by Traci Hall
Marciana, dressed in an emerald tank top and leggings, jangled her car keys. “There was an accident on the turnpike from Miami.”
Armand pointed to the locker area. “I am glad you made it safely. You can put your things there.”
If he kept everyone that showed this morning, he’d have ten dancers—eleven, including himself. Was that enough? Zamira, having arrived in the quiet seaside town days ago, had walked the sandy beaches wondering what Armand wanted with a dance company. Successful troupes traveled, usually the continent, and made decent money. Which seemed so different from what Armand of years ago had wanted. That Armand had claimed that art fed the soul.
“Thanks,” the taller of the two guys said, putting his hand on the shoulder of the shorter man.
Boyfriends. She didn’t care about anyone’s sexual preference, but the availability of straight men in dance was slim. It made Armand’s masculinity even more irresistible. Women were drawn to him. She didn’t like it. She remembered how special he made her feel when they were together, as if he didn’t see any woman but her.
Now he wouldn’t even acknowledge her.
Zamira finished stretching her body and focused on flexing her feet. Sophie, in a split on the floor, touched her forehead to her knee. “I can’t believe how nervous I feel,” the ballerina said in a torrent of words.
“You will be fine.” Zamira knew by watching Sophie stretch that unless she had lousy rhythm, she’d be enough for Armand to start with. Sophie had danced in New York, which was cutthroat—from what Zamira read on the dance forum boards.
“How long have you been dancing, Zamira?” Sophie rose from the floor in a single fluid motion, her body a pillar in flesh-toned tights.
“My parents started me out at three because my aunt thought tutus were cute. A choice they’ve come to regret.” She laughed softly.
“Really? Why?”
What was the simple way to answer? “They’re professionals.”
Sophie squinted, her arms relaxed at her sides. “Dancing isn’t a profession?”
“Not to them.” Zamira understood from a practical view point, but her spirit didn’t care about dollars and cents. “So far it costs more money than I’ve made.”
Sophie bent her head in commiseration. “Dancing in a company has more opportunities for steady income. Maybe things will change for the better.”
“I hope so.” Her parents had supported her decision to try out for Armand’s dance company, though she suspected they realized her true intention—to get Armand back. Dancing with the wrong partner was enough to make her hang up her sparkly heels. “It’s time things turned around.”
“And that’s why you came?” Sophie looked at Armand. “Despite a chilly welcome?”
The girl was quick, Zarmira gave her that.
“Right.” Zamira turned toward the newcomers as Armand looked at the clock. “We need to make sure the company is a success, so that we all profit.” She didn’t understand Sophie’s concern about having the company far from Miami, but she’d find out what was going on and do her best to help Armand. He was brilliant, creative and talented—not that she was biased, she thought with an inner terrified giggle. But he’d grown up with his grandparents, dancing, and knew how to play the game.
“I know the other dancers.” Sophie pointed to the ladies who’d been on the couch when she’d come in. “JoJo has the dark bob, and Christine has the light brown bun? She’s super nice. Zach, Trevor and I’ve shared a few auditions at the Miami Dance Company. Marciana’s pretty good.”
Armand’s gaze landed on hers and her body tingled. He snapped his fingers to gather everybody’s attention. “Five minutes, Marciana. Then we begin.”
Zamira’s nerves zinged just being in the same room as Armand. She knew she could dance. But would he give her a chance? Or would he decide to send her back to Argentina?
*****
Armand wasn’t sure what to do about Zamira. He did his damnedest to not look at her, but she drew his attention just like always.
He’d hoped she’d developed a balance issue, or gotten fat. But no, her curves were perfect. Every one of them.
He’d checked, without wanting to.
Preparation for this morning kept him on task, even as his mind traveled back to meeting Zamira in South America, at a DanceSport World competition. They’d fallen instantly in love. Spent a crazy year dreaming, dancing.
