His whispered words from the night before came hurtling back into her mind.
That’s what you don’t get. I did think. Over and over.
She lifted her heavy head and scraped damp hair back from her temples. Her eyes hurt. Her chest ached. Shivering despite the heavy white terrycloth, she sank her nose into the soft folds. A deep inhale threatened a new round of tears.
I will never go anywhere you aren’t eventually willing to follow.
God, how long had he been pulling them this way? Little choices. Small moves. And choices so goddamn huge that he should’ve made them with her.
How long had she been dancing her way to him in return? Flirting with other guys, telling him the details of every encounter, dragging Paul into the mix… She’d been replying to his every unconscious signal, when he’d asked for more.
He’d just…given up.
A sizzle of anger replaced the hard ache of hurt. She welcomed it, if only to momentarily numb the pain and sort through her confusion. She’d taken him for granted for too long. That much was true. The feelings she had been questioning and the indecision—all coalesced around the knowledge that losing Dima, as both her partner and her lover, would be the end of her happiness.
Yet she wasn’t wrong in wanting him to open up. How long had he been motivated by the hope of becoming a couple? What was so damn hard about opening up about his plans, fears, dreams? She needed that. A true partner. It wasn’t too much to ask. That he’d bailed without talking this morning was more than insulting. It was downright cowardly. She knew because she’d given in to just that sort of fear. Hearing him admit that he’d passed up Broadway to stay with her… Pretty terrifying.
Time to stop relying on Dima to make the plans. She couldn’t trust them, not when his goals remained so stubbornly hidden. All she could trust was what she wanted and what she could get by working hard. That was the story of her career.
Then and now, she would have Dima when the hard work was over.
Lizzie stood, shaky and cradling her middle, and turned on the shower. Club Devant was the obvious place to start.
Two hours later, she entered through the rear door of the club and traded her jogging shoes for Latin dance heels. Hair tied back. Extra-large water bottle. Two protein bars that she hoped she could keep down. Eventually.
Time to get started.
She found Remy in one of the upstairs practice rooms. His hands were all over the new guy, Jack, whose head was tipped back against the bank of mirrors. The kiss Remy claimed along the other man’s neck reminded Lizzie of the marks she must have left on Dima. She had yet to see them, although hers had been pretty obvious in the bathroom mirror. Proof that the previous night had not been some attention-starved hallucination.
She coughed into her fist.
Jack pushed away, while Remy only smiled. His hand was still firmly planted on the young man’s ass as he made introductions.
“You’re dressed for business,
chère
.” His gaze traveled up and down Lizzie’s body—not with any particular hunger. Instead he seemed to assess…and approve. He nodded once. “We’ll finish this later,
non
?”
“If I let you.” Jack slid Remy a rather undecided look, as if he really hadn’t made up his mind.
Lizzie wondered how frequently the Cajun was rejected. Dressed in a formfitting black T-shirt and a ragged pair of jeans that still managed to cling to his ass, he was sexy as hell. She couldn’t imagine it happened often.
The new dancer seemed to have other ideas. He cocked a hip and his head at the same time. “Frankly, sweetie, I don’t think you’re my type.”
“Oh, I know that. But there’s nothin’ wrong with neckin’.”
Jack had a huge smile, which beamed at Lizzie as he exited, gym bag slung over his shoulder. A pale purple workout shirt was strategically cut to drape over one shoulder. The muscle it showed off was defined and lean. “Have fun, Lizzie.”
“Not the sort of session I’m after.”
That got a laugh from him, big and melodic. Lizzie, however, was in no mood for levity. She shut the practice room door and sloughed her bag along the wall.
“So?” Remy said.
“I want to learn Jeanne’s choreo. I’m taking her place.”
“You talk to Declan about that, have you?”
“Not yet.” She glanced at the camera in the corner. “He’ll know soon enough. Let’s go.”
Remy unwrapped a slinky, lopsided grin and held out his hand. She took it. A quick pair of spins later, he held her with her back to his chest. He touched her neck. “He give you these,
chère
? Very pretty.”
Lizzie’s face flamed. Heart racing, she remembered Dima’s hands there, cutting off her air, taking her to a place she’d never even imagined—one where he could hurl her into the stratosphere and keep her grounded at the same time. All the while fucking her absolutely mindless.
Hell if she was going to talk about that with Remy Lomand.
“Just teach me.”
“Whatever you say, Lizzie.” Another spin and she faced him. He framed her perfectly, his expression oddly serious. “Three dances: the bachata you already learned. There’s also a cha-cha and a really slinky samba. You think you can do three before next Friday?”
“I can do all three before the end of the day.”
His grin returned and he pulled her near. “If you hadn’t noticed—but I’m sure you have—your boy Dima’s a stern motherfucker. I don’t want him ripping my balls off and hanging me from the nearest tree. If you push too hard, I won’t teach you.
Comprenez-vous?
”
“Got it.”
“Good. Now we samba.”
“But this is close hold. It’s for something like tango, not samba.”
“You here to learn or backtalk? This is Remy’s samba. And truth be told, it’s got Dima’s fingerprints all over it. Like your neck,” he said with a chuckle. She tried to duck her gaze, but he grabbed her jaw. “You wanna show him what you can do. I know you do. So shut up and follow my lead. No more of this competition bullshit. I wanna know how filthy you can be—on stage, that is. Girl, you remember your bachacadas?”
Lizzie jerked free of his grip and lifted her chin, a scant inch away from Remy’s. “I practically invented them.”
“There’s a girl. Hit it.”
Two hours later, Lizzie was a dripping pile of goo. She hadn’t worked so hard outside of a physical therapy room since…well, since the last time she’d danced with Remy—and with Dima. That had been something flirty and dangerous. This was sheer determination. Every impulse to correct her form and hold a clean, proper line was shot down. She fought for hot, gritty, full-on sexy. Basically, she danced with Remy the way she had fucked Dima. The promise of performing that way with her favorite partner was the reward she kept firmly in mind.
