Daring To Love Read online

  I shake my head.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time today.”

  He lets out a long breath, and I blink innocently at him.

  “Why do I detect an unwillingness to let me interview you?”

  I purse my lips. “Off the record?”

  He gives me a curt nod.

  “Probably because I don’t intend to give you an interview at all.”

  He sighs and runs a hand through his wavy, slightly ruffled hair. “And why is that?”

  Careful to keep my voice neutral, I move to stand in front of him. In the back of my mind, I can’t help but notice that he towers over me.

  “I’m a private person, Mr. Jensen. I don’t wish to speak with you.”

  The calculating gleam in his eyes as he wets his lips causes butterflies to erupt in my tummy, instantly setting off tingles low in my belly-

  Oh, no. I’ll become tongue-tied in less than a minute. Now that I’m no longer fearing being assaulted in my own home, his incredibly good looks are going to make me lose my cool, calm, and collected status, and the intensity in his brown gaze as he peers down at me sets up a flush in my cheeks.

  Ugh. This is embarrassing. I can feel I’m about to lose my armour of confidence because the instant I find myself attracted to a guy, it evaporates into thin air and I become a stuttering fool.

  Focus, Amelie. He’s a journalist!

  I wrench my eyes away from him and practically run down the stairs.

  “Wait!”

  I ignore him and take the stairs two at a time.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Jensen!” I push at the wrought-iron gate, and I keep running to catch my bus that’ll take me away from his prying eyes and oh-so-gorgeous smile.

  2

  Finlay

  Women don’t tend to run away from me. It’s usually the opposite – they run towards me instead.

  But as I watch the small frame with a mass of wild curls disappear from my sight, I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t realise that’s exactly what’s happening. I shake my head in wonder as my eyes linger on her butt, her movements lithe and graceful, and I bite my lip. If she was any other woman instead of my next story, I’d run after her and ask for her phone number, because the minute those doe-like eyes met mine, attraction sizzled between us and I had to work hard not to let it show.

  Now, what the fuck do I do?

  Annoyed, I ruffle through my pocket and find my mobile. Still frowning in the direction Amelie Winters ran off, I swipe the screen to unlock it. When at last I can’t spot her anymore, I glance down and find my editor in my contacts. I breathe in the crisp air – Scottish spring is fickle, and today is no different – and phone him, thinking quickly of an excuse not to run after the elusive fairy.

  “What now, Jensen?” Erik sighs in my ear.

  I frown at his less than enthusiastic voice.

  “She ran away,” I clip.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  His chuckle grates on my nerves.

  “Then you best run after her.”

  “I don’t chase after little rich girls. You know that.”

  “You know the deal,” he warns.

  “There must be something else I can do to make up for what happened.”

  “No.”

  I look to the sky, cursing inwardly.

  “What do you want from me? Do you want me to beg?”

  “Aye, that’d be a sight, wouldn’t it?” he snorts. I open my mouth, but I don’t get another word in. “Listen, Jensen, you fucked up, and you know what’s on the line: your job. Write the best, fucking story you can about the real Amelie Winters, we’ll run it, and that’s that.”

  “I’m an investigative journalist.” I barely manage a civil tone, my temper rising. “She already made it crystal clear that she refuses to speak with me. I don’t…”

  “You don’t have a choice,” he bites, his German accent ringing loudly in my ear. “Either you get this story, or you’re done working here. Are we clear?”

  Closing my eyes, I hang my head and let the silence speak for me.

  “That’s what I thought,” he mutters. “Now, go after the young lady, charm her knickers off – figuratively speaking, I might add – and do what you have to do within reason to get her to talk. You have two weeks.”

  Once again, I’m prevented from getting another word in, because he hangs up on me, the low click humming loudly in my ear. I force my fingers to release their tight hold on my mobile, pocketing it briskly, and turn in the direction she disappeared.

  Then I start walking, hoping the air will do me good. But instead of coming up with a plan of action, my mind wanders in a thousand directions, leaving me with an unusual conundrum. What am I supposed to do? I could try to find another job, but no one wants to hire me after the crap that went down a couple of months ago. It’s a miracle Erik hasn’t fired me, to be honest, but this? This is taking punishment to an extreme level, at least to me.

  How the blooming hell did I get into this?

  Ah, yes…my weakness for the opposite sex, that’s what. Being caught with my tongue down the throat of a prominent politician’s wife by her husband wasn’t meant to happen, for obvious reasons, but I never thought my editor would strike a blow the likes of this: demoted to write three consecutive stories for the high society pages.

  My skin crawls as if it was attacked by an army of ants.

  I’m not a cheater, and I don’t want my women to be taken, but when the woman in question practically pushed down my pants and freed my cock within half an hour of meeting her, I stopped thinking. What guy wouldn’t? Ugh. I couldn’t think, or I’d have stopped things from going as far as they did.

  I loathe the loss of power, and that’s probably part of Erik’s plan: showing me that I am, in fact, powerless. He claims my arrogance is what got me into this mess, though I can’t for the life of me agree with him. There’s a difference between arrogance and confidence, and I’ve always thought my charm and wit could get me out of trouble.