What was she doing here? Armand had left her in Argentina, in Diego’s arms, literally. She’d chosen her ex-dancing partner over him. He’d had to move on, and though it hurt less with time, the rejection still stung.
Zamira couldn’t waltz back into his life. He couldn’t trust her to stay. She’d probably leave without two weeks’ notice at the snap of Diego’s fingers. Were they on hiatus? Had they split up for good?
He didn’t want to wonder all of these things!
Armand determined to set her aside. He knew who mattered in his life, and it wasn’t a woman who couldn’t be loyal. Zamira is nobody to me.
This was his dance company, and she wasn’t going to be a part of it. He straightened with resolution. Just because she was here didn’t mean she was going to stay.
“Oscar,” he said, his mind and body at ease now that the decision was made. “Will you start? You have ten minutes to do your routine. I’ll be looking for creativity, agility and style.”
Armand gestured for the group, so much smaller than he’d hoped for, to join him on the opposite side of the room. They all sat on the floor. He stood, leaning against a stool by the high-top table.
Oscar started the music—a ballroom classic that he danced to as if he had a partner. Within sixty seconds, the music changed to hip-hop, and blond Oscar, in his knit dance pants, was grinding to Jay-Z. A minute later, the melody slowed to a waltz, and Oscar played the part of a wigged gentleman, bowing low over an imaginary hand. Armand grinned as Oscar went through club music, salsa, line-dancing, and the tango.
When the routine ended they were all clapping and laughing. “Well done, Oscar.” Armand was impressed with the man’s grace and flexibility. He’d be glad to have him in the troupe. “Sophie? Your turn.”
“I’m supposed to follow that?” Sophie shook her head and laughed, setting her own music to play. She started with four minutes of a song from the Nutcracker, her long-legged pirouettes perfectly balanced. Her medley following that showed her skills and originality in dance composition.
He nodded when she was through. Great. Armand avoided Zamira’s hopeful look, knowing she’d be last. He was well aware that she could dance. God, how he knew the feel of her in his arms.
Finally, there was nobody else left. The others turned toward her. “Zamira.” He spoke with deliberate coldness.
She blinked, smiled as if he hadn’t just barked at her, and started her music. Shimmying Argentinian fast beats that brought him back to their dance studio connected to her parent’s house. He took the cap from his water bottle and swallowed the bitter memory down.
Zamira shook her lovely hips, faster, then slower, matching the tempo as if the song had been made for her. She undulated her body in a sinuous motion that made his mouth dry. She arched her toned arms, her fingers pointed, her gaze lowered to the side as the music built then she dropped, boneless, to the mat at the pause before the next song began. She raised herself up as if drawn by invisible hands. Classic waltz tempo pounded from the speakers and Zamira moved so lightly her feet barely scraped the mat. She ended her routine with a clash of cymbals, a thumping of drums—arching back with her hands over her head to touch the mat behind her before bringing her body upward again, her fingers together in front of her like a prayer as silence reined.
Damn it, Zamira made it look easy, but dancing like that took time, training and natural limberness that not everybody was born with. Armand knew she’d be an asset to his troupe. No.
Zamira laughed as if relieved, pushing a strand of dark brown hair that had fallen free of the bu
n behind her ear. Marciana clapped first and the rest of the group joined in.
“Smoking hot,” Sophie said proudly.
“Impressive.” Oscar looked Zamira over with approval.
“Where are you from?” Zach asked, his elbow on Trevor’s shoulder.
“Argentina.” Zamira turned toward Armand.
He crushed the empty water bottle in his fist. “Yeah. Good job.” Armand refused to give her more than that.
She ducked her head and walked to where Sophie was sitting on the floor.
Armand knew he’d been harsh just now, and felt the censure from Sophie and Oscar. But what did they know of Zamira, and her betrayal? She had the loyalty of an alley cat. He had responsibilities now that he hadn’t before, and in order to protect them, he had to succeed.
On the flip side of the coin, Zamira, coming from Argentina as an unknown, could be his ace in the hole against the troupes in Miami—specifically Lucas. She can’t stay.
