Damn it. Why did it have to be him?
If Rubio felt a similar pang of connectedness, he gave no sign. He looked away and pursed his lips, and she became aware again of the world around them, the soft chatter of other dancers and Yves’ consultation with the pianist. Petra did a few
passés
while Rubio supported her, to give him an idea of her weight and balance. He was taller than her, perhaps six-one or six-two to her five-four. Though his touch was light, his manner was as forceful and imperious as ever.
“Turn,” he ordered, touching her waist.
Petra hesitated. She was used to respect and deference, not commands. His dark eyes bored into hers, waiting with the sense of someone used to being obeyed. What had Yves called him? Rough around the edges? It was a little more than that. Rubio stepped closer, right into her space, molding his hands to curves of her waist, and she felt her nipples tighten against the sheer nylon of her leotard.
Please don’t betray me, body. Don’t get hot for him. No, just no.
How could she be sexually attracted to this man?
She pushed those disturbing thoughts from her mind and launched into a neat series of pirouettes. She could assert her own dominance in this arena. She twirled eight, nine, ten times in a row. He attended her cues, his touch every bit as deft as it was reputed to be. He didn’t stand too close or too far away, but perfectly right. She forced one last pirouette, just to see if she could trip him up. He made a sound of irritation but they pulled it off, the way partners pull things off when they have to. She liked that he helped her when he could have left her to wobble to a stop in front of everyone.
Then his hands tightened on her waist and he lifted her, a cold lift with the strength of his arms. She hadn’t expected it, and the landing jolted her. She looked over her shoulder at him with a frown. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Lift, again,” and this time she was ready. It felt like flying when they were in tune. He set her down and stepped away from her. No comments, no words, just a grunt and a hooded look.
So that was that, a quick assessment for both of them. She wondered what he thought of her lines, her technique. How did she compare to his other partners? And how did she feel about him? She wasn’t sure she could judge. She felt curiously shaken-up at the moment.
“Are you warmed up enough?” she asked, bending down to fiddle with her laces. “This
pas de deux
has a lot of lifts.”
She straightened to find his lips curled in an unpleasant sneer. “Don’t worry. I won’t drop you.”
“I never said you would. I was just asking if you were warmed up.”
“I’ve been dancing as long as you. Longer. I can manage my own preparation.”
“Fine.” She waved a hand at him and they backed away from one other. This was a rehearsal studio, not a boxing ring. They weren’t going to accomplish anything by sniping at each other, aside from feeding the gossip mill. She watched as he bounded to the other side of the room, executing some astounding cabriolets.
“Okay,” he said, returning to her. “You ready?”
She was more “ready” than she wanted to admit. He emitted some chemical or pheromone that was making her crazy, or perhaps it was the close physical contact with his body. She could feel his hard abs through his shirt, and smell the fresh, clean scent of his cologne. Or was it only soap?
God, why did she care? With determined concentration, she pushed everything out of her mind but Juliet’s adolescent excitement and emotion, and the precise execution of the steps. This balcony scene was lyrical and romantic, a stolen interlude between two lovers who desired each other desperately but were never meant to be. Her partner fell easily into the role of Romeo, and seemed to become a whole other person.
She’d hoped this rehearsal might be a disaster from beginning to end so she could hop on a plane and put this whole thing behind her, but she found herself impressed with his partnering. He made everything so easy. He gave her the emotion she needed to lose herself in the role, so it felt natural, almost magical, and he gave her only as much support as she needed, so all her energy might go to the dance. As for him, he performed his steps with such finesse, even now in a casual rehearsal.
He could make you a better dancer
, she thought to herself.
He’s that good.
At least he was good until the second series of lifts. He absolutely did not have to put his hand
there
. A mistake, she hoped. They moved on to more sweeping movements, to balanced poses that felt easy and graceful.
“Beautiful,” he murmured when she stretched into a taut arabesque. “So pretty, your extension.”
