by Traci Hall
Zamira walked the lighted streets back to her hotel, tears in her eyes. What if she’d just lost her chance at holding Armand again?
Chapter Nine
The next two weeks went by so fast that Zamira was surprised to realize it was nearing summer in the tropics. The air was humid, making her walks to and from the studio very steamy. Rain fell all the time so the foliage was vibrant and lush. Gardenia bushes, hibiscus and jasmine perfumed the air.
She and Armand had reached an uneasy truce. It was difficult to keep her emotions in check, but she was learning. All she had to do was study Armand, the master.
The role he’d created for her in the company was lead female dancer. She was paired with Joshua, a man who’d joined during the first week of practice. He’d come from Miami, but not Lucas’s company. They danced well together, she knew it, but it wasn’t the same magic she had with Armand.
Her phone rang after practice one night and she answered breathlessly as she got her bag from the locker. “Hello?”
“Zamira, it’s Diego.”
“Diego!” She’d forgotten him. They’d spent many years together, training in classical ballroom dance. He was her first everything and yet she was so immersed in her new life that she’d never told him where she was at, or why.
Armand turned toward her, his hearing sharp, his mouth tight.
“How are you?” Diego asked. “I have missed you.”
His familiar voice washed over her, making her eyes mist. “Diego, let me call you back. I promise to explain everything.”
“But dearest Zamira, I-”
She cut him off, feeling the weight of Armand’s stare. “Please. Now is not a good time.”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“Two weeks ago. Where have you been?” She turned defensive at his attack.
“Call me.”
His tone went from coaxing to icy.
She could not blame him and her shoulders slumped. “I will.”
Ending the call, she put her phone in her purse and shut the locker. She turned and Armand was right there.
“How is Diego?” Late in the day, a hint of dark stubble showed around Armand’s jaw. She smelled his subtle sandalwood cologne.
“Fine.” She wasn’t going to get into a discussion about her ex-partner. She’d rather keep the fragile peace she and Armand had built.
Oscar shouted his good-bye from the door. “See you in the morning!”
Zamira realized with a start of apprehension that they were alone together in the studio. She’d made a point of being around others at all times since the kiss in the kitchen and the night they’d decided to be friends. Why put either of them into temptation?
With just two weeks until their first regional, she danced with focus and determination to prove that she was as dedicated as Armand. All of that tumbled away as she glanced around the dance studio.
Nobody.
Her gaze went to the kitchen area behind the closed door.
Her mind flooded with images of his mouth over hers, his hands in her hair.
The energy between them thickened. His mind, too, had gone there.
“Care to dance, Zamira?”
Dios, she wanted to dance with him more than anything. It was all she wanted, to be the partner he dreamed of—in all ways.
He clicked the remote to the audio system and a slow song played. Not that, no romance. How could she stand to go slow?
She shook her head. “Something else.”
Something that gave them permission to tease their senses.
To tease each other.
“A tango?”
She closed her eyes and breathed out. Nobody was here. It was an innocent way for them to touch.
“Our tango.” Her voice sounded drenched in promise and her skin chilled.
They used to dance this and win, every time.
He chose their song, a Latin beat that spoke to her individual cells. Her blood pumped, her heart raced and her hips moved. She couldn’t stop them if she tried.
She’d moved here five weeks ago and at last, at long last, she would be in Armand’s arms.
The song had a modern twist with electronic notes mixed in with the accordion and violin. A mix of young and old, just as Armand wanted to build his legacy.
“Ready?”
He held his hand out and she straightened her spine as if they had an audience of a thousand instead of an empty room. She lifted her chin, met his gaze and stepped into his embrace.
Armand’s hand splayed across her lower back, bringing her close to his body before he led them across the parquet floor. Gaze straight ahead, noses and upper bodies in alignment as they stepped in tandem.
Heat radiated from his body, the charcoal t-shirt he wore fitted to his lean physique.
He never danced with his students—always managing, teaching, critiquing with an astute, perceptive eye. She never realized that he’d be so good at instructing. He’d found a niche that she still didn’t fully understand how he’d acquired.
They only discussed dance.
Nothing personal since the night they’d met for tea and decided that dance was all that they would share—for a while.
She sometimes saw his friend Chantal waiting for him, though just a few times.
Armand spun her, grace and elegance in his strength.
Tears blurred her vision as she accepted the gift of this dance. She’d thrown it away when he’d offered her the world—not understanding how precious his love had been.
How could he forgive her when she couldn’t forgive herself?
His rhythmic breaths were controlled, his pacing on point. Armando never rushed a movement; each step was precise and purposeful.
Blinking, she followed his lead, the dance ingrained after they’d practiced for so long. In didn’t matter that it had been over two years since they’d last danced together. It was right.
Home.
As the music deepened, grew more sensual, so did his body. He curved his arm around her back, brought her face to face before pushing her out again. His eyes were dark as whiskey, his lashes coal black and thick. His thin, straight nose, his full mouth so close to hers.