He’d wanted her passion. He would get every last thumping beat of it.
Remy propelled her into a cartwheel lift, then back down again with relative ease. She liked being able to trust him so quickly, even if she didn’t readily catch his cues and body languages. Wrong man. Plain and simple.
Feet back on the floor, she prepared to go into the next sequence of body rolls.
Remy released her without explanation and stopped the music. “Goddamn, that’s it.”
She shook her head, wiped a glaze of sweat from her forehead. “What?”
“What’s been missing from those two.”
“Dima and Jeanne?”
“Sure as shit. C’mon. I’ll show you.”
Lizzie stood in the middle of the floor, her heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with two steady hours of dance.
“I meant it. Get your fine ass over here.”
Rolling her eyes about as hard as she rolled her neck, she grabbed her water bottle and followed Remy down the hall. Her knee felt…all right. A little tender, but so was the rest of her. It actually blended in with the overall body shock of being back in positions that should feel natural. They weren’t just yet.
Remy knocked on the door to Declan’s private apartment. Once inside, Lizzie realized exactly why she’d been brought there. A huge bank of televisions, six screens by six, lined one entire wall of what appeared to be Declan’s living room.
The man himself was sitting on his couch, feet up, with a cellphone and a half-eaten sandwich on the table next to him. A laptop was open on his stomach, which belied his casual clothing: sweats and a Club Devant Henley.
“Nice work so far, Miss Maynes,” he said. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your groove. In fact, it looks stronger than ever.”
Lizzie flicked her attention back to the televisions, which displayed news channels, an old black-and-white movie, recordings of previous Club Devant dances, and a live-cam shot of each room in the building. Rumors circled that Declan was a bit of a voyeur and kept his business under close watch, but this was just overwhelming.
“Why are we here again?”
Remy nodded to a series of remote controls. “You mind, boss? I need footage of Maynes and Turgenev in Montreal last spring—their samba—and practice footage of him and Jeanne from yesterday.”
With boggling speed, Declan was able to bring up the requested videos. He closed down the rest of the screens, which still faintly glowed a luminescent charcoal gray. Lizzie spun down the rabbit hole.
“Here,” Remy said. His accent was thicker. Funny how he revealed more of himself when he was deeply submerged into his work. “Watch this,
chère
.”
The competition at Montreal had been a disappointment. Coming off their third world title, they may as well have had targets on their backs. Every couple had been gunning for them. The judges, too, had apparently decided on novelty rather than quality, giving their love to a Czech pair who played everything too by the book for even Lizzie’s tastes.
Seeing a younger version of herself on film was like watching a ghost. Some other Lizzie Maynes. Deep tan. Stage makeup. Raven-black hair in a half up-do that still let her fling it and shake it. Dima was resplendent in form-fitting tuxedo-style trousers and a white dress shirt open at the throat. Through the catty politics of the circuit, they’d been shoved to the center spot on the floor. The cameras, and often the judges’ attention, rarely strayed past the flash and sparkle easily found along the perimeter.
She’d been angry for this, their last dance in Montreal. No hope of winning—not after the previous rounds’ marks. But there had been a moment. One moment. Searching for it on screen, she clasped her hands over her heart when it replayed. Out of protocol, and completely out of character, Dima had broken their formal pose to lean down and whisper in her ear. His breath had been a kiss, his words a benediction. “Let it go, little one. This one will be just for us.”
They’d murdered that goddamn samba.
Remy whistled low under his breath, reminding Lizzie where she was. Not in Montreal, but watching herself on a wall of flat-screen monitors. Declan had crossed his arms, studying intently.
Drawn back to the dance, she marveled at how free they looked. Her and Dima. She’d been entirely soaked up by his eyes, that dark, magnetic pull. Every touch for her. Every bit of fire and sharpness for them alone. They’d made so much magic for two minutes that it had washed away the bitter taste of the bad weekend. Afterward, still in a buoyant, defiant mood, they’d gone out for totally forbidden French fries. They’d laughed and told the whole dance world to go take a leap.
He’d made it better.
Tears she’d thought exhausted that morning were gathering again. The night before had been about getting their fuck on, not getting enough rest. She was too tired for this pain.
“Remy, what is this about?”
“Watch this lift.”
Textbook Maynes and Turgenev. Trust. Hellacious strength and momentum, but hiding those details until all that remained was sexy elegance. The best of the best.
“Shit, you’re right,” Declan said. He’d set the laptop aside, elbows on his knees. Only his eyes flicked as he examined the screen. “He’s going to hurt himself.”
“Please, guys. I’m tired. Can we get to the point?”
Declan only shrugged. He pushed a button on the remote. Montreal went into freeze frame, with her and Dima arched into a sensual body roll. Goddamn it. Another button pushed and the practice room footage started up. If watching the shadows of their old lives was difficult, watching Dima practice with Jeanne was torture. It was all she could do to keep snarky comments in her own head. Knees too wide. Weight not forward enough on her steps. She had a weird habit of using her flexibility in all the wrong ways. She just looked…loose.
No fire.
Then, the same lift. A two-hand grab that propelled Jeanne up over Dima’s shoulders.
Lizzie recognized it too—the strain on his face. Dima never looked like that. The job of a male dancer was to keep his partner safe, show her off as a fabulous creature, and never reveal the difficulty involved in lifting her.
She frowned. “What the hell? He’s doing all the work.”
“I came to ballroom late,” Remy said. “It’s not my first language, so to speak. I didn’t put it together until you and I were dancing. You trusted me right away.”
“Best way not to get injured.”