by Nora Roberts
My heart’s whole and safe, Ruth decided. Perhaps too safe. She thought of Donald. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She yawned and stretched again. And there was that early class in the morning.
***
Sweat dampened Ruth’s T-shirt. Nick’s choreography for The Red Rose was complicated and strenuous. She took a much-needed breather at the barre. The remainder of the cast was scattered around the rehearsal hall, either dancing under Nick’s unflagging instructions or waiting, as she did, for the next summons.
It was only eleven, but Ruth had already worked through a two-hour morning class. The long, loose T-shirt she wore over her tights was darkened by patches of perspiration; a few tendrils of her hair had escaped from her tightly secured bun. Still, watching Nick demonstrate a move, any thought of fatigue drained from her. He was, she thought as she always did, absolutely fabulous.
As artistic director of the company and as established creator of ballets, he no longer had to dance to remain in the limelight. He danced, Ruth knew, because he was born to do so. He skimmed just under six feet, but his lean, wiry build gave an illusion of more height. His hair was like gold dust and curled carelessly around a face that had never completely lost its boyish charm. His mouth was beautiful, full and finely sculpted. And when he smiled . . .
When he smiled, there was no resisting him. Fine lines would spread out from his eyes, and the large irises would become incredibly blue.
Watching him demonstrate a turn, Ruth was grateful that at thirty-three, with all his other professional obligations, he still continued to dance.
He stopped the pianist with a flick of his hand. “All right, children,” he said in his musically Russian-accented voice. “It could be worse.”
This from Davidov, Ruth mused wryly, was close to an accolade.
“Ruth, the pas de deux from the first act.”
She crossed to him instantly, giving an absent brush at the locks of hair that danced around her face. Nick was a creature of moods—varied, mercurial, unexplained moods. Today he appeared to be all business. Ruth knew how to match his temperament with her own. Facing, they touched right hands, palm to palm. Without a word, they began.
It was an early love scene, more a duel of wits than an expression of romance. But Nick hadn’t written a fairy tale ballet this time. He had written a passionate one. The characters were a prince and a gypsy, each fiercely flesh and blood. To accommodate them the dances were exuberant and athletic. They challenged each other; he demanded, she defied. Now and then a toss of the head or a gesture of the wrist was employed to accent the mood.
The late summer sun poured through the windows, patterning the floor. Drops of sweat trickled unheeded, unfelt, down Ruth’s back as she turned in, then out of Nick’s arms. The character of Carlotta would enrage and enrapture the prince throughout the ballet. The mood for their duel of hearts was set during their first encounter.
It was at times like this, when Ruth danced with Nick, that she realized she would always worship him, the dancer, the legend. To be his partner was the greatest thrill of her life. He took her beyond herself, beyond what she had ever hoped to be. On her journey from student to the corps de ballet to principal dancer, Ruth had danced with many partners, but none of them could touch Nick Davidov for sheer brilliance and precision. And endurance, she thought ruefully as he ordered the pas de deux to begin again.
Ruth took a moment to catch her breath as the pianist turned back the pages of the score. Nick turned to her, lifting his hand for hers. “Where is your passion today, little one?” he demanded.
It was a salutation Ruth detested, and he knew it. The grin shot across his face as she glared at him. Saying nothing, she placed her palm to his.
“Now, my gypsy, tell me to go to the devil with your body as well as your eyes. Again.”
They began, but this time Ruth stopped thinking of her pleasure in dancing with him. She competed now, step for step, leap for leap. Her annoyance gave Nick precisely what he wanted. She dared him to best her. She spun into his arms, her eyes hot. Poised only a moment, she spun away again and with a grand jeté, challenged him to follow her.
They ended as they had begun, palm to palm, with her head thrown back. Laughing, Nick caught her close and kissed her enthusiastically on both cheeks.
“There, now, you’re wonderful! You spit at me even while you offer your hand.”
