by Traci Hall
Armand straightened, standing over the threshold of the dance studio, and gestured for Zamira to join him on the couches in the waiting room. After a moment’s hesitation, she brought her dance bag and sat down, her cheeks flushed with emotion. He remembered her from two years ago when she’d been something of a drama queen, confident in both youth and beauty. She never could hide her feelings.
Coldly, he sat and crossed his legs as he faced her.
“I will ask you for the third and last time, Zamira. What are you doing here, in my dance studio?”
*****
Zamira watched Armand tighten his jaw, his tone arctic. He’d always been better at masking his feelings. He was the true professional, while she had just wanted to perform.
She remembered when he’d been driven by uncharacteristic emotion and shouted at her over coffees on the patio of their hotel when she’d told him she couldn’t go to the U.S. with him. That she planned on staying and dancing with Diego. The money, now that she was known in Argentina, was the start of something decent. He’d called her a coward. Zamira had wanted world-renown as a dancer, but she’d been too frightened to reach for the stars outside of her own country.
She’d quickly learned that dancing with Diego after dancing with Armand was not the same. She’d realized her mistake immediately, but it was already too late.
Young, foolish girl that she’d been.
There was no forgiveness in Armand’s taut jaw.
“I came to dance with you. Partners.”
“We are over. Have been for two years.”
“You felt the same energy, that connection, when we danced just now. We are magic together, you and I.” She leaned forward, her voice shaking. “I am sorry that I came this way, unannounced. But you won’t answer phone calls, letters, or messages on the computer. I’ve tried.”
“Why?”
“To apologize.”
His body tensed as if her words physically hurt. “You think you can say that you’re sorry and things will just go back to the way that they were?”
“Of course not.” She held his gaze, imploring him to see that she was sincere. “I want a second chance, Armand.”
“I don’t believe in second chances. Not when it comes to my heart.” His eyes narrowed. “Which you broke.”
“I was young,” she said, her eyes misting.
“Not that young.”
“I didn’t understand how special what you and I shared was. I was scared to leave my home and start over. And marriage? Armand, I was twenty-six. Focused on my career.”
“So what’s changed? Now that you’re older and oh so much wiser, why do you think I should care?”
She sat back, stung by his anger. “Armando.”
“Do not call me that.”
Swallowing, feeling slightly ill, she said, “I left Diego to dance with you. In America. I’ve changed from the frightened girl I used to be.”
“I don’t want you here. Call Diego and maybe he’ll take you back.”
“Of course he’ll take me back, but I don’t want to go.” She put her hand on his knee. “I want to be with you.”
The muscle in his leg bunched beneath her touch. “To dance?”
No, she wanted it all. But she would take whatever crumb he tossed her. “What else?” She kept her voice light.
“I don’t know what the hell to think.”
“I know you, Armand. I know what you want.” She tapped her heart. “I can give it to you. You can teach me. I am a part of you when we dance.” Always. An extension of his thoughts, his moves.
She waited in heavy silence, a prisoner awaiting her sentence. Would it to be parole with time served, or more time behind bars?
“I know how much you want to make a name for yourself, like your grandfather did. To transform the old dances. I can help you.” Zamira returned her hand to his leg, just above his knee, softly, reassuringly. “Trust me.”
His eyes flashed and he brushed her hand away. “It will be a cold day in hell before I trust you.”
She dipped her head to hide her tears. “You need experienced, talented, dancers.” Clearing her throat, she lifted her chin and forged ahead. “I want the same one-week trial you offered the others. If it doesn’t work,” she lifted her shoulder in a care-free shrug. “I’ll return to Argentina.”
Armand waited quietly for a few moments, his thoughts unreadable to her. Then, at last, he stood and reached for the clipboard holding the sign-up sheet. “One week. Just dancing.” He held her gaze, his body rigid. “One mistake, one slip in judgment, and you are out.”
