by Traci Hall
By the time he was through, he was sorry that he hadn’t kept a land-line in case of emergencies and made a mental note to call the phone company first thing, from the studio.
He hoped Zamira hadn’t been so freaked out by their kiss, by almost making love, by his dismissal, that she’d bought a plane ticket back to Diego and the safety of Argentina.
If she had?
Then she wasn’t the woman for him.
But damn it, he’d been through this before. Had loved Zamira with everything in him. It was no surprise that his first response was to guard his heart. And now his studio, for Alex. Would she be here already? Waiting for him?
Always emotional, Zamira tended to react instead of wait and think things through. God, what a whirlwind of emotion. Another thing that she brought to his life.
He parked in front of the dance studio, admiring the DanceFusion sign in sapphire blue across the first floor window. He never got tired of seeing proof of his dream come to life on the glass.
Glass. What was stylish in the home magazine obviously didn’t translate well to toddlers with blocks. He’d call Home Design later to get the glass panels switched for something safer.
He got out of his car at 9:15 and unlocked the door, the fresh smell of lemon polish the first sign that the cleaning people had been last night. He didn’t want a studio that reeked of sweat. There was no need for it, though Lucas claimed it was a badge of honor. To Armand, Lucas’s studio had the stench of defeated ambition. Decades of dancers—some stars, some not. He’d only been in it once but the feeling had lingered.
He pressed play on the machine for messages, getting one from Zamira, left at 9:10 that morning, asking him to call her back right away. What the hell? She sounded in a snit, which pissed him off. She’d been so great in the past month that he’d forgotten, almost, what a diva she could be.
He’d never let himself completely forget.
One from—Lucas?
Armand pressed two fingers between his brows. It was not shaping up to be a good day. Lucas wanted a call back, leaving no clue as to what he needed to talk about. Putting Lucas off until later, Armand set up a home phone to be installed the next day, and then, thankful that he kept his smartphone backed up online, he ordered a new one of those. In silver, with all the latest bells and whistles.
At 9:45, the studio phone rang. “DanceFusion.”
“Armand! Why haven’t you called me back?”
Zamira’s angry tones were like assault weapons against his ear drums. He reacted, to the old Zamira, the one he’d not forgiven yet. How dare she kiss him, make him burn with want, and then call Diego? What if she was leaving? He didn’t want to hear it.
“It was on the list,” he said in a cool voice.
She sucked in a breath. “I can’t believe you.”
“What?”
An audible exhale, then, “I can’t come in today.”
“I knew it!” Armand immediately straightened in his chair, all of the pent up emotion he’d been hanging on to exploding. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted. What, did Diego sweet talk you back into his arms? Was this too tough for you here, away from your lover?” Rage turned his vision red.
“How dare you?” she shouted back at him.
“If you don’t show up for practice today, then you’re out of the company.”
“Armand, I,”
“Out!” He slammed the receiver to the cradle so hard the plastic cracked.
His head pounded and he wondered if he’d gone too far. But how could she do this to him?
He’d made her the star of the damn routine for his first competition at the Breakers, a dream come true, and she couldn’t even stick around for that.
He’d thought she would be a professional.
He’d been wrong.
Seething, he tucked all of those emotions back inside and slammed a lid on them marked “Zamira. Poison. Do Not Remove.”
Oscar came in with JoJo, followed by the rest of the crew.
This is my business, Alex is my life. I am doing this for him.
Focus, Armand.
By 10:15 at the studio everybody realized something was off. The dancers hummed quietly as they warmed up for the day.
The door slammed back and Zamira, goddess of war, the epitome of passion and fury, stood there in denim short-shorts and a bikini top. She had a flip flop on her left foot, and gauze wrapped around her right.
“Here I am, Boss-Man. Despite the doctor’s orders.”
Chapter Twelve
Zamira felt the curious gazes of her fellow dancers as she shouted her arrival, hanging onto the doorframe of the studio for balance. Armand’s anger turned to surprise and he released the rigid set of his shoulders.
Near tears, Zamira probably should have gone home as Debbie insisted, but in the end, her friend had agreed to drop her off, so long as Zamira kept her foot up and didn’t try to dance. With thanks, she’d assured Debbie that she’d be fine. However, Zamira had entered the building on pure furious steam and now her energy was gone.
How could Armand speak to her like that? And bring up Diego, for heaven’s sake? Yes, she’d done him wrong in the past, but she’d apologized and worked to prove herself. Was it a losing battle that would never turn in her favor?
“What happened?” he asked, moving toward her.
“I stepped on something at the beach and cut my foot.” If she lifted her chin any higher she’d knock out the overhead lights. “The doctor wanted me to have stitches, but we compromised on glue. I’m to keep it elevated for a few days.”
Guilt flushed his olive skin-tones. “I’m sorry, Zamira.”
“I tried to call.”
“Let me drive you home.”
“No, no,” she said, hobbling to the high-top table at the end of the dance mat where he often watched. “I’m here now.”
Sophie ended the tension as they stared at each other with a sympathetic cluck of her teeth. “I remember when I sprained my ankle, when I was fifteen? It was brutal, and nothing to do but rest it.” Sophie dragged the other stool over and folded a hand towel to help Zamira get settled with her foot up.
