by Traci Hall
Lance brought a box of folded hand towels with the DanceFusion logo and put it in the back of the van, nodding at Armand before going back inside the studio for more gear.
Though he had less traditional experience, Lance had natural grace and charm that made him an easy fit with the group. He hit it off well with Zamira’s partner, Joshua, who had been dancing since first grade. Joshua kept his auburn hair cropped close and was about six feet even. He and Zamira danced extremely well. She was better, though, and Joshua was smart enough to let her shine.
She won, he won.
Hell, if she stole the hearts of the judges and the audience, then the entire company might get asked back. The Breakers, aside from tonight’s competition, paid very well and had an exclusive, high-brow reputation.
“Careful with that,” Armand cautioned as Trevor and Zach loaded the travel dance mat to cover the beige and white checked marble floor in the historic hotel. “If a corner tears, it might fray. Don’t want anyone to trip.”
Armand had scissors and tape, just in case. He’d packed more crap for this hour-long trip than when he’d traveled to Europe. He was coming to terms with managing the show, designing costumes to match the routine so he could use his creative energy in a different way.
Zamira and Marciana brought a row of costumes to be hung across the back of the van. Sophie followed with a bag of shoes.
He’d been torn about whether or not to have the dancers change at the hotel, or to get ready here. After talking it over with Zamira, he’d decided that full make-up would be done, hair sprayed and everybody ready to slip into the costumes once they arrived so there wouldn’t be a chance for a spill or a wrinkle.
Zamira handed him his leather case. “Here, Armand. I put the music inside.”
“Thanks. You’ve been amazing.” He leaned down and kissed Zamira’s cheek. She’d danced the next day following her injury as if nothing had ever been wrong. He’d forced her to rest early, and watch. She’d shared her observation on JoJo favoring her left side, which put Oscar at a disadvantage as he had to be off-balance to compensate. Bodies were tools implemented in dance and the slightest miscalculation had the potential for error.
Sophie looked away, a smile on her rouged face.
The fact that he and Zamira had complicated feelings for one another was an unspoken acknowledged truth that everyone tip-toed around, including he and Zamira.
The goal was to get through tonight’s performance and then they’d talk.
Watching her dance brought to life every emotion he’d repressed in the last few years. They couldn’t keep balancing on this tenuous peace. What they felt was too explosive to be contained.
She lowered her gaze and stepped back, pleasure flushing her cheeks. “You’ve done a terrific job putting it all together. Your grandparents would be very proud of you, Armando.”
It didn’t cut this time, when she whispered his name. And he liked that she thought of his grandparents with full understanding of how important they’d been in his life. “Does your mom know that you’re dancing at the Breakers?”
“Oh yes. And Papa, and Aunt Tildy.” She laughed softly. “I promised to send them video—of the hotel. They’ve seen me dance plenty of times.”
“Now, why don’t I believe you? They enjoy watching your performances.” Her parents supported her dream—because of the hard work Zamira put in.
“What? They want to know if the Breakers is worth the dinero to stay. My papa is very picky.”
“He’s an intelligent man.”
“Tight.” Zamira rubbed two fingers together with her thumb, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Which is why his bank account is full.”
Armand joined her laughter. It was true that her father, while generous, didn’t like to spend his hard-earned dollars without cause.
At this moment it was easy to believe they could overcome the obstacles in front of them, and try again. Love waited, just out of reach. If he dared.
“Armand?”
He turned toward Oscar, who carried a case of bottled water for the van. “Yes?”
“Up front, or back here?” Oscar’s hair was slicked back with spray in a forties gangster comb-over. His lids were slightly darkened with dark brown liner. Handsome, dependable and always ready to help, Oscar was a steady member of the team.
“Up front.” Armand gestured toward the passenger side door and returned his attention to Zamira, but she’d wandered off with Sophie.
