“Nothing like backstage.” Freddie linked her hand with Nick as they entered.

A woman behind a high counter glanced up over wire-rim glasses, scanned, then nodded. “Nice to see you, Ms. Kimball, Mr. LeBeck. See you brought the crew.”

“Kate clear the way?” Freddie asked.

“She did. Any of these kids understand Russian?”

“No.”

“Good. Davidov’s in rare form. You can leave the pup with me. I like dogs, and if he gets frisky out there, Davidov’s liable to eat him.”

“That kind of day, huh?” Nick grinned, and the woman rolled her eyes.

“You don’t know the half of it. What’s his name?”

“His name is Mike,” Jack piped up. “He’s mine.”

“I’ll take real good care of him.”

“Okay.” Biting his lip, Jack passed Mike up to her. “But if he cries, you have to come get me.”

“That’s a deal. Go on ahead, you know the way.”

If they hadn’t, after a short twist through backstage, they could have followed the bellows.

“Davidov.” Freddie gave a mock shudder. “We’ll just detour this way and go out front—where it’s safe.”

“Does he really eat dogs?” Jack asked in a hissing whisper.

“No.” Brody took a firm hold of his son’s hand. “She was just kidding.” He hoped.

He didn’t eat dogs, but at the moment, Davidov would have cheerfully dined on dancers.

He cut off the music again with a dramatic slice of his hand through the air. “You, you.” He pointed at the couple currently panting and dripping sweat. “Go. Off my stage. Soak your heads. Maybe you’ll come back in one hour, like dancers. Kimball!” he shouted. “Blackstone! Now!”

He paced back and forth, a slim man in dull gray sweats and a dramatic mane of gold and silver hair. His face was carved and cold.

“He’s scary,” Jack decided.

“Shh.” Brody hitched Jack onto his lap after they’d slipped into a row of seats behind a lone woman.

Then Kate came onstage, and his mouth simply dropped.

“It’s Kate. Look, Dad, she’s all dressed up.”

“Yeah, I see. Quiet now.”

Her hair was loose, raining down the back of a flamboyant costume, boldly red with layers of skirt flowing out from a nipped waist. It stopped just below her knees and showed off long legs that ended in toe shoes.

She sauntered, hands on hips, until she was toe to toe with Davidov. “You ordered me offstage. Don’t do that again.”

“I order you on, I order you off. That is what I do. What you do is dance. You.” He flicked a finger at the tall, gilt haired man in white who’d come out with Kate. “Step back. Wait. Red Rose,” he told the orchestra. “Opening solo. Kimball. You are Carlotta,” he said to Kate. “Be Carlotta. Lights!”

Kate sucked in a breath. Took her position. Left leg back, foot turned and straight as a ruler. Arms lifted, curved into fluid lines. Head up and defiant. When the music began, the strings, she felt the beats. The single spotlight hit her like a torch. She danced.