  Not this time.

  No, this time, I’ll have to do as I’m told.

  I crack my neck from side to side, my steps quickening with renewed purpose. If I look at this job as another challenge waiting for me to overcome, just like I’ve always done when I’ve run in to an obstacle preventing me from reaching my goal, I’ll survive.

  Erik wants me to show the world who this girl is? Fine. He’ll get the best bloody story I’ve ever written.

  But first, I need to find her.

  The mass of people blocking my way makes me itch, and I sit down on a bench. I pull out my phone again and do a search for her online. I scratch my chin as I flip through page after page, getting more annoyed by the second when no photos of her pop up. I’m about to give up when my eyes catch sight of an old photo with her name tagged underneath it, and I click on the link. An article from what appears to be a French newspaper dated almost a decade ago makes me frown, and I can feel the hairs on my neck prickling as I try to translate it. I become more and more invested to get this story right despite my initial reluctance. My French is almost non-existent, but I do remember a few words and phrases, and while it’s a slow process, I’m successful in translating a few lines.

  “The fourteen-year-old girl, Amelie Winters, passed out when…something, something,” I mutter, pulling at my lips. “No sign of physical ailments?” Squinting, I look up at the sun, wishing it didn’t take me so long. But patience was never my strong suit. It won’t stop me from trying to work it out, though. My curiosity piqued, I can’t for the life of me work out why there are no recent articles of her…and, so, that presents the next mystery.

  How the hell does Erik know this girl if she’s almost incognito? Heck, she doesn’t even have a Facebook profile.

  Sighing, I look down and try reading a few more lines of the article. “Her parents, Válerie and Graham Norton, the high society couple with strong ties to the British royal family, want to keep
their daughter’s life as private as possible…bloody hell.”

  I’m gobsmacked. The shy dancer who ran away from me knows the royals?

  “Why’s a young man like you staring off in space like that, eh?”

  Blinking rapidly, I peer up at the person standing in front of me. A friendly face full of wrinkles juts her – or his? – chin at me, owlish eyes alert and curious. I take a wild guess and determine by the high-pitched, yet crackly voice, that the person in front of me is a woman, though you wouldn’t be able to tell based on her clothes. Whoever this person it, she’s covered in a long, black coat from her neck all the way down to her shoes, a plastic bag hanging from the tips of her fingers.

  She must be sweltering.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  The woman chuckles as she steps closer to sit down next to me. “You heard me, lad, but if that handsome face of yours is deceiving me, I’d say you look a little lost, and perhaps you didn’t hear me? I’d be happy to repeat myself.”

  I shake my head as I lock my phone, placing it back in my pocket.

  “I beg your pardon,” she says, nodding, a telling smile firmly on her mouth.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Young people like you don’t know the proper way to talk anymore.”

  My lips twitch in amusement. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, I beg your pardon.” I shrug. “And to answer your question, I was talking to myself, I suppose.”

  She rummages through the bag and flips a red apple to me. I take it from her outstretched hand.

  “Ta.”

  “Talking with yourself, were you? Any chance it was about a woman?” She winks at me.

  I chuckle before I take a big bite, the crispy flavour hitting my taste buds at once.

  “Might be.” Out of habit, I deliberately keep my tone light. “Though not in the way you probably think.”

  “I thought as much. What’s your star sign, lad?”

  Befuddled, I raise my eyebrows, peering down at her. “What does that have to do with it?”

  She waves the hand holding her apple under my now, clearly impatient to hear my answer.

  “Answer my question.”

  “Okay.” I have to think about it before I can recall my zodiac sign. “Aries.”

  “Oooh,” she titters at me. “That makes sense.”

  More confused than ever, I turn in my seat to better face her. “What makes sense?”

  “You. When I saw you, I knew you’d either be an Aries or a Taurus.” She leans towards me and whispers, “I have a sixth sense about these things, you see. Today is going to be a very good day, laddie.”

  “It hasn’t been that great so far.”

  “Bah!!” she scoffs. “Not even noon yet. Plenty of things could still happen that’ll make you go to bed tonight with a smile on that pretty mouth.”

  I laugh at her assessment of my lips. We finish eating, and I know I can’t linger any longer. I rake a hand through my hair and stand up. “I have to get on my way but thank you for the apple. It cheered me up.”

  She mirrors my move and nods in farewell as she turns in the other direction.

  “You’re welcome. Make sure you catch that young woman, eh?”

  Her words make me whip my head around. “What?”

  She rolls her eyes at me, and I wonder why she appears to be exasperated with me.

  “Pardon me,” I try again.

  “She’s not going to be easy, but you don’t want easy. Do try to be patient with her – she has a lot to lose if you don’t.”

  I take a step in her direction. “Wait!”

  She turns, walking backwards a few steps as she waves me off, a secretive smile gracing her lips.

  “Get on with you, lad. You don’t have time to dawdle.” She turns a corner, disappearing behind a few trees, and I’m left here, practically unable to move. It feels like my feet are stuck to the pavement, and I shake my head. I huff loudly.