The girls wore yoga pants over tights and ballet slippers. They each had their hair pulled back off their faces with a forties style side-roll, and a silk red rosette secured in the curl. Bright red lips, Zamira’s favorite, thick black liner and lush black lashes, rouged cheeks. They looked like living dolls.
When they put on their costumes, they’d be sirens from the gangster age.
He’d decided to keep the routine mostly traditional, so that the customers at the hotel would be familiar with the dances and the music. The judges scored on timing and skill, costumes and song choice.
Once the competition was over, the dancers were expected to stay and invite the audience to dance.
Armand counted heads as they all piled into the van.
Seven guys, eight ladies. Himself, and the driver, who would also help with the equipment. Once Lila had joined them, they’d become out of sync again for couples dancing, but she agreed to sit out since she was the last. When they were doing an open competition, an odd number of people would be fine.
Zamira sat up front, with Sophie and Marciana. The van didn’t have a seat next to the driver, which meant he had to sit next to someone.
By tacit agreement, it looked like the open seat next to Zamira was for him.
He smiled and faced the group. As the driver headed for the interstate he went over rules of conduct, expectations and behavior within the hotel.
“If we do well, we just might get invited back.”
“Once we win, can we enter the regional in South Beach?” Christine asked.
Armand blinked in surprise. That would be a direct competition with Lucas and Miami Dance Company. He’d been thinking to enter next year, since his troupe was so new. “I’ll think about it,” he hedged.
They applauded and he sat down. Zamira had headphones in and she looked out the window. He knew that she liked to dance the dance in her head before she performed, so he didn’t bother her. Instead, he took a moment to enjoy being near her without an agenda.
Too pumped to close his eyes, he too went over every last detail in his mind. Were the girls’ costumes too risqué for the older crowd? He’d wanted sexy, not trampy. The fifty minutes went by quickly and once they reached the parking lot, he had the van driver park so his troupe could change in relative privacy.
It was part of the dance glamour. Everyone in his company had traveled, and getting dressed in a cubicle was part of the challenge.
Once they’d switched into costume that meant they were in character. Gangsters and molls.
Christine, Trevor, JoJo, Oscar, Sophie, Zach, Marciana, Lance, Zamira, Joshua, Kristen, Lila, James, Felicity and Michael. Armand followed them with pride into the historic hotel. The sliding glass doors opened and they walked in single file toward the concierge desk. Ornate golden oak, with carved cherubs on the legs, the desk top was made of golden marble. The heels of their dance shoes clacked against the marble tiles on the floor, gaining the performers curious glances from the guests. His dancers smiled but didn’t engage in conversation, beyond returning a polite hello.
“Hi! You must be DanceFusion. I recognize you, Armand. This way!” The concierge was a gorgeous blonde with blue eyes and a tall, thin figure that suggested model in her spare time.
“Thank you.”
Armand looked behind him to make sure the driver had the cart of bags needed for the floor and music.
Check.
Appearance was so important at these things and Armand knew that this was the first step toward bui
lding his reputation as an instructor. His team had to be strong.
The dancers had rallied around Zamira as her foot healed, taking her well-meaning suggestions to heart. Though he’d not agreed to the competition in South Beach, he would see how they performed tonight.
Pride? Yes, he wanted to show Lucas that his group was the best. But he wouldn’t compete too soon and risk them looking less talented than Lucas’s troupe. He would take his satisfaction from winning legitimately in the circuit. When his company was ready—and not until.
*****
Zamira absorbed the energy coming from the other dancers and added it to her own rising level. A star performance was the end goal for her, always had been. Armand used to tease that she’d been driven by the tiara.
Which held an element of truth, until she’d realized the real prize had been Armand’s love. Too late.
Each touch between them simmered with potential fire, humming with banked heat, which added a layer of forbidden to the waiting powder keg.
Armand was dressed in a black silk shirt with long sleeves, black slacks that fit his trim physique, and black leather shoes polished to a shine. His red tie was the same color as the red in their costumes.
