by Traci Hall
“Is Alex all right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
He went through a list of things that might be wrong, settling on, “Man trouble?”
“Scott keeps calling. He wants another chance. Insists he can change me. I don’t want to be changed, but is that so wrong? I do miss him, Armand. He was always a gentleman, except when he didn’t need to be,” she said with a sensual laugh.
“Don’t tell me anymore, Chantal. Do you want me to swing by and pick up Alex? He can stay with me tonight, and you can call Scott for a booty call.”
“You make it sound so crass.” She sniffed. “Would you do that for me?”
“Of course.” Being with Alex calmed him. Grounded him in what was real. Zamira, damn, that had just gotten very complicated. But she was not his priority—that would be his son. “See you in ten minutes. Have him ready for me?”
“I’ll meet you outside.” Her voice lightened. “You’re the best, Armand.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep Chantal. To Scott.”
“Is it wrong to spend time with him? He wants me to. I can try. I will try.”
She would, for a while, and things would be great until she decided to let loose and then Scott, well, it would be a replay of what had happened before. Chantal’s shoes in Armand’s front yard.
After she ended the call, he ran through things to do with Alex. Mostly, they played blocks. They built towers, and then Alex knocked them down.
His baby belly laugh made Armand laugh, too. Beat the shit out of watching television. Armand read to him, and Alex loved the interactive games on his baby-proof tablet.
There was pasta in the cupboard and no-meat spaghetti sauce. Dinner.
Was Zamira talking to Diego? Right this minute? God, he couldn’t go there. He couldn’t imagine Diego being happy about Zamira outside of Argentina. He’d been fanatical about staying local—a big fish in a small pond.
To be fair, Diego had played into Zamira’s insecurities perfectly—yet she’d been a trouper from the first step inside his dance studio.
Armand had always expected more from her because he knew she could deliver. Emotion and movement, passion.
And she had—leading without being in charge, but by performance. Nobody questioned her getting the starring role for the upcoming regional, either.
They might have had a few reservations, but she’d shown her talent. Nothing spoke louder than landing the routine. His heart recognized the woman he’d thought was his soul mate, until Zamira had chosen another.
Dancing with her tonight had been a crucial error in judgment.
His body wanted what his heart longed for. His mind had been the last bastion against her total takeover, and his brain had deceived him.
Convincing him that he could dance with her without any harm.
If Marciana hadn’t walked in…they’d have made love right there in the studio.
And now none of his parts could forget how incredible she’d tasted, and felt, in his arms.
He pulled up in front of Chantal’s condo. As she’d said, she waited on the sidewalk with their son. Alex had a car seat that was also a carrier, and went between him and Chantal. Alex waved a stuffed kitten, already strapped inside his car seat. Armand parked and got out of the car.
“Hi, Alex.” He bent down to ruffle his son’s hair.
“Daddy!” Alex bopped Armand in the forehead with the kitten.
“Is that any way to say hello?”
Alex laughed maniacally.
“Our child is destined to be the class clown.” Chantal smoothed a curl over Alex’s ear.
“There are worse things.” Armand put the car seat in the back seat of the BMW, then kissed Chantal on the cheek. “Did you talk to Scott?”
“Yes.” She took Armand’s fingers. “Thanks.”
He squeezed them. “Good luck. You deserve to be happy.”
“So do you.” Chantal leaned into the back of the car and kissed Alex on the nose. “Be good for Daddy, pumpkin. I’ll see you in the morning.” She turned to him. “What time?”
“Ten.”
“God, that’s early.”
He chuckled. “Not if you’re in bed by eleven.”
“Oh, I’ll be in bed. But it won’t be to sleep.” She winked and shut the back seat door. “I have a shoot, but in the afternoon. On the beach.”
“Your mom is taking care of Alex?” He’d be at the studio. Preparing. He’d never realized there was so much paperwork in running a dance studio.