“Thank you,” Zamira said, the last of her anger dissipating at her friend’s kindness.
Marciana crossed her arms and chuckled. “You’ll get to watch us. Offer pointers.”
Armand handed her a bottle of water. “How long before you can dance?”
Was that really all he cared about? Hurt, she snapped, “I’ll be fine in the morning.”
His dark brown brow arched to hide behind the lock of hair on his forehead.
“I’ve danced through broken toes before, we all have.” She gestured to her fellow troupe members. “This is nothing. I cut my arch. Probably the only tender part of my foot, si? My heels are like rocks. Once I can stretch it without it bleeding, I can dance. Maybe this afternoon.”
“Don’t rush it. I need you for next week, in prime condition. Marciana’s right—you can assist today.” He put his hand on her bare shoulder and gently squeezed. “I am sorry.”
Zamira would forgive him anything. Why couldn’t he do the same for her?
They ran a warm up dance. Oscar and JoJo moved in sync, though JoJo favored her left side. Something Zamira never would have noticed unless she sat from this vantage point. Armand ran the class through a tango with modern elements, though the dances they would be doing at the Breakers would be more traditional.
During a ten-minute break when he joined her at the high-top table she asked, “Remember when we used to watch videos of your grandparents?” Armand nodded, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He’d been so proud of their accomplishments.
The waltz his grandparents had created, something wild at the time, was the same waltz DanceFusion would be doing next week. She pointed to the black and white photos on the wall. “That’s your grandparents, si?” He loved the continuity of family.
“Yes. At a world competition.”
“Their l
ove shows.” The look on his grandfather’s face as he smiled down at his wife was filled with tenderness.
Armand nodded, and pointed to another black and white photo of a couple dancing cheek to cheek in 1920’s costumes. “My parents.”
Zamira pulled her eyes from the picture to Armand and reached for his hand—his fingers were cool. “You never speak of them. They are beautiful—so young!” She studied the image captured on film, noting the young man straight nose that he shared in common with Armand. The brown curls.
“It’s one of the few pictures I have. I don’t really remember them.” His voice turned gruff. “But yes, this is my family.”
She looked at the troupe, at the way he led them all. They were a family, of sorts. Something he missed in his life?
Her loud and noisy familia shouted and argued and loved at high volume. Her cousins had many children, though she was an only child of older parents. Armand had been an only child too, raised by his grandparents. It was something they’d had in common.
His offer of marriage had taken her by surprise at the time, but in hindsight, perhaps he wanted his own family, with her?
Children were not a draw, though she supposed maybe someday. She’d been so focused on her career that she hadn’t considered life outside of dance.
And then Armand had left Argentina—she’d made the worst mistake by choosing safety over love. She was doing her best to get that gift of love back.
After Armand’s response to her missing a day in the studio, she had to face the brutal reality that things were not the same and may never be again.
*****
Armand, attuned to Zamira and her emotions, sensed when her anger changed into sadness. On account of him.
He wasn’t sure what to do with that, so he chided Christine. “To the right, Christine. You will break Trevor’s toes and then we will have to cancel the show. What kind of reputation will our studio have if all of my dancers are injured?”
Christine laughed, taking his teasing while correcting her stance. It was not just his reputation on the line, but theirs, as a whole.
They danced for an hour, perfecting the routine by repeating it over and over. “Take a break,” he called out, turning the music off. “I’ve got fruit cut up in the kitchen. Cheese. You’ve got to keep your energy up. Marciana, will you bring a small plate for Zamira?”
He looked at Zamira, finally, knowing that another apology was owed, but not with words.
Deeds.
As she’d given him.
Armand took her foot in hand. “May I?” He unwrapped the gauze and saw a gash about three inches long, glued closed. Red and swollen, covered with ointment, it looked painful. He gently wrapped it again. “If you need to go home, I can take you.”
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice deep.
He couldn’t stop his touch from moving to her ankle, her calf. Touching her soft skin. “I’ll drive you, after practice.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“I dropped my phone last night,” he said. He didn’t tell her how. “Drowned it in pasta sauce.”
Her mouth curved up. “All to avoid a phone call? You could have just texted if you didn’t want to talk.”
“It wasn’t that, believe me.” His thumb massaged her ankle bone. “When did you do this?”
“This morning. I was helped by a wonderful girl, Tiff, who just might be a dance client, once you open up to lessons.”
“Always working,” he drawled. “Thank you. I...”
“Here you go, Princess Zamira,” Marciana teased. “Shall I cut it up for you, too?”
Zamira accepted the plate, her cheeks pink. “I could have gotten it myself.” She peeked at Armand.
“No, no,” he said. “What if you break your leg trying to hop across the room?”
Zamira shook her finger at him. “Armand! You’re going to jinx us. Take it back.”
“I take it back!” Armand laughed. “Why are dancers so superstitious?”
“You know,” Oscar said, joining them around the small table, “I think Zamira took the bullet for our dance team. If things go smoothly in a performance before the show…” he trailed off. “The show will bomb.”
