“That’s just the thing. It goes both ways. I knew you’d be good for whatever I threw at you today,
chère
, so no worries. Bing bang boom, it worked. But I’ve been fighting this problem with those two for weeks, not seeing why it didn’t work.”
“Bad cycle,” Declan added, his voice low. “He doesn’t trust her, so he’s doing too much of the work. He’ll screw up his spine. She’ll get freaked and hold back. They’re going to wreck each other.”
Lizzie stopped gnawing on her lower lip when she tasted blood. “Show me again.”
Rewind. Replay. Same result. Dima was taking too much of the weight on his shoulders—quite literally. A man danced like that when he was inexperienced, which certainly wasn’t the case. Or when he was holding back. Hell, maybe even when he was scared.
Of what? Good God, he was the strongest man she’d ever known. All his plans and his deep inner world…
Do you think I tore my ACL on my own?
She’d said it out of frustration. She certainly hadn’t meant it. Yet what if, somewhere in his mind, he was still blaming himself? To hear it from her lips must’ve reinforced whatever the hellish evil torture he stored in there. If he’d turned down Svetlana in the ER waiting room, maybe guilt had made his choice. Bad enough he was making decisions without consulting Lizzie, but to make them from such a bad, hurting state of mind?
All without consulting her. It was enough to make a girl pissed.
He was going to get himself hurt. In trying to atone for what had happened, maybe even to try and keep the new, less experienced girl safe, he was going to do his body serious damage.
“You going to join us, Lizzie?” Declan’s stare was utterly controlling. He was a man used to having decisions made promptly. Her hesitation must be driving him batshit, but neither was she going to cave and make a choice when her heart was so badly bruised.
“I’d like to take Jeanne’s place for Dima’s next performance.”
“Good. I’ll have the promotions team make the change.”
“Please,” she said. “For the first show… I have a lot of ground to make up with him. Hell, he might not even want to after…well, after some things of late. Can we just leave the billing as is?”
“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” He said it with a slight smile. “All right, we’ll leave it for now. Maybe you can knock some sense into him. While you’re at it, make sure he signs that contract I gave him.”
“Contract?”
“He hasn’t renewed his stint here at Devant.”
The floor fell away from Lizzie’s feet. Dima, who booked their travel and their tour dates. Dima, who planned their meals a week in advance. Dima, who’d paid the bills since their first day living away from their parents. He never just
forgot
. No, his silence on that matter was a choice. He’d left her in the morning without so much as an explanation—another choice by default. Those two facts taken together in such close succession, and coupled with Svetlana’s not-so-coincidental appearance the night before, shot cold chills down to her heels. The room turned stuffy and nightmarish.
“I want to get back to work,” she said quietly, turning to go.
She’d made the right call in trying to step into this world with him, because the alternative was losing him forever. She only hoped she wasn’t too late.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Even in the clinging, plastic dry cleaning bag, the dress was a menace. Dima hung it on the back of Lizzie’s bedroom door and stepped back. He crossed an arm over his chest, held his chin with the other hand and simply stared at the dress.
Tiny. Red. Lots of spangles and beads and other adornments Dima had never bothered to learn. What he knew was that the dress barely covered her breasts. It arrowed down to satisfy the barest decency standards. In repose, the dress didn’t look like all that much.
On her, though, it would be entirely different because of the way she moved. The ruffle that started at the ass would dangle down to her knees, as she shimmied hot enough to rival an open flame.
He walked backwards until his knees hit the stool she kept at her dressing table. His elbow hooked on one of the few empty spaces among the bottles and pots and sprays. The walls wheezed as the pipes strained and hissed to a quiet hum.
Dima ought to leave. They’d had three days. Three days without directly seeing each other. He hadn’t even been sure it was possible.
After sleeping in every morning, she ran out the door with her dance bag over her shoulder. At night when she came in, she went straight to her room again. She didn’t ask him to cook, didn’t greet him beyond the bare necessities.
Not that he volunteered, nor sought her out in turn.
Because Christ, what would he say?
Sorry I fucked you and abandoned you the next morning.
What he’d been imagining for their future was impossible. She didn’t see him as anything more than he’d been for the duration of their partnership. He just figured he’d beat her to the punch, before she realized what crazy, extreme places his head had gone.
However, there was no getting out of today, no matter how much he might wish.
He scented her first. That sugary wash of fragrance followed her out of the bathroom along with the warm, humid air. The door pushed open next, and there she was.
He held himself still, like posing on stage before unleashing the first step, but that didn’t mean he was calm on the inside.
Lizzie wore only a towel.
A good-sized bath sheet, it concealed her from breasts to hips, even covering her perfect ass. Her exposed skin gleamed with dampness, and suddenly he knew in a visceral, taste-and-scent memory of having his mouth on her cunt, of thrusting his cock inside her.
For only a moment, she’d gazed at him as if the sun and moon dangled from his fingertips.
She wasn’t looking at him like that now. She stopped dead, her eyes going wide. She reacted more like he’d laid a nest of rattlers in her room. “Dima…”
“I knew you’d forgotten, so I had your favorite competition dress cleaned.” He nodded toward the door.
Confusion scrunched up her nose. She shut the door, eyed the dry cleaning bag and dropped her jaw. “Oh no. The thing for Lionel’s foundation.”
He leaned his chin against his fist. The charity event in memory of late choreographer Lionel Woodruff drew luminaries from the entire dance community, not just in New York but around the world. To receive an invitation to perform was a marvelous honor. He and Lizzie had celebrated with a night on the town upon learning the news.
He sure as hell didn’t feel like celebrating anymore.