“Mom likes to come over. If she didn’t water my plants I doubt they’d still be alive.”
He laughed as she walked inside the condo. “Bye.”
Armand got behind the wheel and drove toward his house, keeping the radio off so he could hear Alex’s cooing sounds. His son was an amazing baby, as he was sure all parent’s thought of their kids. But Alex really was good-natured, easy going and friendly. Slept through the night, napped when he was tired. The only time he’d been cranky was when he was teething, and that freaking hurt—Armand had a wisdom tooth pulled just last year and had needed codeine for the pain.
He pulled into his driveway and parked the car, getting Alex, in his car seat, out of the back. It wasn’t a fancy neighborhood but it was close to the ocean, which made him happy. He liked to paddleboard and kayak, kiteboard. Couldn’t wait for Alex to grow up and do those things with him.
Armand had no memories of his parents and was determined to make sure that no matter what crazy thing happened, his son would know him. Through pictures, videos and the legacy of DanceFusion—fate willing, Armand would be there to see Alex’s children’s children. To be what his grandparents had been to him—they’d insisted on culture, travel and languages, art museums and dance. God, he missed them. Dead, now, for three years.
He’d thought he’d be alone, after Zamira broke his heart. Until the unexpected miracle of Alex’s birth brought him back to the world. “It might be time to drive to New York,” he told his son. To visit his grandparent’s graves.
“Go!” Alex agreed.
“You don’t even know where I’m talking about.”
“Let’s go. Go, go.” He reached his arms up, wanting out of his car seat.
Alex had a decent vocabulary for a one-year old and loved to repeat words with no idea what they meant. Armand unbuckled the safety harness and Alex climbed out, immediately running to the basket of toys, leaving his stuffed kitten behind.
“Are you hungry, Alex?” He should have asked Chantal if she’d fed him. Not that it mattered. His son picked at what he liked no matter what time it was.
“Hungry!” Alex brought a plastic apple from the pile and pretended to bite it. “Yum.”
“Come help me cook?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Daddy. That had to be the best word in the English language. Hands down.
He’d chosen black and silver appliances and his cupboards were black with glass doors and silver handles. 12 by 12 beige ceramic tiles with lots of soft rubber-backed rugs in colorful prints. Buying the house had been a business decision—a place to put his money.
An investment that he’d come to love.
The dance studio was different—he had a specific end goal in mind for the two-year lease. His home was where he could be Armand. Daddy.
Chantal said it needed a woman’s touch, but he liked it fine.
The less stuff he had, the more room Alex had to run. It was easy to clean.
He took out an old pan and handed it to Alex along with a wooden spoon.
His son immediately started drumming, and with a decent beat, too. “You are my child, Alex. Your grandparents would be proud.”
Next, he got a good pan out and boiled water for the pasta. He was frying onions to add to the sauce when his phone rang and burst his happy bubble.
Zamira.
What did she want? Maybe she wanted to invite him
over, to spend the night? He was glad he had Alex with him, making a visit to Zamira impossible. Or what if she wanted to talk about Diego? What if Diego had convinced her to return to Argentina?
When he didn’t answer, she sent a text.
Armand, we’ve got to talk. Please.
Temptation pulled him toward Zamira at the same time as his cherub of a child decided to throw the wooden spoon against the glass cabinet.
In an effort to dodge the spoon and the cracking glass, he dropped his cell phone into the sauce. The pane shattered and he quickly turned the burners off and put the pans in the sink. Shit.
“It fall down, Daddy!”
Shit, shit shit.
“Sure did, Alex.”
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Zamira was up with the sun and decided to walk her angst out on the beach before going into the studio. She was angry that Armand hadn’t responded to her phone call. Or her text. Or the series of both she’d left until midnight.
She’d been so good at holding in her emotions, at being grown up and responsible, but damn it, was it too much to ask for a little moral support?
The sand beneath her feet had a calming effect. Should’ve done this last night, she thought, the play of waves over her feet tickling her toes. Cooling her down.