Her skin pebbled.
After the dance in the old days, they would fall into bed and consume one another in a different dance of passion. Making love anywhere, anytime. Her body remembered that too, and her belly knotted with desire.
His lids lowered to half-mast as he tightened his grip on her palm and leaned in to nip at her exposed wrist.
Foreplay.
Hours and hours of teasing one another before giving in to what they both wanted—but that was then.
Now?
They’d agreed to keep sex out of the equation.
But he was so close, and smelled so good. Masculine and familiar. His hips kept time with hers, backward. Forward. His hard length against her thigh tempted her to cross the line. Had she been punished enough?
They could make love right here. Yes.
As if he sensed her change of mind, Armand spun her and brought her around so that his arm was holding her in place, her backside to his front. They faced the mirrors, her hair loose around her face, his hand splayed across her stomach. Her thighs quivered and she pressed back against him, wanting him. Accepted that he could have her any way he chose.
The tempo quickened and he nudged her forward—the end of the dance. Would he lift her?
He claimed it was the ultimate sign of trust.
“Do it,” she urged as he turned her around, his forehead to hers, thigh to thigh as they stepped back. Forward. One step, one step. If he kept this up, she’d tear his clothes off before the song ended.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders, narrowing her eyes.
“You look wild,” he whispered, moving his hips just so to bring a jab of pleasure. “My Argentinian goddess.”
The pace of the song slowed and she realized that he wasn’t going to do their special ending.
Disappointed, she glued herself to his body and pressed her breasts against his chest. Armand gently lowered her to the dance floor, coming with her and lying next to her, one leg over hers.
“Mi amor,” she whispered, not releasing his gaze. She knew his next move very well. And liked it. She lowered her hand from his tailbone to the taut muscle of his ass.
*****
“Zamira.” Armand’s self-control was pushed to the limit.
His only love lay beneath him like a wanton wild-woman. She fit him like a glove and it had been so long since he’d felt that kind of good. To hell with it, he thought, lowering his mouth for a searing kiss that claimed her. Mine.
“Armando,” she whispered heatedly.
Her body, soft and feminine, welcomed his weight.
“Uh, excuse me?” A woman’s voice cleared her throat.
Armand realized that the music had stopped, and that he and Zamira were in a very compromising position. He lifted his head, swallowing a groan.
“Marciana.”
He got up in one fluid motion, offering Zamira a hand.
“I never could stick that ending,” Zamira said by way of explanation.
Armand bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“How come you don’t dance together anymore?” Marciana asked, walking into the studio. “I forgot my purse.” She passed them for the lockers.
Controlling his breathing was difficult but he managed. “It’s been a while.”
Zamira shook out her hands. “Want to try that again?”
“A lot of instructors dance too,” Marciana said.
“I’m new at teaching. I want to learn that before I add more to my repertoire.”
Marciana turned toward him and Zamira. “It’s good to keep practicing. You guys are great together.”
“I agree. You should dance, Armando.” Zamira tucked her hair back into a knot.
“I had an idea from our old routine,” Armand said. “But it won’t fit. Sometimes you just have to scrap something when it’s not working.”
Zamira’s cheeks turned rosy and her dark eyes smoky black. He’d hear about that, for sure. But damn, he owed Marciana for coming in and saving him from himself.
“Or, keep practicing.” Marciana retrieved her purse with a chuckle. “Lucas would scream at us and call us names. I’m glad you don’t do that, Armand. He’s furious, by the way, about you getting a spot for regionals at the Breakers.”
“Why would he be angry?” Zamira took a hand towel from the stack and wiped her face. Still dressed in tights and a leotard. Thank God. Two more minutes, and Zamira would have been bare-assed on the dance floor, Armand inside her.
“He claims that Armand is just a “pretty-boy” with a lucky streak. That he, Lucas, is the better dancer. Which, after watching what you guys just did? So not true.”
Armand wished he could tell her not to say anything to anybody, but that was the fastest way to start a piece of gossip. “Like I said, I had an idea for our routine.”
Zamira tossed the damp towel into the laundry basket next to the lockers. “Lucas sounds like a jerk.”
“Definitely!” Marciana waited by the lockers. “Are you guys going to dance some more? I’d love to stay and watch.”
“No,” Armand said quickly. “We were just finishing up.”
Marciana headed toward the door. “Well, I love the choreography you’ve put together so far, Armand. It’s a great mix-up. Fusion.”
His ideas came from memories of his grandparent’s dancing. They’d had ribbons and trophies which he kept displayed in his home office. They’d taught him that his body was an instrument, instructed him to learn by watching. A blade of grass, a tall flower in the wind, a tree branch bowed under with snow. “Thanks.”
“Wait for me, Marciana?” Zamira tugged a sundress down over her dance clothes and put on some flip flips. “I’ve got a…a call to make that I’m late for.”
“Sure! You want a ride?”