“Thank you.” She felt a weird tightening in her chest, some giddy pleasure that he’d noticed and complimented something about her. His partnering made her feel so safe, allowed her to become naive, impulsive Juliet without reservation. She thought if Romeo and Juliet were real, they might have felt this connection as they came together in the dark of Verona’s night. In the middle of an intricate series of lifts she met his gaze and some recognition passed between them.
But then, damn it. He groped her again, and this time she knew it was intentional. Was he testing her? Her limpid gaze turned into a glare.
“Stop,” she muttered under her breath. “I know what you’re doing. Stop it.”
“Not doing nothing,” he said. “You’re taller than my last partner. Hands in the wrong place. Sorry.”
That was a bald lie, because Ashleigh Keaton was the same height as her. Irritation propelled Petra through an abbreviated solo and made it easy for her to shy away in character when Romeo tried to kiss her. But then, oh God, how he made her fly. It was impossible to stay angry, to not be drawn back into the emotional flow of the piece. His hands were a miracle, such a miracle.
I wonder what else he can do with those hands...
This part of the ballet was meant to be innocently provocative, but with Rubio it took on whole new shades of sensuality. His dark eyes caressed her, his arms clasped her close and then propelled her into beautiful movements. On either side of the room, dancers stared at them, still as statues. Yves appeared to be holding his breath. Petra met Rubio’s gaze and found such intensity, such tenderness that it shook her.
It was a
moment
, as they said in the theater. It was the beginning of them, of their legendary partnership. Yves was right—they only had to dance together to understand each other. Petra thought she would remember this first dance forever, the emotion, the perfection, the soft, flowing legato of the piano, and the preternatural stillness of the room. They began the final turns leading up to the big kiss but then—again—his hands weren’t in the right place.
His palm brushed over her breast in such a way that Yves wouldn’t notice, or the accompanist, or any of the two dozen or so dancers arrayed along the walls. But she noticed, because she felt the betrayal of trust down to her toes.
She stopped mid-step and spun on him. He grinned at her, a filthy, knowing grin that felt like a kick between the legs, especially after the magic that had come before. Without thinking, she reached out and cracked him across the face. The slap echoed in the silence of the room.
“You’re an asshole,” she said.
He didn’t reply, only stared at her, his hand held over the red mark of her blow. Why did she feel like crying?
Because he’d showed her the prince and then turned into the toad, like she wasn’t good enough for the prince. Like she wasn’t good enough for him. But God help her, she’d gouge out her eyes before she cried in front of him. She shoved the tears down, beneath her anger and her outrage. “If you want to dance with me,” she snapped, “you need to act professional out of respect for my art. Out of respect for all the hours I’ve put in to get to this fucking place.”
In her peripheral vision, she saw Yves start toward them, then stop again. The rehearsal room grew even quieter than before. “You know what I mean,” she finished in little more than a whisper. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, rubbing his fingers across his cheek. “I made a mistake.”
He looked at her with his head bowed a bit to the side, like a chastened boy. A gorgeous, chastened boy. How could he be so beautiful and so awful at once?
“Yes, this is a mistake, all of it,” she said, looking away from him. Emotions assaulted her—anger, disappointment, confusion, and worst of all, horribly inappropriate lust. She could still feel the pull to him, the agitation of all her erogenous zones, but she thought she’d die if she had to dance with him again. She’d die if he ever groped her crotch or her breast again with that leer on his face. If she had to kiss him, even on stage...
No, she couldn’t sign a contract here. She ducked her head and started for the door, but he followed, catching her wrist.
“My mistake,” he said. “Let me fix it. We go again. Please.”
“No, you were right about us. This isn’t going to work—”
“I think this will work,” he said, speaking over her. “A good partnership doesn’t start until the first slap.”
She stared into his dark eyes. The lurid mockery was gone, replaced by an apologetic gaze.
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” she said, pulling her hand from his. “A stupid way to start a partnership.”
“I didn’t start nothing. This just happened. This... This...” He gestured helplessly. This
magic
, she supplied in her mind. He lowered his voice and took her hand again. “You know what I mean,” he said, borrowing her earlier words.
