by Traci Hall
DANCING
by the Sea
TRACI HALL
Copyright © 2016 Kendelle Press
All rights reserved.
Cover Design ©Christopher Hawke - CommunityAuthors.com
Kendelle Press Logo © More Than Publicity
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
A Note From the Author
About the Author
Series by Traci Hall:
By the Sea series:
AMBROSIA by the Sea
KARMA by the Sea
PUPPY LOVE by the Sea
MASQUERADE by the Sea
HOLIDAY by the Sea
FESTIVAL by the Sea
DANCING by the Sea
Spokan Falls series:
CRIMSON GOLD
SILVER SKY
Rhiannon Godfrey series:
HER WICCAN, WICCAN WAYS
SOMETHING WICCAN THIS WAY COMES
WICCAN COOL
WICCAN WISHES
WICCAN CHALICE
WICCAN DREAM
Boadicea Series:
LOVE’S MAGIC
BEAUTY’S CURSE
BOADICEA’S LEGACY
Queen’s Guard Series:
VIOLET
PEONY
ROSE
For more go to TraciHall.com
Chapter One
Armand Vargas surveyed the high-ceilinged room with a critical eye. DanceFusion. His vision created from sketches on scraps of paper and memories of his grandparent’s old dance studio in New York. Black walnut flooring covered the fifty by forty-foot space. Windows, shaded with dark walnut blinds, lined the street-side wall, and twenty-five feet of mirrors across each end reflected the South Florida sunshine.
Tension worse than pre-performance jitters made him pause and check his reflection before opening the door that led into the waiting room. It seemed strange to wear tailored jeans and Italian black leather shoes instead of dance pants and a t-shirt, but in this new venture, he was the boss. Did the black button-up shirt give the right message? What if nobody came? What if Lucas’s smear campaign kept the talent south of this studio like some kind of dance version of the Hatfield’s versus the McCoy’s?
Winners don’t think like losers, the remembered voice of his grandfather shouted in his ear. You want the gold? You want it, or you want to think of somebody else dancing off with it?
I want it, Poppa.
He’d signed a two-year lease on the building, pouring every last penny into a business venture that had the potential for epic failure. DanceFusion, where he planned to teach the ballroom classics with a modern twist, was a million-dollar investment on a half-million dollar budget. What could go wrong? With trepidation, he opened the door.
To his relief, there were five ladies seated on the L-shaped leather couch. A young woman, maybe twenty, her light brown hair in a bun, waved. “Hi.”
“Hello.” Armand spoke calmly in spite of the nerves tightening his vocal chords. One man, about forty, trim, clean-shaven with dark blond hair, stood by the front door, holding it open for another woman as she rushed in. Seven dancers. He needed a minimum of ten just to register for the regionals in West Palm Beach next month.
The energy in the room changed then, shifting into something frenetic as the woman at the door hitched her bag up her arm to her shoulder, bumping into the blond man with a quick apologetic smile.
A smile Armand immediately recognized.
His gut knotted and his welcoming words died on his lips.
She looked up, stunning with her dark chestnut hair loose around her face, softening her sharp cheekbones and too-square chin.
Her eyes were the deep brown of dark European chocolate, fringed with black and lined like a cat’s. Her full lips were vivid red despite the morning hour. She loved her lipstick, painting the canvas of her face, he knew that well. He remembered waking up next to her, touching the curve of her naked cheek with the back of his finger. She was more beautiful without her mask but she’d never believed it.
She stilled, like a movie on pause, and held his gaze.
“What in the hell are you doing here, Zamira?” Armand’s gruff tones went beyond rude and his fists clenched at his sides. The blond man’s forehead furrowed in shocked surprise and the women on the couches behind him gasped in unison.
Shit. Bad impression.
But he couldn’t stop himself or apologize. This woman had torn his heart from his chest and tapped her way all over his dying body.
“Armando.” Her husky voice and Argentinian accent brought shivers to his skin. Only she had ever called him that. A sensual endearment that now hit him below the belt like a sucker-punch.
“What are you doing here?” The question was just as strained the second time he asked. His plan to lead with confidant authority collapsed—she knew better than anyone that he had zero experience as an instructor.
“You’re hiring dancers.” Zamira stepped fully into the waiting area, dropping her bag at her feet. Dressed in a black leotard and a zebra print wrap-skirt that stopped mid-thigh, she held her body with innate grace, his eyes with the slightest tremble of her chin.
They’d danced together for a short year of heaven and he’d reveled in her passion. As a lover. As a dance partner.
To have her in this studio? To dance with her again?
No damn way.
“I want to try out for your new dance company.” She spoke in tones that caressed his ears, reminding him of their doomed love affair. His studio was done before it even officially opened. Why was she here? Two years ago, she’d sworn on her life that leaving Argentina would kill her.
He stuffed his fisted hands into his front pockets, striving for cool. Armand turned toward the waiting ladies and cleared his throat. What to do? Counted to three and then entered the dance studio. “Follow me.”
