Lindsey Willows glided to the space that she had cleared to perform, the remote of the stereo in her hand. She pressed play, and the acoustic strumming of Iris flowed from the speakers. Tossing the remote on the bed, she turned out her feet in fifth position. When the vocals began, she spread her arms to the side, pointing her right leg out in front of her in a tendu, leading effortlessly into a plié. She repeated the movement with her left leg, all the while moving forward. After repeating the steps, she reversed the moves with a fluidity that most dancers at her level envied. The only freshman to make it into the Harvard Ballet Company when she auditioned after first arriving at school, she was looked on with contempt by most of the girls that had been denied yet another chance at reaching their dream.
A knock at the door startled her, causing her to lose balance and fall flat on her butt mid-pirouette. "Ow," she mumbled as the door opened. With the dresser half blocking the door, the inevitable thud of someone colliding with it sounded. She cringed. "Are you okay?"
"I think so," came the deep voice of the agent on the other side. "Crap."
"What? Are you bleeding?"
"Yes, a bit. I'll be right back." The voice held the slightest hint of an accent.
Lindsey frowned. She hadn't expected anyone to come to the door. Usually people left her alone when her music was playing. Of course, these people were wild cards: FBI agents. None of them knew her stress relief ritual. She walked to the dresser and pushed it back so she could slip out the door.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked the man holding a handful of toilet paper to his injured nose when she entered the bathroom.
He nodded. "It's not broken. Just going to be a little bruised." Her frown deepened, and the agent smiled reassuringly. "It's fine, Miss Willows. No real harm done."
"I guess not." She thought for a moment, then asked, "What's your name? It seems all of you know my name, but I know none of yours."
"Special Agent Cameron Drake, at your service," he said with a flamboyant bow. While bent low, he placed a soft kiss to the back of her hand as he took it in his. He straightened and shrugged in response to her baffled stare. "I'm British... and I acted in university."
She felt her cheeks flush, but she ignored it. "It's nice to meet you, Cameron. Now, I have another question." He raised one of his dark eyebrows in question. "Why have I been dragged to East Bumblefuck, USA by half a dozen FBI agents, when I know damn well I didn't do anything wrong?"
He shook his head. "Miss Will-"
"Call me Lindsey. You can be as British as you want, but formalities piss me off."
"Okay, Lindsey. It's not my place." He held a hand up to stop her protest. "You're not the only stubborn person here. I'm not going to tell you."
She glared at him. "How do I know I'm not going to be snuffed out?"
"Well, the FBI doesn't usually handle 'snuffing'. That's the CIA's job." Her eyes widened. "Alright, look. The reason I came to you tonight is because we have orders to bring you back to Las Vegas. The higher ups have reason to believe you'll be safer there."
"I doubt that." She sighed and headed for her room. "Whatever, I'll go pack."
"Mi-I mean, Lindsey." She turned to him at the threshold of the bedroom. "You'll be happy to know that I'll be accompanying you on the trip, and will be guarding your mother's home."
"Oh yeah, I'm just thrilled," she replied sarcastically, closing the door. Her hand still tingled where he had pressed his lips. At nineteen, her mother would be more than shocked that her daughter was still a virgin. But the blush that rose to her cheeks and the heat that flooded through her were still foreign to her.
Shaking it off, she pulled her suitcase out of the closet. Whatever these feelings were, she'd just have to deal with them. Right now, she had to focus on getting to Las Vegas.
And why the hell she was going there.