Zamira nodded, elated that she’d gotten an inch closer to her goals. She would practice, she would shine.
She would get Armand back.
“Where are you staying?”
He looked like he regretted asking the question once it left his lips and he turned away, putting the clipboard back on the long side table by the front door.
“I rented a room by the beach.” They’d spent weeks in a hotel room on Mar del Plata, near Buenos Aires, making love and listening to the waves.
Armand gave a brisk nod. “Practice starts Monday.”
Four days before she could see him again. “Any chance you’d take a girl for a drink to watch the sunset?”
He narrowed his eyes. “None. We are two professionals. Dancers. Nothing more, ever.”
She sensed the hurt and anger brimming beneath his cool façade. “I am sorry, Armand.” Zamira picked up her black dance bag. “I look forward to next week. Uh, I put my phone number on the board next to my name. In case you change your mind.”
Armand didn’t say a word as he watched her leave. She hoped for a crack in his exterior, something to show that he might relent and open his heart to her again.
Nothing.
He’d been the strong one. Willing to practice until they got a move right. Willing to take them to the finish line, the gold trophy, whatever it took.
She hadn’t realized how special that was. Zamira walked down the sidewalk toward the beach, and her hotel. Drowning in regret, she’d made the decision to leave her safety net in Argentina. Even if she failed, she would know she tried.
Taking a deep breath, she tuned in to her surroundings. South Florida was gorgeous in the spring, warm without humidity. A slight wind brought floral scents along a salty breeze. As beautiful as it was, she rushed inside the hotel. Debbie, the hotel manager, was a kind woman with black glasses, straight black hair and a maternal smile—she’d been helping Zamira since she got here from Argentina. Zamira waved without stopping to chat so she could lick her wounds in private.
No matter what front she put on for Armand, his coldness slayed her.
She hurried into her room and pulled the drapes back, her eye on the blue shoreline. Beige sand, kids in bright suits playing in the foamy surf. A sense of calm descended, then shattered as the shrill ring of her phone pierced her peace.
Having flung her bag on the bed, she now dug the light pink case from the jumble of towels, dance shoes and leotards. Of course. “Hello, Mama.”
“How did it go?”
“Awful.”
“You knew it would not be easy, mi hija.”
Her eyes watered and she sniffed. “I know.”
“Where are you?”
“I just got back to my hotel.”
“Take a bath. Add those sea salts with the lavender.”
“I will.” A bath sounded heavenly. She remembered sharing a tub with Armand and wished she could push the erotic memories aside. But her body remembered each touch and pulsed, alive. “Being here, seeing him, has brought back all of those feelings, Mama. I thought I’d gotten beyond it, but they still hurt. I apologized, but he said he doesn’t believe in second chances.”
She heard her mama curse before saying, “Will he give you a spot in his company, or not?”
“There weren’t many people at the try-out, so everyone that showed up today gets a one-week trial.”
&nbs
p; “Including you?”
“Yes.”
“Then he is not as hardened against you as you might think.”
She closed her eyes, reliving his anger once more. “I don’t know, Mama, you didn’t see his face. I said that I was sorry…”
“No more groveling for that man, do you hear me, Zamira Elizabeta Caballero? You’ve apologized. He can take it or not. You offered your feelings sincerely. Do not let him walk all over you. Be yourself. He fell in love with you—remind him who you are.”
Her mother was right.
“Diego sent flowers,” Mama said.
“I told him we were through!”
“Maybe you should tell him where you are?”
“No. He already is insanely jealous over Armand. It wouldn’t help.” Besides, what if she had to go back to Argentina? Not that she would dance with Diego again, but if he knew she’d left him to go to Armand, and she had to come back, any professionalism between them would be eaten up by poisonous anger.
She was living with the consequences of that already and hoped to avoid doing it to anybody else again.
“What if he hears through the dancing grapevine where you are? Nobody likes to cause drama like dancers.”