  “What the fuck just happened?”

  This day just got stranger than it already was. A full minute passes before I shake off the peculiar meeting and walk in the direction of the university. I push the old lady from my mind and focus on the tidbit of information the dated article gave me. The more I think about it, the more curious I get about this tiny dancer that my editor seems to be so taken with. My journalist senses take over, and I know that this story is going to be much bigger than I initially thought. That’s always been the way; call it a sixth sense or instincts, but when I get this feeling, I instantly get excited. That’s the reason I’m a bloody good journalist.

  When I don’t get caught doing things that border on the line of unethical, that is.

  But, onwards and upwards and all that…

  She said she was going to class. All I have to do is find out where she’s going to be later, I’ll use all my knowledge about women to charm her knickers off and invite her out to dinner.

  Satisfied with my plan, my lips stretch in a confident smile. I’m like a dog with a bone. I’ll gain her confidence. When I picture her standing in front of me, grey eyes wild as she peered up at me, I chuckle to myself. She looked rather adorable, to be honest, though I wouldn’t call her a classic beauty. No, her wide mouth doesn’t fit her heart-shaped face, but the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose were rather endearing.

  I wonder what her laugh sounds like.

  No sooner has the thought entered my mind before I force it away.

  She’s a story, not someone I should woo or have a good time with. I can’t make the same mistake twice. I refuse to think of her in any other way than a means to an end.

  The large, black bag she clutched at her chest when I knocked on her door springs to mind, and I purse my lips. She’ll be at some dance studio, I’m sure of it.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, I smile in confidence. The little thing doesn’t know me yet, but she’ll learn soon enough that Finlay Jensen doesn’t give up.

  I won’t take no for an answer.

  3

  Amelie

  I squint against the lights at the ceiling as I warm up, rolling my neck and shoulders. I go through my routine, memorised to the very tips of my fingers, and once my limbs are warm and loose, I breathe deeply through my nose. My sole aim tonight is to do what I know I was born to do.

  Dance. It’s all I’ve ever known and wished for – to lose my heart and soul in the movements that come as easy as breathing to me. To make the people I dance for forget there is a world outside. To make them believe in the dream I, and my fellow dancers, create on the stage.

  Yes, dancing creates powerful magic, both for the performers and the spectators, just like words and books do. It is equal parts beautiful and terrible. I shudder when I think of one of my fellow dancers, Christine, whose world was torn apart only a month ago when a simple routine warm-up turned into every dancer’s nightmare.

  She fell badly on her ankle and broke it. None of us know if she will ever dance professionally again, and it breaks my heart whenever I think about it…which, I admit, I do often. I’ve been where she is now, and her fall brings back painful memories that are difficult to chase off.

  That is the problem with using your body as your livelihood – there are no guarantees. One minute, you can go through the familiar steps, literally soaring in the air, and the next, an accident can happen, and you drop…tearing the world from under your trusted limbs.

  I paste a confident smile on my lip, willing such dark thoughts from my mind, as my gaze falls on our dance instructor and choreographer, Aidan. He’s hovering in the shadows next to the stage, his blue eyes cool and assessing as usual. The man gives me chills – and not the good kind – what with his displeasing countenance, but there is no doubt about the fact that he is brilliant. He was once a formidable dancer, and though he’s now in his fifties, his body is still as muscular and graceful as when he was young.

  As brilliant and terrifying that he is, I d
on’t like him, but I respect him; maybe it’s because his demeanour never gives his thoughts away that I feel slightly uncomfortable around him? Who knows?

  “Okay, everyone, gather around!” he barks, and we do as we’re told at once and glide along the stage to meet him at the heart of it. The nervous energy as we form a half-circle around him is palpable, and my heart does flip-flops in my chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a door opens, and someone enters, but my sole focus has to be on Aidan, so I ignore the prickling of my hair at the nape of my neck as I feel something brush against my shoulder blades. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched, though, and I frown, annoyed at whoever it is.

  Aidan claps his hands once, and I stand up straighter.

  “You know what is happening tonight.” His voice rings out clearly. “You are here,” he starts circling us, “because your abilities are extraordinary. Each of you has been chosen because you possess that certain je ne sais quoi that all performers strive for.”

  I hold my breath when I hear his steps slow down and stop, hoping this time, I will feel the sharp point of his finger as it lands on me, but my hopes are dashed when his steps sound again, moving away from me.

  “You are unique.” He chuckles, the low baritone rusty as if it is not prone to laughter. “But is that enough? Dancing is much more than technique, ladies and gentlemen – it is not enough having the steps down pat. No. You must open yourselves up, let out the fire and passion that live inside you and make everyone watching you believe you. Some of you have yet to let your armours down, and that won’t do. Not in a performance such as The Swan Lake.”

  He stops circling us, and I blink rapidly as his eyes land on me. “Miss Winters.”

  “Yes?” I squeak, and immediately clear my throat.

  “Dance.”

  Doubt fills me at his command.

  “Pardon?”

  “Dance.” His gaze pierces me, and I have to suppress the shiver that runs through me. “Show me your fire. Convince me to choose you.”