Ignore Zamira. Gather his thoughts. He paused at the open door, allowing everyone to go in before him. He pointed to the eight-foot tall walnut lockers next to the private kitchen. A bench and a partial privacy screen in mahogany finished off the far corner of the room.
“Choose a locker, and find a spot in front of the mirrors. You will have about ten minutes to warm up.”
An early twenty-something with the lean physique of a ballerina looked around the large room with appreciation. “This is really cool. I love the black and white pictures on canvas—modern, but old-fashioned.”
“That’s what I was going for,” he admitted.
Her friend, a girl with hazel eyes and pink hair, asked, “Do you have a style preference for the try-out?”
Armand gave her what he hoped was a warm smile. “Whatever you think will showcase your talent.” No doubt however he acted in this moment would make it to Miami as soon as the try-out ended—and he’d already given Lucas enough ammunition with his specific requests for dancers. Five years minimum professional experience only. “For now, I’m studying skill levels.”
He didn’t look at Zamira, but he smelled her perfume. She mixed the essential oils herself, a combination of lemon and cinnamon. She walked by him, her shoulders set, he
r gaze on the lockers near the closed kitchen door.
“I brought music,” the blond man said, following Zamira.
Armand opened the cupboard next to the tall row of lockers. Inside was a docking station for music. “Set it up?”
“Sure. I’m Oscar.” Oscar, dressed in black knit drawstring sweatpants and a dark blue fitted t-shirt, had a slight build, but a masculine energy that Armand hoped showed well when he danced.
“I’m curious how you heard about the try-outs for DanceFusion.” Armand had done print ads and paid for select radio slots, hoping to attract real talent to start his dance troupe. How had Zamira found out?
“Facebook.” Oscar pulled his earbuds from his pocket. “You have a fan page, you know, from when you were on Dance, Dance USA?”
Never underestimate the power of social media. Those fans had helped him win the competition and it was that prize money funding his dance studio. “What’s your dance experience?”
Oscar dropped his duffel bag on the bench, his iPod in hand. “Competition circuit from age twelve.”
“Late start.” Most professional dancers start from the womb, or at least kindergarten. “What’s your accent?”
Oscar grinned. “Boston. It wasn’t easy being a straight dancer in one of the toughest cities around, but I managed.”
“Mostly trophies as prizes,” Armand commented. Which usually meant the family had money. Dance wasn’t cheap, and there wasn’t a lot of financial reward.
“In the states, yes. I traveled through Europe with DanceCo. Worked Broadway for a few years.”
Forty wasn’t ancient, but it was nearing the end of the line for a professional dancer. Still, if the man had skill, Armand would give him a chance. Once Armand got being an instructor down, he’d teach his key dancers, which would bring in another revenue stream. “What brought you to South Florida?”
Oscar shivered and rubbed his arms. “Brr. New York winters.”
Armand laughed. The guy had a good sense of humor, which could be a nice balance against the intensity of performing. “I understand that.”
Ballerina girl joined the conversation, her smile bright and friendly. “I studied at NYC Dance. Central Park is gorgeous, but I am not a fan of the snow either. I’ll take sun and sand any day of the week.”
As they talked, Armand kept Zamira in the corner of his eye. She took off her skirt and put it in a locker, her black leotard and tights showcasing her toned figure. How was it that he was standing upright, breathing, communicating, making sense?
When she’d left him for her old dance partner, Diego Santana, he’d honestly thought he’d die. He’d poured himself into competitions, and landed on reality TV—dancing to forget Zamira.
Now what to do with his worst nightmare come to life?
*****
Zamira felt the fury coming from Armand as if he had laser beams directed at her head. It had taken every drama class she’d ever attended to act like his shock, his anger and hurt wasn’t killing her, too.
If that guy, Oscar, hadn’t been at the front door, blocking it, then she might have dashed out and said adios to her newfound courage.
Six-foot-tall, trim, gorgeous as sin, dark-haired Armando still kindled desire in her blood, passion, after two years. Two years where she’d stalked him on social media, watched his reality TV program, voted for him during the final week of judging.
She’d celebrated with her parents in Argentina when he’d won, despite Diego’s sneering comments. Jealous, she knew. Her ex-dancing partner lived in envy of Armand, and it wasn’t pretty.
“Hi,” the chatty girl with the long neck said, capturing Zamira’s attention as she opened a locker next to hers. “I’m Sophie.” Sophie hesitated, looking from Armand, who was setting up music with Oscar, to Zamira. “And, uh, you’re Zamira.”
“The infamous,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. Armand hadn’t bothered to hide his anger, but in his defense, she was probably the last person in the world he’d thought to see. Wanted to see.
“You used to dance together?”
“Yes.” We did more than dance. We owned the stage. And if sweet Sophie thought she was going to steal her dance partner, she’d have to think again.
