Firebird (2 page)

Now that he had his Firebird, he couldn’t wait to get started. There was something so compelling about the story of the magical bird that was both a blessing and a curse to the prince who captured her. The choreographers of a century ago had made it too tame, too innocent. He thought the darker themes of the story needed to be brought to the fore. He saw the whole sexy, violent story coming to life in his imagination. The immortal Kostchei with his macabre band of followers; the twelve abducted maidens, vulnerable and pure; the Tsarina and Prince Ivan, star-crossed lovers trapped by a madman; and the skittish Firebird pulling out her red feather and putting everything back to rights.

* * *

It was getting colder. Icy wind blew up the narrow city street and sliced through the wool coat and sweater Prosper wore. She shivered and hugged herself. It was midmorning, but she still felt sleepy and slow. She’d been up late the night before thinking about Jackson Spencer again. She really needed to pull herself together. He would figure out how she felt about him if she didn’t get herself under control. He would feel the lust coming off her in waves, lust aimed right at him. What were they called, those chemicals? Pheromones? She must be dripping with them. She must be silly with wild, undisciplined pheromones by now.

Why was she so hot for him? She’d never had much of a sex drive, not like the drive she’d felt lately. She’d read in his bio that he’d danced in a Chicago company years ago. She felt jealous of the lucky ballerinas he must have partnered. How had they managed to dance with him so near? With him touching them? She would fall right off pointe and probably break her leg if he put his hands on her. He must have been spectacular at partnering. He was so masculine and sexy. His eyes missed nothing, and his body was so solid, so strong.

Ugh, enough
. She ducked into a small coffee shop and forced herself to think about something besides Jackson. She scanned the specials, but nothing caught her eye.

“Just the usual, Derick.” She smiled at the middle-aged man behind the counter.

“One mocha cappuccino coming right up.” His voice sounded loud in the nearly empty space. “Have a seat. We’re not busy. I’ll bring it out to you.”

She nodded as he turned to make the drink. She scanned the display of free reading materials beside the counter and picked up the local underground mag to see if any of the bars were hiring. There were several pages of ads in the back, and she leafed through them looking for the job classifieds. She was flipping past the personals when a header caught her eye. A small caricature of a cat dressed like a dominatrix, cracking a whip. A tagline beside it.
Fetish.

“Order up,” Derick sang out, sweeping over to deliver her drink. She quickly pushed the mag to the side. Since the shop was empty, he crowded into the booth beside her to chitchat, although what she really wanted was to gawk at the fetish ads. After fifteen minutes she’d finished her coffee and said good-bye, shoving the paper in her dance bag. The moment she stepped back on the street, the warm coffee inside her froze.

She walked faster on her way to the theater. Time for class. She’d have to look over the kinky ads later. Just for fun, she told herself. No way would she answer one. She wouldn’t place an ad either, although she found herself crafting one in her mind.
SWF, 25, shy, petite, red hair. ISO someone to control her, to tell her what to do. To spank her, to torment her, to fuck her. Scruffy blond hair and unbelievably intense eyes a plus
. Oh, probably too many words. It would take way too many words to explain what she wanted, what she needed. But it would be fun to read the other ads and see what other kinky New Yorkers were in search of.

Prosper ducked into the building. She was going to be late if she didn’t hurry. Again the image of Jackson rolling up his sleeves came to mind.
Enough, Prosper
. That’s all she needed was to go into class and be confronted with him, larger-than-life, with that image rolling around in her head. And he would be there. He always was, at least for a while, looking around as they cycled through the same boring exercises. She wondered if he’d made his decisions about casting yet.

She scurried to her place just as the ballet master called them to attention. She did some quick stretches and turned the wrong way to begin.
Damn
. Jackson was standing not ten paces away. A quick glimpse as she’d crossed the room revealed he was wearing his usual serious expression, along with a loose white T-shirt and baggy sweats. Only he could make gym pants sexy.

She disciplined her mind to the exercises, to executing each movement perfectly. She became so involved in her work that she was shocked to look up and find him standing beside her. She blushed, knowing it would show in her pale cheeks. She flitted a look at his face. His gaze was fastened to her feet.