Though he wasn’t dancing, he was still a part of the show. The director. Creator.
Zamira entered a large ballroom with beige and white checkered marble tiles and a high ceiling with frescoes and chandeliers, reminiscent of the older buildings in Europe. Aunt Tildy would love the gold gilt everywhere.
Armand said, “Fifteen minute warm up.”
The beautiful blonde smiled at them all. “You are the second to last performers. Here are the numbers to pin on the back of your costumes—the judges will be sitting at the front row of the audience.”
“How’s it been?” Armand asked.
“Fabulous. The talent is wonderful, but the crowd has been waiting to see your dancers, Armand. A lot of people remember you from the TV show.”
Both a blessing and a curse. “Thank you.”
“Break a leg,” she added cheerfully. “I used to dance in New York.”
Zamira watched Joshua give the concierge a wink and bet her partner would have the woman’s number before they left tonight.
She stretched, the arch of her injured foot slightly stiff—not that she would complain. Zamira would dance on glass without a whimper to make Armand’s dream come true. Lila helped pin the black on white numbers to their backs and Zamira slipped the rest of the way into character. A gangster’s woman, a passionate lover on the edge as her man could be shot over illegal guns and liquor any moment.
The music started, the lights dimmed. She and Joshua stood in the center of the mat, the other dancers paired around them, waiting for the cue. Forehead to forehead, her body hummed with anticipation.
The drum beat pounded, the music swelled and she and Joshua clasped hands, moving backward a step—forward two. The others joined in and they moved in unison. Part waltz, part tango the song music was spliced to show the best of both dances. Slow, heated sweeps across the mat to faster paced sensual moves, thigh to thigh and cheek to cheek.
Zamira felt the performance going well, mentally taking note of where it could be improved. The audience clapped in all the right places and when they finished their final spin around the mat, she and Joshua bowed to the judges.
The other dancers then joined them, forming a line facing the cheering audience. One, two and three. Bow. Wait to the count of three and raise your head.
She squeezed Joshua’s hand, hoping Armand was pleased. It had been a stroke of luck, chance, to have this opportunity at the Breakers to begin with. Or so Armand said—he knew how to charm the right people to get what he wanted, which was a skill in itself.
Zamira peeked over her shoulder, finding his proud face behind her, his body relaxed and watching them from his position by the speaker.
The blonde woman spoke into a microphone. “We have one more set of contestants and then, after a short break, our dancers invite you to be part of the magic as our judges tally the votes.”
The crowd applauded and Zamira released Joshua’s hand to get a water bottle and a private word with Armand as they waited.
Had he noticed the slight misstep between Christine and Lance after the first number? She’d had to rush too. If they adjusted the half-beat there, it might be a simple enough fix. Dios, were they ready to face Lucas and Miami Dance Company on the dance floor?
Taking a sip of water, just a sip, since the costumes were a bitch to get out of for bathroom breaks, she made her way toward him but stopped when she realized that he was on the phone.
“Breaking your own cardinal rule?” She teased him as soon as he’d ended his call. “No phone calls.”
The dark expression on his face warned her to back off, but this sparked her annoyance and she stared him down. He wasn’t really the boss of her, even if he did act like it.
“Not your business, Zamira.”
“Your rule,” she quipped defiantly. She took a shot in the dark, her insecurities bubbling over. “Let me guess. It was your Chantal?”
His eyes narrowed. “So?”
After the weeks of longing looks and stolen touches, Zamira couldn’t take anymore. Unrequited passion erupted and she tossed the water bottle to the cart. “You are in love with her. Why don’t you admit it and stop playing with my emotions?”
Armand drew himself up, his jaw tight. “I am not in love with her. Get yourself under control. This is so like you. Creating a scene when you don’t get your way.”
Stung, she lifted her chin, her body trembling with outrage. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
“I already told you.” Armand’s cold tones froze her heart. “Once I am finished with a lover, I don’t go back.”