Her mother had a valid point. “Maybe, but I don’t know anybody here.” However, Armand’s reaction to her today might cause people to dig into their past. While she was well known in Argentina, she hadn’t ventured out of South America.
Sweet Sophie would be fine, but Marciana had claws. She’d made no secret of what she’d be willing to do for Armand.
Putting the phone on speaker, Zamira carried it to the small kitchenette area that held a three-foot refrigerator, a hot plate and a coffee pot. She pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge. Her mother was going on about Aunt Tildy’s new boyfriend. Aunt Tildy was seventy-five.
“And he’s rude! Nobody takes their teeth out at the dinner table—not in my house. Can you believe such nonsense?”
She smiled at her mother’s outrage. “So what did you do?”
“I told him if he couldn’t be polite, he would have to go. Of course Tildy insisted she would have to leave as well. Honestly, mi hija, it would not have hurt my feelings any but your papa, well…Tildy could rob a bank and he’d offer to drive the car to get away.”
Zamira was an only child, but she’d witnessed sibling loyalty watching her aunt and her dad together and knew that her mother was right.
Suddenly exhausted, emotionally rather than physically, she sat at the dining room table. “I have to go, Mama. I love you.”
“I love you too. And don’t you stay in that hotel room watching movies, do you hear? You went to America for a reason. Don’t hide behind fear. You make some friends.”
“Si, I hear you, Mama.” But it had been a tough day, and romantic comedies were exactly what she needed. With popcorn.
They hung up and Zamira took a bath, then ordered a grilled chicken breast over romaine, dressing on the side. She might have lost this skirmish with Armand, but she hadn’t lost sight of the war.
Armand would dance with her again, and she would do everything in her power to have him in her arms. A girl needed to look her best, so she skipped the chocolate mousse dessert.
Before she started to watch her marathon of feel-good stories, she did a last check on Facebook for the night. Armand hadn’t posted anything, but she did a quick friend search for Sophie and Oscar, the two dancers she liked best. That should satisfy her mother’s request when she asked in the morning—which she would.
Sophie, online, immediately accepted her friend request, then invited her dancing for the next night. She sent her phone number.
Zamira gave hers, too.
Her phone immediately rang and she jumped, startled, before answering with a cautious, “Hello?”
“Zamira! You have to come—it will be fun, and you’ll meet some of the other dancers. Miami is always a blast.”
Miami, where Armand should have opened his studio, according to Sophie. She’d have to see for herself what he was up against. “Thank you. I don’t really know the area. Can I take a bus?”
“Do not get on the bus here—you take your life in your hands. No worries, though, I will pick you up. We have a lot to celebrate. Text me your address, and I’ll be there at 8.00. Be ready to dance all night! The clubs stay open until 4.”
Her energy was contagious. “All right. Thanks, Sophie.”
“See ya!”
So of course she wondered, but didn’t ask, if Armand ever went dancing in Miami…despite his very public dance competition, he rarely made the entertainment section of the news.
It was like he’d turned into two different people. The public Armand, handsome and sexy and charming, and the private Armand, elusive and mysterious. She’d hoped to appeal to the Armand who’d once loved her, but that man was gone.
Chapter Four
Armand woke up Saturday morning to someone pounding on the front door of his house. He had a two-bedroom bungalow three blocks up from the ocean, in an older neighborhood that was usually pretty quiet.
He’d had such high hopes for yesterday’s auditions only to have Zamira show up and turn his world on its ass. It was a good thing he had his son Alex, or he might have done something stupid like call the number she’d left on the clipboard.
The pounding intensified. Damn, they were going to wake up Alex, and then there would be hell to pay.
He slept in loose basketball shorts and quickly tossed on yesterday’s t-shirt as he ran for the door, pulling it open.
“Chantal?” he asked, holding the door jamb. He automatically looked for her boyfriend, Scott, but she stood on his front porch step alone and disheveled.
