When Thierry Thorne saw me, he approached, and we met halfway. The iridescent highlights in his jacket sparkled in all colors of the spectrum.

I hid my hands behind my back, not eager for him to kiss them as he had done it with Camille.

His gaze was like a panter's eyeing a mouse, with me being the rodent. Or a snake? Lethal, in any case.

A smile played on his lips. "Anne."

"Mr. Thorne." I was sure he expected me to faint now. I wouldn't do him the favor. I stood straight.

"Call me Thierry, please."

Okay, that was safe enough. "Thierry."

What now?

"I like that angel of yours," he said. "Upside down. I wonder why it does that."

"Guess." I had to suppress a grin, so pleased that someone finally had noticed the creative part of my costume.

"It's either drunk, confused, or a rebel... Something tells me it's a rebel."

"What makes you think so?"

"There's that rebellious twinkle... in its mistress' eyes." With that, he looked up, boring his gaze right into mine.

Heat flushed my cheeks.

"Must be a trick of the light." I broke eye contact as his female companion appeared at his side.

She touched his arm. "Hey, Thierr."

Yes, Thierr, without a trailing y. She uttered it like a growl.

He glanced at her. "Yes, Helen?"

"Come dance." She pulled his sleeve.

"Sorry, Helen. I've promised the next dance to Anne here... But you could have a dance with Bob back there." He pointed a thumb at my boss behind him. "I think you'd make him very happy."

She hesitated. "But... we'll dance later, promise?"

"If you behave..."

"Okay, boss." She giggled and strolled off.

I watched her as she highheeled back to Bob.

"Sorry... she's a family friend. They've asked me to keep an eye on her," Thierry said.

I shrugged, wondering about the kind of family friend she was. But I had another issue that was more important, one that irked me. "Did I hear you right? You've promised me the next dance?"

He gave me a little bow. "No, I haven't, please accept my apologies. But I'm still hoping for it." He lifted his eyebrows.

I pondered the situation while 'What a Feeling' played at the noisy end of the hall.

What should I answer? He deserved some resistance.

"Irene Cara," I said.

"Flashdance," he answered without a second's hesitation.

"Great movie." Was I small-talking here?

"I remember that scene..." he began.

What scene, I wondered. The one where she was changing her bra under that huge sweater of hers? I hope he wouldn't go into that one. I had had enough suggestive talk from Bob for the week.

"The one at the beginning of the movie," he continued. "Where she's riding her bicycle through that city, and everything is bathed in the golden light of the morning sun. And then... the welders and metal craftsmen working in the heart of steeltown. The industrial wasteland is shining with a beauty it doesn't deserve."

"Yeah, that's a good one." It really was, and I was surprised by him describing it in such words. I studied his face but couldn't read it.

"So, what about that dance?" He grinned.

"Well, can you dance?"

He arched his eyebrows. "Try me."