Any hope that she’d had for a reconciliation between them fell flat and her high emotions drained. “You don’t have to be cruel, Armand.”
“This is not the time or place. Watch and learn from this group of competitors, Zamira. Don’t make me regret giving you a chance.”
Lila, eyes wide, came from behind the speaker.
How much had the girl overheard?
Cold seeped through her body. Zamira turned on her heel and stood next to Sophie as the last troupe competed. She buried her feelings and focused on the dance floor. Twenty dancers, dressed in black on black. They performed a traditional ballroom waltz. Boring, but good. Technically better than DanceFusion. No mistakes at all. Once the floor was opened to the audience, she forced a welcoming smile and danced for hours, her body on auto-pilot as she dipped, twirled and shimmied. Her mind whirled as she avoided Armand’s regretful gaze.
Did he mean it? Would he never give her a chance? Or, by acting like a jealous shrew, had she pushed him too far?
Chapter Fourteen
Zamira sat next to Sophie on the ride back. Pumped high with adrenalin, the energy in the bus soared as each person relived a highlight of the night. She did her best to keep smiling.
“Third on our very first competition.” Armand stood with his back to the driver and faced the dancers with a pleased expression.
“Should be first,” Lance said.
Oscar tossed a sweaty hand towel at Lance. “Quiet from the peanut gallery. I saw you miss that turn with Christine.”
Lance caught the towel and tossed it back. “Yeah, sorry about that, Christine.”
Armand opened champagne and toasted them all. “I was very impressed that we placed—not surprised, because you guys are good. As a reward, you don’t have to come into practice tomorrow until 2.”
His glance slid over Zamira’s and she shivered, looking away. If he kept returning to that line in the sand, his pain, then what chance did she have of reaching his heart? At what point was she a fool for reaching out to him? For wanting him?
And she did. Even now, she could taste his full lips against hers. His body making her complete. A perfect evening, soured.
Sh
e’d pushed. He’d pushed back. Just maybe the fairy tale she’d created of their love was just that—a figment of her desires. Her imagination.
“What’s wrong?” Sophie asked in a whisper. “You nailed your dances. You should be flying!” She tipped her plastic champagne flute to Zamira’s and clicked.
“I am,” Zamira lied with a straight face. “I always get quiet after a performance.”
“I’m too wired on adrenalin to be quiet,” Sophie laughed. “But the second I get home and my head hits the pillow? I’ll be out.”
Marciana waved her hand at Armand. “Hey, did we get video of tonight?”
“Yes,” he answered smoothly, shifting his hip as the bus hit a bump. “We can watch it tomorrow and look for places to improve.”
Zamira kept her suggestion of trimming the half-beat at the beginning of the second dance to herself. Right now, she was afraid if she had a conversation with Armand that she’d fly into a rage, or burst into tears.
The other dancers jumped into the conversation, filling the void of silence with chatter and suggestions. They reached the dance studio in record time, and Zamira dragged herself up to help unload the van.
“Do you need a ride?” Sophie asked.
“No, she doesn’t,” Armand answered for her. “I’m taking her home.”
Really? Zamira burned with embarrassment. “That’s all right, Armand. Sophie already said she would do it.” The last thing she wanted at the moment was to be alone with him. Acting as if he owned her. How could he? First in front of Lila, and now Sophie.
“Zamira, please.” Armand looked from Sophie to Zamira. “We have to talk—I have some ideas that I’d love your input on.”
She swallowed back her angry retort. “I can meet you here at one tomorrow.” Brushing by Sophie, she exited the van and grabbed a box of equipment. Went back and got another, putting things away inside the studio. Her mind on the task, she didn’t realize that Sophie left without saying goodnight. Traitor.
Which meant accepting a ride home from Armand. It was after midnight, or else she’d walk the few blocks to her hotel.
