Golden Dancer Read Online Free PDF Page A

hand. “Go. Go find the good boy Trelain, and return when you have recovered him. Shoo.”
    Trelain hitched up his tights and walked out of the hall. Maintaining any semblance of dignity around that old queen was impossible. Trelain admired the man, though he seldom said it. Fifty-four years dedicated to the craft. Andre had been a really fine dancer in his youth, as a principal in Paris. Now he put other dancers through their paces.
    Trelain stalked down the hall of the music center. Of course, these were the hidden halls, only seen by the performers. Not nearly as grand as the spaces above. Chyort, what was wrong with him? Yes, he could be a drama queen, he knew that, but nothing got in the way of his dancing. Nothing but that bloody reporter. He stopped and leaned against the wall. A few other dancers passed, but no one would interrupt him. The perks of being a star.
    He still felt like someone had hit him with a board, right in the chest. This was a highly inappropriate feeling. Yes, the man was bloody attractive. Tall, lean—from running, he guessed. And all that curly, messy dark hair. Trelain wanted to drown in it. Fuck, there were a dozen men, a hundred, ready to line up their dicks to pump his dancer’s arse. Why in fucking hell did he have to get engaged by a straight man? Or one who thought he was straight, at least. But the bloke was just so—what? Interesting? Compelling? There was a sense of intensity, powerful curiosity, as if he wanted to eat the world and swallow it whole. Trelain pushed away from the wall. True, but he knew what he wanted Mr. MacKenzie MacAllister to eat, and it wasn’t the world. Bloody brilliant! A new low in his checkered personal relations.
    He walked into the small break room and grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
    “Mr. Medveyev?”
    He turned to see Allison Archer, the program manager for the music center, a perfectly groomed woman—in her early fifties, he guessed—brown hair pulled back in a chignon, probably mimicking the dancers she saw every day. Trelain forced a smile. “Please, call me Trelain.”
    She beamed. “Thank you, Trelain. Are you finding everything to your liking? The practice rooms?” She gestured toward the facilities.
    A rehearsal hall was a rehearsal hall. Seen one, as they say—but this was her baby. “Yes, everything is quite satisfactory. Thank you.”
    “I wanted to remind you of the reception following opening night. I do hope you’ll be able to join us. A number of our principal patrons will be there.”
    Bollocks. He hated these bloody events. He beamed. “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.”
    “Splendid. I have to tell you. I can’t wait for the performance.” She actually giggled. “I’m so excited. My phone has been ringing for days with friends trying to get tickets, but there are simply none to be had.” She started to touch his arm in her enthusiasm, realized what she was doing, and pulled her hand back like she’d nearly missed a third-degree burn. “Well, merde, as they say. See you tonight.” She waggled her fingers.
    He watched her retreat and sipped his water. Yes, tonight. As the Yanks say, get your head on straight, Trelain, and let that friggin’ reporter go back to his…whatever the hell reporters do . He headed back toward the rehearsal hall.
    * * *
    Mac stared out the window beyond his computer screen. The view of the dense trees and steep slopes of Laguna Canyon always comforted him. Not so much at the moment. He looked at the computer, then away. Even this story he’d found on Terrebone wasn’t doing it for him.
    Crap, what had he done? What had he been thinking? Every minute of last night felt like some other guy had cranked that guy’s cock. Shit, he just thought of it and his mind bounced off in retreat.
    “Mac. You writing?”
    He turned toward the voice. Debbie always walked right in. They had a special signal if either of them had company and didn’t want to be disturbed. But if there was