Yes, she did know what he meant, but her courage had left her. She felt too vulnerable now, too afraid. “You don’t really want to dance with me,” she said, staring at the middle of his chest.
“I need a partner and you’re here.” His fingers tightened on hers. “And there’s a lot to do before the season gets underway. So...we go again, Petra. Please.”
She might have had the power to leave if not for that
please
, because she understood how much it cost him to add it. “I don’t know,” she said, deeply conflicted. “I’m not sure about you and me. I’m not sure it will work out.”
He gave her a look that said
liar
. And she was lying. She was grasping for any way out of this, because his artistry cowed her and his enigmatic sexuality seduced her. This must have been how her mother felt when she danced with Petr Grigolyuk, and that had ended so badly. Dancing with Fernando Rubio would be hell for her, a constant struggle against feelings she didn’t want to have.
He glanced to the side at a stifled outburst of giggles, and Petra remembered everyone was watching this private moment. Would this story be in the tabloids next?
Slappily Ever After.
She wouldn’t put it past any of these dancers to sell a play-by-play of this interlude to the press.
“Is because you don’t want to kiss me?” he said in a loud voice, bringing the audience in again. “I’ll take a breath mint first, if you want.”
She understood she had to play along, if they were going to put this episode behind them. If she was going to forgive him, it had to be public, so they could all move on. “No breath mint on earth could compel me to kiss you,” she sniffed with playful derision. “Maybe at the final rehearsal, I’ll take a stab at it. Not before.”
The room erupted in appreciative laughter, and Yves visibly exhaled. Petra squared her shoulders.
Take a deep breath and smile at him. Everything will be okay.
She would find some way to survive working with Rubio, because they really did belong together. Her suffering seemed like a small thing when measured against the beauty they could bring to the world.
“Okay. We do it again?” he prompted, all business now. He turned to Yves, who nodded in agreement.
Petra angled her face to Rubio’s so no one could see. “Don’t disrespect me,” she said. “From now on, keep your grabby fucking hands where they belong.”
He regarded her from beneath his lashes with a disconcerting shadow of a smile. “If you say so. If that’s really what you want.”
Oh Jesus, he
knew
. He sensed the attraction she felt to him, she could see it in the teasing glint of his eyes. What a fucking situation. She’d shed blood, sweat, and tears to get to the top, only to end up partnered with this profane virtuoso. Somehow, he made it through the rest of the rehearsal without groping her again.
Afterward, Yves led her to the dressing room set aside for her, with a cozy couch, chair, and vanity, a smallish but private bathroom, and plenty of closet space. She told him there, privately, that yes, they could proceed with the contracts. Yes, she would come.
Yves left in a haze of happiness but Petra paced and fretted, second-guessing, until she collapsed on the beige velvet couch. On one hand, she was thrilled by Rubio’s talent, by his consummate skill as a dancer, but on the other hand, she was too aware of him as a
man
. He’d made sure of it by touching her inappropriately and giving her those knowing smiles. Maybe it was a power-positioning thing. Maybe it was a Brazilian thing. Maybe...
Maybe he found her as attractive as she found him.
No. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want him to find her attractive. She didn’t want him to do anything but partner her through pirouettes and arabesques, and haul her into the air when the choreography called for it.
In the midst of her fretting, a knock sounded. She entertained a flash of fantasy, a tableau of him kicking down the door, pushing her to the couch and ripping off her leotard, and—
“Petra?”
Female voices. She opened the door to find a couple of the other principal ballerinas outside.
“Can we come in?”
“Sure,” Petra said, standing back to admit them.
“I’m Hannah,” said the taller one, holding out her hand. “And this is Suzanne.”
“Hi,” said Suzanne, grinning and waving. “So...?”
“So...?” asked Petra, smiling at Suzanne’s friendly exuberance.
“Are you going to dance here?” she asked. “We really hope you are, cause we heard that you slapped Rubio in rehearsal. Is that true?”