Ruth’s breath was coming quickly after the effort of the dance. Her eyes, still lit with temper, remained on Nick’s. A swift flutter raced up her spine, distracting her. She saw that Nick had felt it, too. She saw it in his eyes, felt it in the fingers he pressed into the small of her back. Then it was gone, and Nick drew her away.
“Lunch,” he stated and earned a chorus of approval. The rehearsal hall began to clear immediately. “Ruth.” Nick took her hand as she turned to join the others. “I want to talk to you.”
“All right, after lunch.”
“Now. Here.”
Her brows drew together. “Nick, I missed breakfast—”
“There’s yogurt in the refrigerator downstairs, and Perrier.” Releasing her hand, Nick walked to the piano. He sat and began to improvise. “Bring some for me, too.”
Hands on her hips, Ruth watched him play. Of course, she thought wrathfully, he’d never consider I’d say no. He’d never think to ask me if I had other plans. He expects I’ll run off like a good little girl and do his bidding without a word of complaint.
“Insufferable,” she said aloud.
Nick glanced up but continued to play. “Did you speak?” he asked mildly.
“Yes,” she answered distinctly. “I said, you’re insufferable.”
“Yes.” Nick smiled at her good-humoredly. “I am.”
Despite herself, Ruth laughed. “What flavor?” she demanded and was pleased when he gave her a blank look. “Yogurt,” she reminded him. “What flavor yogurt, Davidov.”
In short order Ruth’s arms were ladened with cartons of yogurt, spoons, glasses and a large bottle of Perrier. There was the sound of chatter from the canteen below her mingling with Nick’s playing the piano from the hall above. She climbed the stairs, exchanging remarks with two members of the corps and a male soloist. The music Nick played was a low, bluesy number. Because she recognized the style, Ruth knew it to be one of his own compositions. No, not a composition, she corrected as she paused in the doorway to watch him. A composition you write down, preserve. This is music that comes from the heart.
The sun’s rays fell over his hair and his hands—long, narrow hands with fluid fingers that could express more with a gesture than the average person could with a speech.
He looks so alone!
The thought sped into her mind unexpectedly, catching her off balance. It’s the music, she decided. It’s only because he plays such sad music. She walked toward him, her ballet shoes making no sound on the wood floor.
“You look lonely, Nick.”
From the way his head jerked up, Ruth knew she had broken into some deep, private thought. He looked at her oddly a moment, his fingers poised above the piano keys. “I was,” he said. “But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
Ruth arched a brow. “Is this going to be a business lunch?” she asked him as she set cartons of yogurt on the piano.
“No.” He took the bottle of Perrier, turning the cap. “Then we’d argue, and that’s bad for the digestion, yes? Come, sit beside me.”
Ruth sat on the bench, automatically steeling herself for the jolt of electricity. To be where he was was to be in the vortex of power. Even now, relaxed, contemplating a simple dancer’s lunch, he was like a circuit left on hold.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, reaching for a carton of yogurt and a spoon.
“That’s what I want to know.”
Puzzled, she turned her head to find him studying her fa
ce. He had bottomless blue eyes, clear as glass, and the dancer’s ability for complete stillness.
“What do you mean?”
“I had a call from Lindsay.” The blue eyes were fixed unwaveringly on hers. His lashes were the color of the darkest shade of his hair.
More confused, Ruth wrinkled her brow. “Oh?”
“She thinks you’re not happy.” He was still watching her steadily: the pressure began to build at the base of her neck. Ruth turned away, and it lessened immediately. There had never been anyone else who could unnerve her with a look.
“Lindsay worries too much,” she said lightly, dipping the spoon into the yogurt.
“Are you, Ruth?” Nick laid his hand on her arm, and she was compelled to look back at him. “Are you unhappy?”
“No,” she said immediately, truthfully. She gave him the slow half smile that was so much a part of her. “No.”
He continued to scan her face as his hand slid down to her wrist. “Are you happy?”