He spoke then, so low she was certain the dancers to the right and left couldn’t hear.

“Prosper, I’d like to speak to you after class.”

She nodded, not looking at him. What could he want with her? It wasn’t his job to critique or reprimand the dancers, not that Prosper thought she was doing anything wrong. But if he didn’t want to comment on her technique, then why did he need to talk to her?

After class he waited for her by the door. The other dancers watched as she left and followed him down the hall. She was more aware than ever of his imposing size and musculature as he led her into Lawrence’s office and through to the small conference room. He smelled fresh, like deodorant or aftershave. She trailed behind, staring at the light freckles on the back of his neck, his golden hair. He ushered her in and shut the door behind her. He didn’t sit down, and neither did she. Instead he faced her, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You look anxious,” he began. “Don’t be. You’re not getting called on the carpet for anything you’ve done wrong. In fact, I’ve been observing class and come to the conclusion that you’re one of the most talented dancers here.”

Oh my God
. “Thanks, Mr. Spencer. I try.”

“I have a role for you, Prosper. A career-starting one. As you know, I’m here to stage Stravinsky’s
Firebird
, and I’d like you to dance the lead.”

“The lead? The Firebird?” She tried to exude a calm, self-assured demeanor at this news. But the Firebird, the title role! She was both ecstatic and terrified. “I… God… Wow. I would love to. But Lawrence might not—I’m not one of the principals—”

“I spoke to Lawrence. It took some convincing, but he’s agreed I can give you a try. I think you have the talent and the ability.” He studied her, pulling at his lip. “But I’m not yet convinced you have the drive.”

“Oh, I do, I swear. I do. I want to do it. I’m just a little—”

“Surprised?”

“To put it lightly. Yes.”

“I hope you realize, Prosper—” He stopped. “Prosper. I’ve never heard that name before. Is there a story behind it?”

“It’s short for Prosperity.”

“Prosperity!” He seemed to like that, repeating it. “Prosperity Ware. Fantastic name.”

“Thank you.” She was spellbound by the warmth of his rare smile.

“Well, Prosperity, if you accept this role…” His smile faded, replaced by familiar stern lines. “If you accept this role, I’m going to expect perfection from you. I’ve wanted to stage
Firebird
for some time. I have some progressive ideas for it. This won’t be Fokine’s cutesy ballet.”

He let that sink in, fixing her with a look that reminded her to a frightening degree of the way he looked at her in her dreams.

“I’m going to expect diligence, stamina, courage, patience,” he continued. “Everything a prima ballerina needs to have, particularly one who’s having a ballet choreographed on her.”

“Yes, Mr. Spencer. I understand. Absolutely.”

“Can you do it? Really? Tell me now, before we even get started. Do you have what it takes?”

“Yes.” She imbued her voice with all the confidence she could muster. “I definitely do.”

“We’ll see. The part is yours conditionally. We’ll do some work together and see how things progress. I’d like you to meet me in the small rehearsal room tomorrow after class.”

“Okay. Yes. I’ll be there. I’m so excited to work with you!”
Tone it down, Prosper. Don’t simper.

He nodded and led her to the door. “I’m excited too. I’ll see you tomorrow. Come ready to work hard.”

And with that she was dismissed. His calm, detached manner did nothing to dampen her joy. She ran to the costume closet and collapsed on the floor in a heap, muffling her squeals in a pile of tutus.

She wished she could scream the news from the rafters, but he had only given the part to her conditionally. But she would show him. She would show all of them that she was talented, that hard work paid off. She rested her cheek against the scratchy tulle, her heart racing with excitement. Not only was she going to dance the role of the Firebird, but she was going to be working with Jackson Spencer every day. It might take weeks for him to block the steps with her and the other dancers, weeks of working side by side with him. Then serious rehearsals after the new year.

The ballet was scheduled to headline the spring season in February. That was a solid three months of collaboration. She just hoped her horny fantasies wouldn’t interfere with her ability to work with him. She hugged herself. She knew she could do it. She would help Jackson realize his vision and mount an unforgettable ballet. She floated through the rest of the day dreaming of birds and princes, danger and bravery, and Jackson’s unforgiving stare.