Dios, how she and Armand had danced. Her body tensed as she remembered his controlled strength, his caress. Zamira took a hair tie from her bag and scraped her hair into a bun at her nape.
He hated her now.
She hadn’t expected that.
But Armand was a professional, above all else. When it came to the artistry of dance, of the poetry between dancers, he would realize that he still danced best with her.
Sophie sat cross-legged on the floor and put on dance socks. “Do you know why Armand set his studio so far north of Miami? All of the best ones are in the center of the music scene. Where the clubs are.”
Zamira sniffed in defense of Armand’s choice. “Do you think so?” She thickened her accent. “Armando does not need to go where everybody else is—he will draw a strong dance company right here.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean to say he couldn’t do it,” she stammered and stood up. “I just wondered why.”
“He is his own man.” Always focused on the dream of being the dancer his grandfather had been, in the sixties, forcing the old ballroom dancers to think outside the cha-cha-cha. She, classically trained, had listened to music in a new way as Armand showed her to how to challenge what she thought she knew.
“I loved his dancing, especially the night of the finale.” Sophie walked to the ballet barre, standing en pointe as she waited for Armand’s next instruction.
Armand waited near a high-top table with two bar stools, avoiding Zamira’s glances as if she was invisible. She recalled many late nights watching the stars, drinking wine, dreaming. He’d wanted to dance across the continents, learning something new in each place that would enhance his form or understanding of human movement. To move the line between artist and the art.
She’d wanted another trophy. Another tiara. She’d been estupida.
He’d made it clear two years ago, when he returned to the United States, that he didn’t want to hear from her. Young and naïve, she hadn’t realized what that meant to her own broken heart. The fact that she’d done it to herself didn’t make it mend any faster.
It hadn’t healed at all, which was why she’d left Diego to find Armand.
He’d kept her heart.
The music blared from overhead speakers, startling her.
Zamira slipped into her dance shoes and applied a quick layer of gloss over her mouth. The red color kept her from biting her lips, which she often did when nervous.
Armand’s pulsing anger toward her threatened Zamira’s composure. She wiped her damp palms on a towel she kept in her dance bag and then shut the locker door to join the other dancers. She smelled hope in the room, saw the younger girls warming up and casting curious looks toward Armand.
Zamira wanted a second chance to be with Armand. Why not? He wasn’t married, and the studio, once he hired other dance teachers, allowed him the freedom to travel with her and compete together as a couple.
They would get their chance to make headlines again.
United. Zamira and Armand.
Chapter Two
“Plie, plie. Toes out,” Sophie mumbled as she faced her image in the mirror.
“Excuse me?” Zamira took her place next to the younger woman. Sophie had to be five foot eight or nine—three inches or so taller than Zamira, who came to her chin in their reflection.
“Just a reminder. My mom drilled it into my head from the age of five, and I swear I hear ‘toes out’ in my sleep.”
Zamira nodded in understanding. Her parents hadn’t been the kind to manage her dance career, but they’d hired a professional to make sure she stayed on task—after asking a million times if she wouldn’t rather be a lawyer, like them.
“Start with some simple stretches,” Armand said in a rich voice.
“Release any nervous jitters.” Armand, just standing there, oozed charm. Charisma. But as he paced the length of the dance floor, she couldn’t help staring. Fitted black jeans, black button-up shirt. Seeing him again in the flesh after dreaming about him for so long was disconcerting—especially when she recalled him in warm-up pants, bare feet and a t-shirt. “No need for nerves today.”
Zamira sat on the mat and assumed a yoga pose, her legs crossed before her, her spine straight. Armand had paid well for the ads announcing his new company, his call to the community for seasoned dancers delivered in high-end magazines as if money was no object. Her aunt had forwarded the advertisement to her.
“We will have ten minutes of warm up before you each take a turn to show me what you’ve got it. The ten minutes starts now.” Armand spoke with authority she’d never heard from him before.
She searched his face for other signs of change. His smooth-shaven jaw was the same, his hair a little longer at the collar. His muscular body moved along the line of dancers with grace. She couldn’t forget that in the last two years he’d become a reality television star. As he smiled in welcome or encouragement at each of the dancers, she saw no signs of arrogance.
Would he dance with them today? Or maybe he’d stay dressed in street clothes during the auditions.
Zamira stood and stretched at the barre, feeling Armand’s eyes on her as she lifted her leg to her head. Straight spine, straight calf, pointed toes. She bent to the side, curving her arm as she reached for the opposite side. She shifted her gaze to the mirror and watched him swiftly turn away. He was not immune to her presence.
A knock sounded on the studio door. A redhead with freckles and bright green eyes poked her head in. “Are we too late? I’m Marciana.”
The girl was beautiful, Zamira thought. Would she capture Armand’s attention? He’s mine. I’ve come too far to give up now.
“Of course not.” Armand held the door open. Two men in warm-up pants followed the woman into the room.