Diego’s phone call had hurt her, badly. Foolishly. She hadn’t wanted to talk about Diego to Armand, no, that would be a mistake, but she’d wanted to hear his voice—they could talk about dance shoes, for all she cared—just knowing that they were in some way connected would have soothed her emotional wounds.
But no. She bent down and picked up a shell. A clam shell, striped white and orange with thick ridges, the size of a quarter. Zamira stuck it in her pocket to send home to her mother.
Armand had to go on and have a life that didn’t include her.
She remembered being his sun and moon, while he was her star-packed sky.
“Ouch!” Zamira hopped up on her left bare foot, lifting the right one as tears smarted her eyes. Knocked off balance, she sank to her ankle in the surf, and then back on her butt with a splash.
Her foot throbbed and she lifted it up with a frustrated moan.
A flap of skin on her arch hung to the side and blood poured like she’d cut an artery.
Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying, Zamira sniffed and rinsed the cut with salt water.
She must have stepped on a broken shell, or a piece of rock. Maybe glass? The culprit didn’t matter—it hurt.
“Are you all right?”
Zamira glanced up at the kind voice of a young woman in a hot pink bikini, toting a beach bag the same color. “Si, yes. Thank you.” Embarrassed, Zamira’s cheeks stung worse than the open cut on her foot.
“I’ve got paper towels in my bag and some antibacterial stuff.” The woman dropped to her knees in the low surf and checked out Zamira’s injury. “It’s bleeding pretty good. I hope you don’t need stitches.”
Sucking in a surprised breath, Zamira said, “I can’t do stitches. I’m a dancer.” Panic rose up from her belly to riot in her chest. Armand needed her for the Breakers. She’d promised him he could rely on her.
“Rotten luck.” The woman rummaged in her bag and got out the paper towel and gel, squirting the antibacterial liquid on the cut before pressing the towel against it. “Hold this. Have to apply pressure.”
“Are you a doctor?”
The young woman laughed, showing straight white teeth. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tanned skin. “I’m the oldest of four. My mom worked. I’ve cleaned up my share of scrapes.”
A wave, larger than the others, soaked Zamira’s back. “Thanks.”
“I’m Tiff. Want to move to a dry spot on the beach?”
“I’ll be okay. I’m staying at that hotel.” Zamira pointed to the large six-storied building behind them.
“That’s close enough for you to walk back,” Tiff agreed, getting to her feet. “What kind of dancer are you? Ballet?”
“No. Competitive—original dance as well as classic.”
Tiff tilted her head in interest. “Nearby?”
“At the end of Commercial, before the bridge.”
“I know that place.” She put her hand out and pulled Zamira up. “It was just redone? I’ve always wanted to learn to dance.”
“Oh? Armand Vargas will eventually offer dance lessons to the public.” Zamira would help him succeed, even if she was mad at him.
“Why does that name sound familiar?” Tiff put her arm around Zamira’s waist to steady her.
“Did you watch Dance, Dance USA?”
“Yeah! The TV show. That’s where. Ohh, he’s hot.”
Zamira sighed—everybody thought so. “I know.” She checked her right foot, which was still bleeding, and adjusted her balance on the sand. “Thanks again for your help, Tiff. Hey, if you decide you want lessons, stop in. I’ll give you a deal.”
“Cool! See you later, then.”
Nodding, Zamira limped back to the courtyard overlooking the beach. She unlocked the black gate and went inside the foyer. Debbie immediately noticed that something was wrong when she looked up from the desk.
“What happened, Zamira? Are you okay, honey?”
“I stepped on something.” The ramifications seeped into her brain.
What it, what if, what if? Armand was counting on her to place well in the regionals.
Debbie came around the desk and urged Zamira into a cushioned chair in the small lobby. “Have a seat.”
“I’ll be all right,” Zamira said.
“Let me see.”