“No, that’s all right,” she said, joining Zamira at the door leading to the waiting room. “Bye, Armand. Sorry about that, er, misstep. Guess it’s been too long.” She laughed, the effort strained. “I didn’t think I’d ever forget.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Armand locked the doors behind them and cranked the music. Electric and loud, he danced, alone. Poured his heartache into the beat, sweat out his pain with each thump of the drum.
That was too damn close for comfort, he and Zamira.
And she’d left him, to call Diego?
That was just bullshit.
Chapter Ten
Zamira’s insides trembled. She gave Marciana a bright smile and followed her out of the dance studio, her focus not on the pain of thwarted desire, but on getting to their first regional.
“Do you want to get a drink? Dinner?” Marciana asked.
She appreciated the offer, but Zamira owed Diego a call that she so did not want to make.
“No big deal,” Marciana continued, as if reading Zamira’s hesitation. “I just thought I’d offer, in case you needed a friendly ear.” She looked back at the studio. “Not judging. You dance amazing, Zamira, but you and Armand together?” She waved her hand in front of her face. “Caliente.”
Zamira laughed self-consciously. “You are very sweet,” she said, wishing that Marciana hadn’t forgotten her purse. Noting Armand’s relief that they had been interrupted. “But Armand and I go way back. Before his television days.”
“Talk about hot.” Marciana sighed. “The other contestants didn’t stand a chance—which is what makes Lucas so crazy.”
“Have Lucas and Armand competed against each other before?”
Marciana’s eyes widened as if struck upside the head. “You know what? That would make perfect sense. If Lucas lost? There has to be a way to find out...”
“Be careful,” Zamira warned. “You don’t want to make Lucas mad by digging up old hurts.”
“As you said so succinctly, Lucas is a jerk.” Her green eyes narrowed. “It would be nice to fling something back at him. Hey, if it’s true? I’d just be sharing the news.”
“Armand has put everything into this business,” Zamira said. “I just don’t want Lucas to make things worse.” The reason he wasn’t dancing was because he didn’t want to offend the judges.
“I’ll be subtle.”
Zamira figured that while Marciana’s intentions might be good, she didn’t really understand the meaning of under the radar.
Marciana reminded her a little of Aunt Tildy.
Her phone rang and guilt decided for her. “I have to take this. It’s a very old friend.” Would Diego still think of her that way once she confessed the truth?
“Cool. Another time then—see you tomorrow, Zamira.” Marciana turned toward her car, a silver Civic, while Zamira walked east, toward her hotel and the ocean.
She didn’t answer the phone but waited until she got back to her room, took a shower, and poured a glass of white wine before dialing Diego back.
Practicing her speech didn’t help when he answered her with a, “Where in the hell are you, Zamira?”
Had he found out? She sipped her wine and sat on her balcony overlooking the sandy beach and turquoise waves. “America.”
“As in, the United States?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing there?”
He knew, she could tell. Diego just wanted her to say it.
“I joined Armand’s dance company. DanceFusion.”
Silence pulsed heavily between them. Finally, “Since when does he have a dance company?”
“Two months ago.”
“When you snuck out of the country like a thief behind my back.”
“I did not go behind your back.” Exactly.
“You said you needed space.”
“That was true.”
“Across the ocean?”
“Diego...”
“Zamira!”
Zamira heard the anguish in his tone. She’d hoped to avoid hurting him. Her mother’s voice chided her. Hurt is unavoidable. It is part of life.
“I am very sorry, Diego.”
“Why weren’t you honest with me?”
For this very reason. “I never lied.”
“You broke my heart.”
She spoke past the lump in her throat. “I ended our dancing partnership six months ago. I honored our obligations as a dance team.”
“I love you—I should get on the next plane, and remind you of what is important!”
Exactly what she didn’t need. “I broke off that part of our relationship a year ago. You said you still wanted to dance with me.” She’d tried her best to make him happy.
“I took what crumbs you offered. I was a fool.”
“I’m sorry that you feel that way.” She focused on a pelican bobbing in the sea.
“What do you care, now that you are back with your old lover?”
“It isn’t like that.” Thank God she could say that and have it be the truth.
“He won’t let you in his bed?”
She inhaled swiftly. “Diego, that is none of your business.”
“Well, I won’t take his scraps a second time.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Zamira winced.
“Don’t come crawling back here like a kicked puppy when he stomps all over your heart.”
“Diego!” Her chest ached and her eyes watered.
“If you have feelings...”
“You know I do, Diego.”
“You aren’t worth my time.” He ended the call on a curse and she stared at her phone, her head pounding with remorse.
Regret. Sorrow. If there would never have been an Armand, then Diego would have been enough.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. There was no guarantee that she and Armand would work out, that she wouldn’t have to go home. But it would be with her head held high, not lowered in shame.
She’d done nothing wrong. Time would tell if her gamble for a second chance at love would pay.
*****
Armand returned Chantal’s call on the way home from the dance studio.
She answered, in tears.