Sophie nodded and looked relieved. “True. Sorry, Zamira, but Oscar is right.”
“We have that same superstition in Argentina,” she said, looking at Armand. “And remember the one about lighting three candles in a dance theater? Whoever stood closest to the candle on the right would either die, or get married.”
“Married?” Sophie asked. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“In the old days, marriage meant your career was over. Same as being dead,” Oscar explained.
“That’s awful. Not that I want to get married. I want to dance across the world!” Sophie stood, en pointe, her arms curved beautifully above her head like a ballerina in a music box.
Armand had wanted marriage and a dance career. Zamira had not. His mood changed from joking to serious and he excused himself from the group.
He heard Zamira say, “Be open to love, Sophie. It is a gift to be cherished and will last long after your career is over.”
Was she alluding to them? Did she think that she loved him? Armand didn’t stick around to find out. Instead, he went inside the kitchen and filled a plate with watermelon and pineapple, adding a handful of raw almonds.
Trevor was arguing with Zach by the refrigerator but stopped when Armand looked up. The young man’s face was tight with emotion, while the older man clenched his fist.
“What’s wrong?” Armand didn’t want to know personal details but if they were fighting over a private matter, it needed to stay outside the dance studio.
Trevor brushed off his partner’s hand. “I think you should know.”
Armand, surprised, swallowed his melon. “What?”
Zach bristled, but nodded his agreement.
“Lucas is asking questions about you. About your past. With Zamira. He’s spreading rumors that you skewed the votes in order to win the prize on Dance, Dance USA.”
Setting his plate down, Armand gathered his temper to keep a cool head. “I am not a cheater. Or a liar. Zamira and I used to dance together in South America. It’s no secret. There are videos on YouTube.”
Jerks like Lucas were the reason that he’d chosen to keep his son from the spotlight. There was a morality clause in the contract he’d signed for the dance show, which wasn’t just about the dancing.
Chantal hadn’t minded the media questioning who the father of her son was, but because they hadn’t gotten married, she didn’t want to be linked to Armand, and because of that clause, it was best for his chances if he wasn’t shown as a gigolo who left pregnant women in his wake.
It had been a lot of discussion on both of their parts, for their careers. Alex was their pride and joy.
Would Zamira understand?
Lucas’s gossip confirmed that he was right to keep his son protected.
“I know, that’s what we said when we heard. It’s the Miami dancers. They’re siding with Lucas, saying that you think you’re better than they are.”
“Trevor,” Armand said in a steady voice, hiding his anger. “We are. DanceFusion is ten, no, a hundred, times better. And we will prove it.”
Felicity walked in for another piece of banana. “Oh, what’s going on in here?”
“We told him about Lucas—what he’s been saying,” Trevor said.
Wincing, Felicity patted Armand on the arm. “He’s jealous. Anybody can see that. It’s just that, if you want to compete in the local arena, he’s hurting your, our, reputation before we even get started.”
Armand put his plate down on the counter. “You’re right.” He sighed, his brain spinning circles of possibilities. “I’ll take care of it.”
He led the way out of the kitchen and went back to the table. The dancers were chatting, friendly. Why couldn’t Lucas mind his own business? They weren’t bothering him at all.
S
ure, Armand had top dancers—but only half of them came from Miami. Lance had danced with Lucas until recently. 21, handsome in a lean, Hispanic way, he’d been quick to catch onto the routine and came highly recommended from Marciana. Lila, dancer number fifteen, was his latest find. From Haiti, she was dark and petite, and as flexible as an acrobat.
Armand clapped, signaling the troupe to take their positions. This took a few minutes, which gave him time to come up with a plan.
Zamira, from the way she nodded at him with encouragement, had obviously been told the latest gossip, which came down to a challenge.
It was good to have her as an ally. A friend. His lover?
No, he couldn’t go there.
Armand cleared his throat and didn’t start the music. “Thank you, for sharing with me the Miami dirt.” The troupe laughed nervously. “From now on, unless there is a direct threat to one of you, we will ignore Lucas’s campaign to smear us. I will take care of it myself. What we need to do, and we must do this as a team, is work together to be the best dance company around. As you know from Dance, Dance USA, I love competition.”
The dancers cheered.
He held up a hand. “What I don’t love is fighting dirty to win. We won’t do that here. So please, no retaliating. I want to be able to hold our heads up with pride. We will enter competitions, and prove to the judges that we are talented. Period. But not until we are ready, all right? Trust me. After we continue to take home the gold, the grumbling from Miami won’t matter.”
“Yeah!” Zamira said, clapping hard and jumping off the seat one-footed to put her arms around him in a hug. “I know you can do it, Armand.”
Armand didn’t release Zamira as he faced the troupe. “We can do it.” He let the pride and enthusiasm for his dancers show as he joined in the applause—for them. “Now let’s get to work!”
Chapter Thirteen
Armand hired a twenty-person van with a driver/assistant to bring them to West Palm Beach. Some of the best times he remembered from performing as a team were moments on the bus together. Preparing for the show on the way, and going over the highlights on the return trip home.