“Yes, the exhibition. Which we agreed to last year. Before your injury.”
Some bright flash sparked in her eyes. “Injury. I can’t. It’ll suck that we didn’t give them much notice, but you know how these things work. They’ll have three other options lined up.”
“No.”
She clutched more tightly at the knot of towel between her breasts. Her knuckles were white, but she still couldn’t totally cover those pretty mounds. “Goddamn it, Dima. You don’t get to
no
me. We’re partners.”
“Are we?”
He didn’t need an answer. That was their problem. They were partners. Maybe less if she didn’t even want to dance with him.
“Of course we are.” Her chin lifted. “Which is why you don’t get to lay down autocratic bullshit. I can’t dance yet. Besides, we haven’t practiced.”
He boiled inside. Seethed and roiled. There were so many things he wanted. To shake her, to be able to live without her. To pull her down over his hips and toss that towel away. He’d fuck her until she was sweaty again and her head spun and she wouldn’t be able to deny him anymore.
“We know this routine inside out. I bet you’d know how to dance it five years from now without a speck of practice. I don’t know if your problem is with me or your confidence, but I’m not putting up with it.”
“I don’t have any problems,” she blustered, but her gaze escaped to find the pile of laundry overflowing her basket.
“I know you’re dancing every day.” He stood. Troubles weighed on him so heavily, dragging his tendons into slow, jittering messes. Maybe it was the Russian thing to allow problems to depress him, but damned and the saints if a bottle of vodka wasn’t a temptation. “I didn’t understand that we were at a place where we had need of lying.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She shoved damp hair out of her face and gave him the wide-eyed look she seemed to think could convince him the sky was green.
He walked toward her, assuming she’d slip sideways and give up control of the doorway, but she held her ground. He ought to have known better. She might be his little one, but she’d always had a spine of titanium.
“After more than a decade, you think I don’t know what you look like when you’ve been danced out? What your breathing sounds like?” He dipped his head low, until he was a mere lick away from her delicate neck. A single lock of her hair brushed over his cheek. He scooped it away, tucked it behind her ear. “As a matter of fact, it’s almost identical to what you look like when you’ve been fucked to the point of exhaustion.”
Her head jerked back so she could look him in the eyes, but she didn’t go any farther. Red washed over the tops of her breasts, up over her pale throat. The barest purple smear there still lingered from his fingers.
She didn’t seem to mind the idea of another round. She licked her lips and her eyes turned blurry, hazy green. If he wanted, he could probably kiss her, fuck her against the wall of her bedroom with her strong legs wrapped around his hips.
They would be exactly where they’d been before.
So he shut that part of him down. Again. Like he had for years, before he realized what he truly needed from her. His spine solidified, drawing him away from her sweetly scented aura.
“Get dressed. They’re expecting us.”
She stared at him blankly, as if she couldn’t believe he’d backed down. Her mouth pulled into a pout. “I don’t want to go all the way across the city wearing that.”
“There’s a car service coming for us in two hours. Think you can be ready in that time?”
“Of course.”
“Fine.” He managed not to throw open the door. Quite the accomplishment considering the tight set of his joints. He’d need to stretch for an entire goddamn hour before he could dance. “Let’s see if you can follow through with anything without step-by-step directions.”
With that, he snapped the door shut firmly behind him. His shoulders finally slumped under the weight of his tension and his fears. He let his head hang. He should have cancelled this demonstration, but giving it up would be tantamount to giving them up completely.
As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t take that step—even if Svetlana’s texts that morning had started to make sense. Back away from the pain. Make his own way. He could. As time dragged, waiting, he thought he might.
How could he, though, when one hour and fifty-eight minutes later, Lizzie emerged into the living room? He’d been passing the time on the couch, with one leg kicked up to stretch down the length. His smartphone was in his hand, open to an email from Svetlana—another entreaty to renew their relationship, in every sense of the word.
He stood and dropped the phone on the couch. All thoughts of Svetlana and a fresh start just…disappeared.
“Holy mother of God,” he whispered.
The dress emphasized her lush femininity. Yet her strength shone from the straight planes of her stomach, solid arms, and the lines that created long ridges up her calves. And of course, red heels for dancing. He’d never known anyone so bold.
If she had wanted him, she’d have made it known. His Lizzie barreled after what she craved.
She held her hands out to the side. “Right on time and a work of art.”
She’d said that before every competition.
Dima couldn’t help it. He grabbed her hands. Three steps of a salsa later, a spin and a four count.
She laughed, her face turned up. “It’s us, isn’t it? We’re back. We could take it back. Dima, we could still own it all.”
The spot where his heart should have been slowly filled with lead. After letting go of her hands, he gathered the bags he’d set by the door. “Come on.”
The town car downstairs was elegant and well upholstered—and quiet. No music played. Dima let Lizzie slide in first, looking out over the roof of the car. He felt her eyes on him, assessing.
He needed to slide in next to her. There was nowhere else to go. Even so, he was perfectly aware of the exact distance between them. Less than an arm’s length, and yet enough space to fit another person.
Hell, maybe this would be better with Paul. He balanced them. His easygoing nature kept them from spinning too far out of control.
“Have you thought about it?” Her voice was so quiet. Not usual at all. “Going back?”
“I have.”
He simply wasn’t going back. The dances at Club Devant might be demanding, but performing there wasn’t the same sort of life. Not on the road. Not pushing through even when he thought his shoulder was shot, fearing that anything less would mean missing out on the best floor placement the next day. Not practicing through exhaustion, or constantly adding new tricks just to keep up with the competition.