The challenge in his voice shook the foundations of my confidence. But it was too late now to run. "Okay."

~~~

When we reached the dance floor, the music had changed to something I didn't know.

Without a word, he took hold of my right hand and placed his own right hand on my back.

Partner-dancing.

The type of dancing where he leads, and she follows.

The type of dancing I had learned in school, ages ago, and hardly ever had practiced since then.

Not good.

Clenching my teeth and trying to keep my knees from shaking, I put my own left hand on his upper arm and waited for him to make the first move.

He did.

And I missed it—I just stood there.

He stuttered to a stop and released our one-handed dancer's embrace, but he held on to my right hand. His eyes searched my face.

The blood rushing into my cheeks must have painted my head a creative crimson. I was torn between running away and swooning on the spot.

He gave the hand he held a little shake, making my limpid arm wobble forth and back.

He nodded, slowly, then pointed at my hand in his. "This line here..." He moved his finger along my arm, over my chest at shoulder-height, and finally along the other arm—all without touching me. "You have to maintain tension there. This part of you should be like a bracket, stiff enough to take up my moves, yet yielding in case I do something... interesting."

I wasn't sure what he meant by this. But I was convinced that everyone in the hall was watching this—me hanging by one hand in his clasp and looking up at him like a school girl.

"Let's try again." He placed his right hand on my back, and I set mine on his shoulders. His looked straight into my face, his gaze unreadable.

The music stopped.

Relief flooded me.

"And now," the DJ said, "an all-time favorite. Abba's Dancing Queen."

I cringed inside, my dreams of a break in the music shattered and was replaced, by all things, with that song.

Taking a deep breath, I concentrated on the line his finger had traced, trying to give it the tension he had talked about.

And I was just in time because he started dancing again. But this time, I didn't miss his first step and moved with him, turning in the momentum of our interlinked arms and hands.

A next step followed, and another one. My feet remembered whatever they had learned so long ago, and my body was guided in the bracket between us.

As long as I didn't think about what I did, it kind of worked. He didn't push, pull, or drag me, but I found my body in motion with the music, stepping and turning. In his hold, I was like a train on a track—safe, secure, knowing where to go—and devoid of options.

A couple of times, my feet lost their stride, yet he swept me on.

And twice, I stepped on his foot, but he didn't even flinch.

He didn't talk, he didn't smile. Firm jaw, thin nose, mouth unflinching, maybe concentrated on the moves or lost in some Travolta-ish kind of meditation.

Whenever he pulled me close, his warmth and a trace of mint engulfed me.

Whenever his eyes were on me, there was no leeway in his gaze, no room for disobedience. I followed his unspoken commands.

With the last notes of the song, he sent me out of his arms into an outside turn, and I came to a stop one step away from him.

I still held his hand.

Pulling back, I let go of him—the separation leaving me unanchored, floating, and slightly dizzy.

The DJ said something about a short break, but my head was still reeling with motion, and emotion, and I didn't pay attention to the words.

I was panting.

Thierry smiled at me. "Thanks for the dance." He gave me a small bow.

I giggled. "It has been a pleasure."

"And?" He arched his eyebrows.

I knew what he was talking about. I had questioned his dancing skills. So it was time to make amends. Whatever else he was, he was the god of dance descended from the heavens to swirl mere mortals.

"You're quite a decent dancer," I said.

"So are you."

I snorted. "You're a liar. I'm awkward, and you know it. But you left me no choice but to make the right moves."

He nodded. "It's called leadership... And how did it make you feel... being led?"

I sobered at an inherent darkness in this statement, wondering what he was aiming at. "I felt like... a typical TCorpse."

"TCorpse?"

"A TCorp employee, at the mercy of the ideas and whims of those working on the Top Floor." I was quite happy with that answer.

He laughed, then he nodded. "That's the proper order of all things. And now, as we've settled this, we—" He paused as a woman appeared at his side and touched his shoulder. Her dark hair was a cascade of condensed midnight glistening under the ever-changing lights, and she wore a black, long dress covered with a pattern of small, yellow bird motifs.

The birds eyed me, all curious stares and sharp beaks.

Theresa Thorne. She had her gaze on her brother while fingering a feather-shaped button of her dress.

"Now, here you are," she said. "I've been looking for you everywhere." She glanced at me, losing her smile, her eyes sweeping me from head to toe. Then she looked back at him as if dismissing me as irrelevant after a cursory inspection. "Father wants to talk to you."

Thierry stared at her, his face having lost the mirth it had held moments ago, replaced by lips pressed together as if in pain.

"Please," she added.

"I'll come over in a couple of minutes." He turned back to me, rebuilding his smile.

"He said he wants to see you... right now." There was a plea in her last two words. Her fingers still tugged at the button on her dress.

He twitched his eyebrows at me. "Sorry, Anne. Family business. I'll find you later."

"Yeah, see you." I raised my hand in a goodbye, but as I saw Theresa's piercing gaze on me, I let it fall back.

She nodded and turned away.

A queen inspecting and dismissing a servant.

Whatta bitch. She probably thought me to be one of Thierry's groupies. Like the hyena.

Was I? No. And even if I were, it wouldn't be any of that woman's business. But then, I didn't have a claim on her brother, and I didn't know what was going on between the two of them. It was none of my business, too.

So I watched them disappear in the melee of the jungle.

I'll find you later, Thierry had said, twitching his eyebrows as if in regret. What did he mean by that, and why had he sought me out at all? I pondered that statement and the mystery that Thierry was as I made my way back to my colleagues.

Should I run and hide, or should I remain in plain sight to be found easily?