She opened her mouth, prepared to answer, then closed it again on a quick sound of frustration. Why must those eyes be on hers, so direct, demanding perfect honesty? They wouldn’t accept platitudes or pat answers. “Shouldn’t I be?” she countered. His fingers tightened on her wrist as she started to rise.
“Ruth.” She had no choice but to face him again. “Are we friends?”
She fumbled for an answer. A simple yes hardly covered the complexities of her feelings for him or the uneven range of their relationship. “Sometimes,” she answered cautiously. “Sometimes we are.”
Nick accepted that, though amusement lit his eyes. “Well said,” he murmured. Unexpectedly, he gathered both of her hands in his and brought them to his lips. His mouth was soft as a whisper on her skin. Ruth didn’t pull away but stiffened, surprised and wary. His eyes met hers placidly over their joined hands, as if he were unaware of her would-be withdrawal. “Will you tell me why you’re not happy?”
Carefully, coolly, Ruth drew her hands from his. It was too difficult to behave in a contained manner when touching him. He was a physical man, demanding physical responses. Rising, Ruth walked across the room to a window. Manhattan hustled by below.
“To be perfectly honest,” she began thoughtfully, “I haven’t given my happiness much thought. Oh, no,” she laughed and shook her head. “That sounds pompous.” She spun back to face him, but he wasn’t smiling. “Nick, I only meant that until you asked me, I just hadn’t thought about being unhappy.” She shrugged and leaned back against the window sill. Nick poured some fizzing water and rising, took it to her.
“Lindsay’s worried about you.”
“Lindsay has enough to worry about with Uncle Seth and the children and her school.”
“She loves you,” he said simply.
He saw it—the slow smile, the darkening warmth in her eyes, the faintly mystified pleasure. “Yes, I know she does.”
“That surprises you?” Absently, he wound a loose tendril of her hair around his finger. It was soft and slightly damp.
“Her generosity astonishes me. I suppose it always will.” She paused a moment, then continued quickly before she lost her nerve. “Were you ever in love with her?”
“Yes,” he answered instantly, without embarrassment or regret. “Years ago, briefly.” He smiled and pushed one of Ruth’s loosened pins back into her hair. “She was always just out of my reach. Then before I knew it, we were friends.”
“Strange,” she said after a moment. “I can’t imagine you considering anything out of your reach.”
Nick smiled again. “I was very young, the age you are now. And it’s you we’re speaking of, Ruth, not Lindsay. She thinks perhaps I push you too hard.”
“Push too hard?” Ruth cast her eyes at the ceiling. “You, Nikolai?”
He gave her his haughtily amused look. “I, too, was astonished.”
Ruth shook her head, then moved back to the piano. She exchanged Perrier for yogurt. “I’m fine, Nick. I hope you told her so.” When he didn’t answer, Ruth turned, the spoon still between her lips. “Nick?”
“I thought perhaps you’ve had an unhappy . . . relationship.”
Her brows lifted. “Do you mean, am I unhappy over a lover?”
It was instantly apparent that he hadn’t cared for her choice of words. “You’re very blunt, little one.”
“I’m not a child,” she countered testily, then slapped the carton onto the piano again. “And I don’t—”
“Do you still see the designer?” Nick interrupted her coolly.
“The designer has a name,” she said sharply. “Donald Keyser. You make him sound like a label on a dress.”
“Do I?” Nick gave her a guileless smile. “But you don’t answer my question.”
“No, I don’t.” Ruth lifted the glass of Perrier and sipped calmly, though a flash of temper leaped into her eyes.
“Ruth, are you still seeing him?”
“That’s none of your business.” She made her voice light, but the steel was beneath it.
“You are a member of the company.” Though his eyes blazed into hers, he enunciated each word carefully. “I am the director.”
“Have you also taken over the role of Father Confessor?” Ruth tossed back. “Must your dancers check out their lovers with you?”
“Be careful how you provoke me,” he warned.
“I don’t have to justify my social life to you, Nick,” she shot back without a pause. “I go to class, I’m on time for rehearsals. I work hard.”
“Did I ask you to justify anything?”