Scared that she might have really screwed up somehow, she held her breath as Debbie pulled back the paper towel.
With efficient movements, Debbie dabbed and pressed. “It’s down to a trickle. Do you want to go the doctor?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe if you stay home and rest?”
“I have practice today.”
Debbie frowned, her brows drawn together in maternal concern that made Zamira wish for her own mother.
“I don’t think you should be dancing on that foot.”
“I can’t let Armand down.” Silly tears streamed down her cheeks. “I can’t. He made me the lead for our competition at the Breakers.”
“Oh?” Debbie nibbled her lower lip and stood, her hands on her hips. “It’s eight o’clock. How long until practice?”
“Two hours.”
“Okay, how about I take you to the clinic. It’s not expensive, and they can get you in and out. If they say no stitches...then they can wrap it up for you. If they say you need a stitch or two, Zamira, I’d hate for that to become a more permanent injury.”
“I don’t get injuries,” she informed Debbie. She’d gone for a nice walk on the beach, purging her emotions so that she wouldn’t be a diva today at the studio. “I am careful. The worst thing I’ve ever done is pull a muscle. Painful, but easy enough to work through. Well, broken toes don’t count. All dancers have those.”
Debbie hid a smile.
“I’ll be okay,” Zamira insisted, getting to her foot and the tips of her toes on the right foot. Blood streaked down her arch.
“Right. You’re getting my floors icky.” She gently nudged Zamira back down. “I promise, it won’t take long. I’ll feel better about it.”
Debbie gave her a concerned stare-down until Zamira caved in. “All right. Can we go right now? I can’t be late for Armand.”
“There’s dedication, and then there is not being responsible for your own health. An infection can lead to getting your foot cut off.”
“I said okay,” Zamira laughed. “How many kids do you have?”
“That obvious?” She smiled and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Three kids, three grandkids.”
Zamira supposed that made her very qualified to decide whether a trip to the doctor was necessary. “Thank you.”
Debbie retrieved a first aid kit from the bottom drawer of the fi
le cabinet and wrapped gauze around Zamira’s foot. “Let’s go. I’m sure it will be nothing.”
“Then why are we doing this?”
“Just in case. I’ve learned to hedge my bets.”
Zamira tried to translate that but couldn’t.
Debbie chuckled and led the way to her car, a white Prius hybrid. “That means, to be on the safe side.”
An hour later, Zamira hobbled out of the clinic with her foot glued together on the bottom and her butt aching from a tetanus shot.
The doctor had cleaned her wound, and then suggested two stitches that might leave a tiny scar and elevating her foot for a few days.
Dancers notoriously did not have pretty feet, and hers were no exception. One more bump was no bother to her, but she’d had to explain to the physician that sitting around and eating chocolate was not in her future. Practice, practice.
He’d nodded and told her to rest or she risked infection.
They’d compromised with glue and gauze.
“Well? I know he probably told you to stay off that foot,” Debbie said as Zamira climbed in the car.
“That was his professional advice, yes.”
“And?”
“I have to go to practice! If I don’t show up, it will freak Armand out. But,” she hesitated. “If I show up injured, that might freak out the other dancers, wondering if we will be ready for the competition. And if that got back to Lucas?”
Dancers were all about drama.
“You know what my vote is,” Debbie said over the edges of her black-framed glasses. She started the car.
What would Armand say? Well, if he’d bother replying to a text, or answering his phone then just maybe she’d find out. “I should probably go home. But only for today.”
*****
Armand dropped Alex off with a relaxed and smiling Chantal—he didn’t share Alex’s lucky shot and the ensuing chaos as the glass exploded. He’d herded his son toward the living room with a “we don’t throw things in the kitchen,” admonition, and then they’d walked to a local diner for grilled cheese sandwiches.
No harm, no foul.
Zamira’s phone call stayed to the back of his mind as he’d cleaned glass off the floor and thanked heaven that Alex hadn’t gotten hurt.