Chapter Two

Jackson could see the orange hair in his peripheral vision the moment she arrived for rehearsals. “Come in,” he said. “Close the door.” He shut the curtain to the window beside him with a snap of his wrist but left the other curtain open. “I’ve been waiting. Class ran over?”

“No.” She dropped her dance bag and crossed to the barre. “Some people wanted to know what I was doing here with you.”

He realized his hands were clenched at his sides.
Settle down
. He’d been waiting too long to begin work with her. He was antsy. He watched her stretch for a moment, then looked away as his groin begin to tighten. Her lines, they destroyed him.

“So what did you tell them?” he asked to distract himself. “All your curious friends. Did you tell them you were dancing the Firebird?”

“You said conditionally, so I haven’t said anything yet.” She finished stretching and turned to him, standing still. Waiting. Even the way she stood was alluring. He needed to get her moving, get her on her toes instead of this excruciating stall.

“Come on. Center.”

She moved to the center of the room. It was called the small rehearsal room, but it wasn’t small, only not as large as the larger rehearsal hall where the company took class and where entire ballets were rehearsed in front of the mirror. This room was only mirrored on one side. He turned her toward it.

“So you know the basic story of
Firebird
?”

“Yes, pretty much. The prince finds her in a garden, dances with her—”

“Captures her.”

Prosper fell silent.

“He captures her and refuses to release her unless she agrees to return when he asks.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “A very practical monarch.”

“Yes, practical, but also selfish. And driven to subdue a creature both weaker and more powerful than himself.”

He watched as a blush crept across the back of her neck. My God, she was so close he could smell her, fresh soap and faint perfume.

“But you’re not dancing the prince,” he said, collecting himself. “And really, his story doesn’t concern you. After you tell him the secret of how to defeat Kostchei and rescue his princess, you fly away, and he’s left with his safe, proper wife.”

“Mmm.”

“But I think he remembers the Firebird his whole life. Do you know why?”

She turned her head, the blush spreading across her cheeks. “Why?”

“Because she was the only creature of her kind he’d ever seen in his life.”

She drew in a soft breath. He was going to lick her in a moment, all the way from her nape up to her staid ballerina bun.
Focus. Show her what to do, instead of staring at her neck and imagining a collar there.

“Can you do this with your arms?”

He showed her some of the birdlike movements he’d been thinking about. She did what he showed her, better and more gracefully than him. He took her through a few more steps, broadly at first, then precisely. “Are you still being a bird?” he reminded her from time to time. But she was, and it was a thrill for him to stand near her and watch her move through space, bring his steps to life. He tried not to touch her too much, although he ached to. A few nudges, a few pats to isolate body parts to show how they should move. That was all he would allow himself. This was business. He had a ballet to create. He wasn’t here spending time with her to get his rocks off.
Concentrate, idiot.

“I’m still thinking,” he said when they finally paused. “I’m just trying to see the best way to tell the story through the movements.”

She nodded, standing at rest but still ready to move as soon as he guided her in some way. God, those eyes—they were so green. He wanted to ask where on earth she’d gotten those eyes, but instead he said, “They’ll hate you, you know.”

Her face tensed. She bit her lip, but she didn’t ask who. She knew.

Everyone.

Everyone would hate her for what he was doing. The principals would hate her for taking a role above her station. Her fellow corps dancers would ostracize her now that she’d been elevated from their ranks. And he would make her life hell for the next three months or so, mounting his new vision of an old classic on her slender back and quick feet.

“I don’t have a lot of friends here anyway.”

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “I’m not good at the game. Kissing up. Politics. I try to let my work speak for itself. I try to be as perfect as possible and let things fall where they may.”

He studied her. He believed her. There was something about her, a focused intensity that compelled him. “Okay, good. Perfect is good. The part is yours. I’m going to announce it and do the rest of the casting. I’ll have Blake dance Prince Ivan. He seems best suited. Have you danced with him before?”