“Not really. But I’m tired of you playing the role of stern uncle with me.” A frown line ran down between her brows as she stepped closer to him. “I have an uncle already, and I don’t need you to look over my shoulder.”
“Don’t you?” He plucked a loose pin from her hair and twirled it idly between his thumb and forefinger while his eyes pierced into hers.
His casual tone fanned her fury. “No!” She tossed her head. “Stop treating me like a child.”
Nick gripped her shoulders, surprising her with the quick violence. She was drawn hard against him, molded to the body she knew so well. But this was different. There were no music or steps or storyline. She could feel his anger—and something more, something just as volatile. She knew he was capable of sudden bursts of rage, and she knew how to deal with them, but now . . .
Her body was responding, astonishing her. Their hearts beat against each other. She could feel his fingertips digging into her flesh, but there was no pain. The hands she had brought up to shove him away with were now balled loosely into fists and held motionlessly aloft.
He dropped his eyes to her lips. A sharp pang of longing struck her—sharper, sweeter than anything she had ever experienced. It left her dazed and aching.
Slowly, knowing only that what she wanted was a breath away, Ruth leaned forward, letting her lids sink down in preparation for his kiss. His breath whispered on her lips, and hers parted. She said his name once, wonderingly.
Then, with a jerk and a muttered Russian oath, Nikolai pushed her away. “You should know better,” he said, biting off the words, “than to deliberately make me angry.”
“Was that what you were feeling?” she asked, stung by his rejection.
“Don’t push it.” Nick tossed off the American slang with a movement of his shoulders. Temper lingered in his eyes. “Stick with your designer,” he murmured at length in a quieter tone as he turned back to the piano. “Since he seems to suit you so well.”
He sat again and began to play, dismissing her with silence.
Chapter Two
She must have imagined it. Ruth relived the surge of concentrated desire she had experienced in Nick’s arms. No, I’m wrong, she told herself again. I’ve been in his arms countless times and never, never felt
anything like that. And, Ruth reminded herself as she showered off the grime of the day, I was in his arms a half-dozen times after, when we went back to rehearsal.
There had been something, she admitted grudgingly as she recalled the crackling tension in the air when they had gone over a passage time and time again. But it had been annoyance, aggravation.
Ruth let the water flow and stream over her, plastering her hair to her naked back. She tried, now that she was alone, to figure out her reaction to Nick’s sudden embrace.
Her response had been nakedly physical and shockingly urgent. On the other hand, she could recall the warm pleasure of Donald’s kisses—the soft, easily resisted temptation. Donald used quiet words and gentle persuasion. He used all the traditional trappings of seduction: flowers, candlelight, intimate dinners. He made her feel—Ruth grasped for a word. Pleasant. She rolled her eyes, knowing no man would be flattered with that description. Yet she had never experienced more than pleasant with Donald or any other man she had known. And then, in one brief moment, a man she had worked with for years, a man who could infuriate her with a word or move her to tears with a dance, had caused an eruption inside her. There had been nothing pleasant about it.
He never kissed me, she mused, losing herself for a moment in the remembering. Or even held me, really—not as a lover would, but . . .
It was an accident, she told herself and switched off the shower with a jerk of her wrist. A fluke. Just a chain reaction from the passion of the dance and the anger of the argument.
Standing naked and wet, Ruth reached for a towel to dry herself. She began with her hair. Her body was small and delicately built, thin by all but a dancer’s standards. She knew it intimately, as only a dancer could. Her limbs were long and slender and supple. It had been her classical dancer’s build—and the fateful events of her life—that had brought her to Lindsay years before.
Lindsay, Ruth smiled, remembering vividly her fiery dancing in Don Quixote, a ballet Lindsay had starred in before she and Ruth had met. Ruth’s smile became wry as she recalled her first face-to-face meeting with the older dancer. It had been years later, in Lindsay’s small ballet school. Ruth had been both awed and terrified. She had stated boldly that one day she, too, would dance in Don Quixote!