A black BMW squealed out of his driveway and a pair of heels was tossed out of the driver’s window. Scott. Leaving. Shit.
Chantal flipped the car off, ignoring her thrown shoes. Trails of black mascara dripped down her pale face, her cherry-red hair smashed flat to the side of her head.
“Rough night?”
“Piss off,” she said, sniffling.
“What did you do?” Chantal didn’t like boundaries or rules so why she continued to try and have steady boyfriends he never understood.
“You always assume it’s me.”
“Because it usually is. Now, be quiet. Alex is sleeping.”
She blinked up at him, big blue eyes, Alex’s eyes, silently imploring for a chance to come in.
“If you’re quiet,” he relented. “Straight to the kitchen.”
“But I could sleep for a week.”
“Not here.”
That had happened one time. Only once. Once was enough, as it turned out, to change his life.
She came inside. Armand decided her shoes could stay in the yard until later and closed the door, following her to the kitchen. Dejected, Chantal slid onto a dining room chair and propped her elbows on the round wooden table.
“Spill.”
“I kissed another guy. So what? We were drinking,” she said all in one breath. “Scott doesn’t usually act so uptight about it.”
“Maybe he’s tired of sharing. Coffee?” He went to the counter and pulled out dark roast and a paper filter.
She nodded, her expression forlorn. “I can’t be faithful. I warn them, but they don’t listen. I say, let’s just be friends with bennies, but no, they think they can change me.”
It wasn’t that Chantal was classically beautiful, Armand reflected as he added ground beans to the filter. Added water. Hit the button. What made her a superstar was her knock-out body from years of yoga and a pretty face that photographed emotion very well. A killer sense of humor and a fearlessness that men took as a challenge.
He’d gotten to know her over the last two years—being in the trenches together revealed a person’s true colors.
If she committed to seeing something through, she would do it, but it wasn’t in her nature. She had to fight for it.
The smell of roast
ed coffee filled the kitchen and Chantal perked up a tiny bit, her head lifting as she pulled herself from self-pity. “I’m a mess.”
“Three minutes,” he promised. “It brews fast.”
They were unlikely friends, but he felt as if he could count on her loving Alex. Taking care of their son.
“He wanted me to say that I was sorry.” Chantal scrunched up her nose. “And I wasn’t. I just couldn’t say the words. And the angrier he got, the more I stuck my heels in. Yes, a bottle of champagne made me do it, but it wasn’t just the champagne. I’m a bitch, a terrible person, because I just don’t give a rat’s ass about Scott.” She held up a limp hand. “He’s a great guy. It’s me.”
Armand poured coffee into a ceramic blue mug and put it on the table in front of her. “Here. Maybe it is you. What are you going to do about it?”
She really didn’t want marriage. He’d offered to move her into this house, or even buy a bigger one for them to share. She preferred her condo overlooking the New River off Las Olas Boulevard.
“Nothing.” She sipped, her eyes twinkling as she enjoyed the coffee—acknowledging her destiny. “I will leave a string of broken hearts, Armand, because mine belongs to Alex. The only man who will faithfully have my love.”
“Being as you’re his mother, he will grow to appreciate that.” Someday she might change but Armand didn’t see it happening anytime soon. At thirty-three, Chantal was already set in her ways. When she went out on the town, Alex sometimes stayed with Armand.
“Right. He’ll know I’m no saint, but I guess I don’t need to be a super-slut either. I will try harder.”
They both knew her resolve wouldn’t last the week.
She sighed, then took a deeper drink of her coffee. “I have no regrets.” She met his eyes. “Do you?”
He sensed she was talking about Alex, so he kept the conversation there. “He is the most precious gift.”
Her body relaxed. “I think so, too.”
The unspoken truth was that she never wanted kids, and when she’d found out she was pregnant she’d gone a little crazy. Their condom had broken, plain and simple. Nobody’s fault.
