Chapter Forty

Harrisburg police arrived about ten minutes after the bewildered security team. Patrick and Anita sat beside each other on the bed, his hand still covering hers, despite the din of people shoved into the room. He ached everywhere, but everything hurt a little less as long as he had her with him. Poor Kim never stopped sobbing as the police officers Mirandized her, exchanged Anita’s belt for the cold steel of handcuffs, and led her from the room. Patrick and Anita answered the questions they could, directed the police to John Flaherty, and then, after a surprisingly short amount of time, they were asked to leave so the police could process the room.

He could not let go of her hand. She had saved him. She had gone all Chuck Norris and had surely missed hours of the competition. For him.

Besides, he felt less like he’d been wrung through a dry cleaner’s machine when he held her hand. His throat still burned from when Kim had choked him, his shoulders still ached, but he felt surprisingly…calm. Lighter than he had that morning before Kim had chloroformed him.

They stood in the hallway together for a moment, watching the proceedings in the room before being shooed away by the officers.

“I’d like to get changed,” Anita said, somewhat indecisively. “I think Kim bled a bit on my dress.” She pulled the black fabric away from her body to scrutinize the small stain.

Patrick nodded and followed her down the hallway to the elevator. “What time is it?”

She glanced at her phone. Patrick saw at least fifteen unanswered texts on her lock screen that she was clearly ignoring. “Four thirty.”

He hung his head. “I’m really sorry, Anita.”

“For what?” They stepped into the elevator. Patrick convinced himself to drop her hand. He felt its loss acutely.

“You missed your whole afternoon.”

She must be devastated.

Instead, she shrugged. “Ricardo handled it. Everyone will understand.” A long pause. “They—they all care a lot about you.”

He had disappointed her. Damn it. “What about the professional comp? Doesn’t it start at six?”

Anita’s gaze was steel, and she would not look at him.

“Anita?” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his gym shorts so that he could tame his impulse to reach out to hug her. The elevator pinged again. Their floor this time.

“It’s fine.” She took the room key card out of the pocket of her dress. “The important thing is that you’re all right.”

“Maybe—”

“No!” She whirled on him and thrust a finger into his chest. “Patrick, you were in a fight last night and spent most of today literally with your arms tied over your head. I don’t even think you’ve had anything to eat. There is no way you can participate in a professional competition tonight. I don’t want you to hurt yourself more.”

She moved into the hotel room and reached up to take out some of the hairpins holding her hairstyle in place.

Patrick reclined against the doorjamb, just watching her for a moment. He watched the firm set of her shoulders, the subtle set of what had to be disappointment in her low back.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to change and get you something to eat.” She pulled out a sensible black sheath from the closet. Beside it, Patrick could see a deep-red dress embossed with crystals across the bra-style bodice, a fire-colored flounce. It was exquisite, reminiscent of a phoenix. A dress that should not be confined to a closet.

Patrick could feel the ache in every muscle of his body, the stiffness of his throat. But what was worse? Physical pain or the emotional pain from disappointing the love of his life? Besides, the adrenaline coursing through him was better than coffee, more like a battery.

“Wear the red one.” He could not let her down, not now. Not after she had single-handedly saved his life.

“Absolutely not. There’s no way you can compete.”

“I refuse to sit on the sidelines. I’m the one who was kidnapped, so I get to decide.”

“That’s a ridiculous statement.”

No, this felt right. Destiny. He was a master of his own destiny. He would compete, they would beat Mikhail, and then Anita would fall into his arms, and they would live happily ever after. Or something. Hunger dulled his reason.

“Never underestimate the power of coffee and concealer, Anita.”

Anita planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. “Patrick, you are not listening to me. I do not care about the competition.” Her voice cracked slightly. “You matter. I—I care about you, Patrick. I was so worried I was going to lose you.” She put her face in her hands, and Patrick went and wrapped his arms around her.

“You’ll never lose me,” he whispered. He felt like she had poured a little bit of her warmth into the spaces Kim had emptied. The aching in his back and ribs ebbed as she wrapped her arms around him, and he inhaled her scent. This was his home. Why did he ever think he could be away from her?

“You say that, but I could have lost you today.” A sob wracked her, and he tightened his hold. She was better than ibuprofen.

He pulled slightly away from her to rest his fingers on the bottom of her jaw. “I know, but I didn’t get murdered today, because you’re a badass chick with wicked hot fighting skills.” Anita laughed broadly through her tears. Patrick had a strong desire to kiss them from her cheeks, but instead used the pad of his thumb. “Right now, the only thing I want to do is jive kick Mikhail’s stupid hair out of Pennsylvania. You got to kick Kim’s ass. Let me have mine.”

Anita could barely stop laughing long enough to agree. “Just make sure you eat a protein bar or something. Ballroom can be brutal.”

****

They arrived back in the ballroom, both breathless, while the announcer was halfway through the introductions. Anita ignored the many curious glances, the raised eyebrows of Rodrigo. Focus, just focus.

Patrick would not let go of her hand. “I’m sorry, Anita.” They stood in the on-deck area behind Hanna and Markus, waiting for their names to be called. “I feel like I’ve let you down.”

Anita felt like laughing. He looked better than she had anticipated. He had showered and applied a liberal coating of sunless tanning spray to cover his various bruises. He also smelled amazing, which was horribly distracting, and she needed to stop thinking about it. “I’m just glad you’re all right. Pace yourself.”

“In the cha-cha? Ha.” He looked over at her, and she saw the relief in his eyes. “What are you thinking about?”

“That we’re not going to win, because I chipped my nail polish when I hit that bitch.”

Patrick barked a surprised laugh, but there was time for nothing else because at that moment the announcer called their names.

“And last but not least, Pennsylvania’s own Patrick O’Leary and Anita Goodman!”

The applause drowned out Patrick’s laughter, the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears, and this was it, this was the moment.

Electricity sparked off of her skin as she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and he led her out onto the dance floor. She stretched her arms wide, and then he turned her out into a spin and a bow. 2-3-4-and-1. 2-3-4-and-1. Across the dance floor, her gaze found his, and the cha-cha beat pulsed through the ballroom, traveling through her feet to her hips, her arms, her hair. This was what she loved and who she was and who she wanted to be with, and it was glorious.

Show time.