't tolerate this. I want you to leave the ballet at once!”

“Grandmama … please … you know I can't!”

“You can if I tell you to!”

“Grandmama … please don't …” She was in no mood to argue with her. She had had such a nice time the night before … and the handsome Captain had been such a nice man, or at least he seemed like it. But still, she said nothing about him to her grandmother. It didn't seem appropriate, and she knew their paths would not cross again. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again.” Not that she'd have the opportunity anyway. General Pershing was hardly likely to give parties for the Ballet Russe after every performance.

She stood up as her grandmother glared at her. “Where are you going now?”

“I have a rehearsal today.”

“I'm so tired of this!” She stood up and paced around the room as best she could, but she was still very spry. “Ballet, ballet, ballet! Enough!”

“Yes, Grandmama.”

She was going to sell a necklace again, an emerald one this time. Maybe Zoya would give up this nonsense then for a while. She had had enough of it. She was not a dancer. She was a child.

“What time will you be home tonight?”

“I should be back at four o'clock. Rehearsal starts at nine, and I don't have a performance tonight.”

“I want you to think about leaving them.” But Zoya enjoyed it too much, they both knew that, and the money did help, much as the Countess hated to think about it. She had bought her grandmother a pretty dress and a warm shawl the week before. And her wages helped pay for their food as well, although there were no little extra treats, except those Vladimir still brought in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Zoya.

“Well go for a walk this afternoon when I come home.”

“What makes you think I'd be willing to go for a walk with you?” her grandmother growled, and Zoya laughed.

“Because you love me so much. And I love you too.” She kissed her cheek, and hurried out the door, like a schoolgirl late for class.

The old woman sighed and cleared away the breakfast plates. It was so difficult having her here. Things were so difficult, and the hardest part was that much as the old woman hated to admit it to herself, Zoya was no longer a child, and it wasn't easy to control her.

Zoya's rehearsal was at the Opéra again that day, in preparation for another performance the following night, and she danced and rehearsed and practiced at the barre for hours and when she finished shortly before four o'clock, she was tired after the late night at General Pershing's house. It was a sunny afternoon in the last week of June, and she walked out into the sunlight with a contented sigh.