Once he proved his team in competitions, they could attract performances that paid locally. There was a regional event in a month, which was pushing the envelope—but with the right dancers, he would make magic happen.
Armand wanted twenty dancers total—without Zamira.
“Will we be dancing partners next?” Marciana asked. Her green eyes were lined with green shadow, her expression subtly flirtatious. She’d danced well, but could use added emotion. He’d teach her to tap into a character.
Zamira’s cheeks were slightly flushed from her energetic performance, but not overtly red as if she’d worked too hard. Obviously, she and Diego had stayed in shape. Lovers as well as dance partners?
“Yes.” Armand flexed his hands, which he’d fisted tight at the thought of Zamira and Diego together.
Intimate.
Ten people, five couples. “Pair up,” he instructed, glad he’d followed his instinct to wear street clothes. Lead the way. Teach without being in the middle of it all. Just for the beginning—until the company was solid. His grandparent’s had taught lessons for thirty years, dancing with their students.
This was different.
Armand’s dance reputation came from the reality dance competition on television, which was a joke to some of the professional dancers in South Florida, mainly led by Lucas Ferraro. They could laugh all they wanted, he thought, knowing that he’d proven his dancing skill. Dance, Dance USA had afforded him the opportunity to create a business. He’d never expected such resistance from the old guard in Miami.
Zamira and Sophie were partners, and Marciana chose Oscar. The other two guys picked JoJo and Christine, leaving another female duo—the pink-haired girl and Felicity. Men were not as plentiful in the dance community, so women were used to pairing up.
Armand lifted the remote control for the audio and started a waltz from the forties. Big band music that built and paused before hitting a crescendo, the ¾ beat steady. Though they didn’t say anything he felt them stifle groans at the old-fashioned stand-by. The tango was more popular when it came to the classics, and salsa. But the truth was that each dance had followers and as the talent they all had to know how to perform whatever medium was requested.
He switched the song to a tango and immediately realized his mistake. Armand recalled precisely how Zamira had felt in his arms, the cinnamon and lemon scent of her skin, the determined lift her chin. Her breasts crushed to his chest during the rise and fall of the steady, sensual beat. They’d owned this song, practically set fire to the stage when they danced.
“I love this song,” Sophie said just as Armand was about to change it to something else.
Armand nodded, indicating they should begin dancing. Without looking at Zamira, he studied the other dancers. Form was excellent for the most part, though Zach seemed to be letting JoJo lead. They all had potential. The fact that they’d bucked tradition, and social censure, by showing up gave them an edge—he’d take the rebels over the stuffed-shirts any day.
Dancing was an art, and dancers were artists that used their bodies as their medium. He might not have the training to be a dance teacher, but he’d been dancing from the time he was a toddler. He understood movement and physical expression, how sometimes it was necessary to dig into your psyche to emote the dance.
His eyes were drawn to Zamira dancing with Sophie. Sophie, tall and lean in her flesh-toned tights and tank top, led the dance with sharp turns and crisp steps. Zamira was the perfect contrast with her dark hair, her black leotard and tights. The lines of her lithe body as she moved, her spine straight, her hips fluid, her feet quick. As if waiting for just the right moment, she released Sophie’s hand and turned to Armand.
“Remember?” she asked seductively, holding out her arms. The music seeped into his blood, the memory of her stealing his breath.
His traitorous body stepped into her space, his hand clasping hers, his other hand at her lower back as he spun her around. The other dancers stopped to watch as he and Zamira danced as if they’d never stopped.
Her brown eyes sparkled beneath her black lashes, her skin electric, her breathing fast. She felt like heaven.
“I remember,” he said, pulling her close, his nose and mouth brushing the top of her head, her breasts against his chest.
“Want to do the special ending?” Her whispered question released an onslaught of memories. They’d practiced twelve hours a day for months, determined to choreograph a routine guaranteed to garner the gold trophy. He’d sprained his ankle, she’d pulled a muscle in her back, but they’d done it.
