“All right, all right. Enough.” Onstage, Davidov let out a windy sigh. “Go rest. Perhaps tonight you will find me some energy.”

The blood was pounding in Kate’s ears. Her feet were screaming. But she had enough energy, right now, for a short tirade.

When she was done, and simply panting, Davidov lifted his eyebrow. “You think because I’m Russian I don’t know when a Ukrainian calls me a man with the heart of a pig?”

Her chin shot up. “I believe I said the face of a pig.”

She stalked offstage and left him grinning after her.

“See?” Ruth smiled. “He adores her.”

Chapter Eleven

Kate was busy kissing the Russian when Brody came to her dressing room door after the evening performance. She was wearing a robe—short and red—and full stage makeup. Her hair was still pinned up in some sleek and sophisticated knot, the way it had been during her second dance—the Spanish one, in the sexy little tutu.

The audience had gone wild for her, and so, Brody thought, had he.

Now, he’d come back to tell her only to find her wrapped around the Russian she’d cursed only that afternoon.

He wondered which one of them he should kill first.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

Kate merely turned her head, eyes brilliant, and beamed at him. “Brody.”

She held out a hand, but Davidov merely shifted his arm around her shoulders and eyed the intruder coolly.

“This is the carpenter? The one who wants to shoot me? Now, I think, he wants to shoot me more. He doesn’t like that I kiss you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.”

Brody cut his eyes back to hers. “I don’t like that he kisses you.”

“That’s absurd. This is Davidov.”

“I know who it is.” Brody shut the door behind him. He preferred spilling blood in relative privacy. “I met your wife today.”

“Yes, she likes you, and your little boy. I have a son, and two daughters.” Because he rarely resisted impulses, and it was delightful to watch the man’s fury heat, Davidov kissed Kate’s hair. “She knows, my wife, that I’ve come back to kiss this one. Who was,” he continued drawing back, his hands sliding down her arms to link with hers, “magnificent. Who was perfect. Who I don’t forgive for leaving me.”

“I felt magnificent. I felt perfect.” Still so perfect none of the aches could push through. “And I’m happy.”

“Happy.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “As your director, what do I care if you’re happy as long as you dance? As your friend.” He heaved a sigh and kissed her hands. “I’m glad you have what you want.”

“We’ll all end up a lot happier if you step back,” Brody commented.

Kate frowned. “Jealousy isn’t attractive—and in this case certainly misplaced.”

“Murder isn’t attractive. But it really seems to fit.”

“One minute,” Davidov said, dismissively, to both of them. “You want to snarl at each other, wait until I finish. I wrote The Red Rose for my Ruth,” he said to Kate. “My heart. There’s no one but you who has been Carlotta as she was Carlotta.”