They’d both wanted the same thing, he’d thought. Recognition, another win under their dancing belt. They’d aced South America, so it made sense to come back –together—to the United States.
The music inside his dance studio built to a crescendo. He imagined the move, his body remembering how to hold her for the lift.
I can’t do this.
She fit him like an extension, knowing intuitively how to mold her body to his. His heart sang as if a missing piece of his soul had returned.
She encouraged him with a nod of her head, to do it, to twirl her and toss her high. This move required trust. His body tensed as he imagined the move.
He realized he’d drop her if he did it—because he did not trust her, and doubted he ever could again.
Armand stopped, releasing Zamira, who stumbled backward with a surprised expression. Oscar turned off the music and the silence in the room echoed.
He faced his dancers, reading their unspoken question as to why he’d left the dance unfinished.
Marciana broke the awkward silence. “That was so awesome, Armand. Even better than on television.”
Zamira stepped next to him, her body flushed and exuding something he needed to breathe—but could not afford to have in his life.
She took his hand and lifted it as if they’d won a gold. “That’s because I am his partner.”
Chapter Three
Armand pulled his hand free as Zamira’s words washed over his chilled skin. “You were my partner, when we danced together in South America.” He met each of the dancer’s interested looks and knew that this would be getting back to Lucas in Miami. “I don’t have a partner now.” The words fell flat and he wished he’d kept his damn mouth shut.
Zamira trembled next to him. “I would like to be again, Armand.”
He would not give her the satisfaction of a scene. “The try-out is over,” he said, facing the other dancers, putting his back to Zamira. “If you are interested in joining, we will start Monday. There is a sign-up sheet on the desk in the waiting room.”
Marciana ignored Zamira, who was fuming at his side. “How many dancers are you looking to have on staff?”
“Twenty.”
“I can make a few phone calls,” Marciana said, putting her hand on his arm. “Thanks for this opportunity.” She met his gaze boldly. “I hope you choose me.”
Armand knew what she offered, but he wouldn’t go there. He’d sworn off dancers in his pers
onal life. Zamira bristled so Armand added some spice into the smile he bestowed on the redhead. “You’re in, if you’d like.” He thought of the upcoming regional and raised his voice to announce, “You will all be given a one-week trial, but be prepared to work hard. At the end of the first week, I will have a special announcement for those that make the team.”
First, he had to see if they were up to the challenge of creative choreography before throwing them into the competition circuit.
“Full-day practices?” JoJo asked.
“Ten to six. I’ll provide lunch. If you know of someone that you think might be a good fit for our dance team, have them sign up on the website and I’ll schedule another audition after practices next week.”
“And we’ll travel?” Sophie asked. “Internationally?”
“Eventually.” They all thought you had to go overseas in order to get a decent wage. He aimed to prove everybody wrong. “Though my goal for the dance company is to make a name for ourselves locally. There’s no reason we can’t perform consistently in Florida.”
Oscar smiled and rubbed a hand over his short hair. “Sounds great to me.”
“This building will be perfect for holding our own classes and competitions.” He’d chosen it specifically with that in mind. “You all have talent, and drive. Let’s make something of it, all right?”
Marciana slung her backpack, emerald green, over her shoulder. “See you Monday, Armand.”
The dancers chattered together as they gathered their things and headed out to the waiting room, where he hoped they’d all sign up. He had to have bodies to work with, to teach.
If they brought others in, that could be just what he needed.
What he did not need was Zamira and her tricks. Angry, he turned around to tell her so but she’d moved away toward the lockers.
She waited, tense, her skirt wrapped around her hips, her feet in flip flops. She’d released her hair so that it rested on her shoulders like an ebony cloud.
The girl with the pink hair left—he had to remember her name—giving curious looks to Zamira, but Oscar waved and shut the door firmly behind them. He’d give Oscar points for seeming to realize that he and Zamira needed to be alone.
