by Traci Hall
Gritting her teeth, she slid into the passenger seat without saying a word. Everyone else had gone. Furious, she bit her tongue as Armand started the car.
“Zamira, I’m really sorry.”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Her voice trembled.
“It was a rotten thing to say.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“I was wrong, okay? I don’t love Chantal that way—but she’s a very close friend.” He drove toward the beach. “I’m sure you still have feelings for Diego.”
“How dare you bring Diego into this?” She turned in her seat, the seat belt straining against her shoulder. “He has nothing to do with this.”
“I think he does,” Armand insisted. “You are still in contact, still friends, right? Didn’t you just have a conversation with him?”
Tempted to lie, she knew that if they had a chance at all it was time to bare her heart.
She didn’t want to, no, it would be easier to ignore her feelings and keep on the way they were—but she couldn’t bear it any longer. It wasn’t why she’d come to America, leaving everything behind.
He pulled into the parking lot, driving to the far end toward the ocean. He turned to her, his expression shuttered.
She heard Aunt Tildy in her head, telling her to stand up for herself and grab what she wanted with both hands. Love hurt, life hurt. Only one thing could ease her pain. Armand. “Come sit with me outside and listen to the waves?”
He nodded. They each got out of the car and she sat on the concrete bench at the end of the parking lot overlooking the sand dunes. The breeze coming off the water at night was cool, the moon bright in the dark sky. Water crashed against the beach, the rhythm soothing.
“There is nothing like the ocean for solace,” she said, leaving room for him to sit on her left side.
“Why do you need solace?” He joined her and cleared his throat, “Aside from my bad attitude. Or is that what you’re talking about?”
“No, Armando.” She inhaled, taking courage from the salty air, the warm breeze, the sound of the surf. “It is more than that. I, I left everything to come to you.”
“It was your choice,” Armand said. “I had no idea you’d show up in my dance studio.”
Zamira wrapped her fingers around the edges of the bench seat, the cold concrete rough against her skin. “You might have changed your mind about advertising for dancers, if you’d known I’d come.”
“I never thought you’d leave Argentina. But we’ve managed to find a way, and I’m very pleased to have you dancing with the company. You’re the best dancer in the troupe.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Zamira looked up at the moon and spoke from her heart. “Even though I am dancing with Joshua, I imagine that it is you.”
There was ten seconds of silence. Then he said, “Why are we sitting outside?” He put his arm around her shoulders. “You are shivering. Let’s go sit in the car, if you don’t want to invite me in.”
“I am not shivering from the cold, Armando.” She got to her feet and pulled him after her. “We can go upstairs. Would you like a drink?”
His large hand encompassed hers. “No.”
Would he leave her? To go home, or wherever he went when he wasn’t with her?
“I want you, Zamira.”
She swallowed, her mouth dry with nerves. “I could use some wine. And then, we will see.”
Armand’s eyes narrowed but he followed her to the private elevator. As if afraid to break the fragile spell between them, neither spoke.
Their only contact was the touch of their fingertips as they rode up to the fourth floor. Now she just wanted to remember that joyous feeling of a fine performance, and the look of pride on Armand’s face at the close of the night.
Not the jealous words she’d spoken, or the way he’d retaliated.
Zamira unlocked her door and switched on the light. She’d brightened the hotel room with striped scarves in reds and yellows and a crystal vase of yellow roses. “Come in,” she said, her breasts tightening in anticipation.
He brushed by her, his body sliding against hers.
Nobody made love like Armand.
She flipped off her soft-soled ballet slippers and walked barefoot to the kitchenette. Two wine glasses, and a chilled Chardonnay. “Will this be alright?” she asked.
“Of course. Are you limping, Zamira? How is your foot?”
“Fine.” Zamira handed the bottle and the corkscrew to Armand.
He accepted them and immediately set them down on the table, picking her up by the waist to balance her on the kitchen sink. Her eyes widened in surprise as he lifted her foot, running his thumb over the red arch. “This is swollen, Zamira.”
“Because I cut it, Armand.” She pulled her foot free, her body shivering at his commanding touch.
“Does it hurt?” He put his arms on either side of her, trapping her on the counter’s edge, his breath warm against her face. She pushed him back and ducked under his arm.
“I’m fine.” What did he expect? That she’d let a little injury stop her from dancing? He should know better than that. “I’ll go freshen up. There is brie in that little refrigerator too. Crackers in the cupboard. Make yourself at home.”
His fingers caressed hers as she passed him by. “Hurry back. We have a lot to talk about.”
“Armando, you may not have noticed, but I am not in the mood for any language but amore.”
*****
Armand almost swallowed his tongue. Zamira exuded sexuality, tilting her head, her brown curls falling over one expertly lined eye, one shoulder.
She’d made the decision to sleep with him, then, and the only way the evening would be ruined was if he left while she was in the bathroom.
He quickly uncorked the wine and poured two glasses, then got the cheese and crackers. Washing grapes and strawberries, he put those on the plate as well. Zamira was playful in bed before turning into a tigress.
Zamira’s passionate nature had led to incredible shouting matches over imagined slights—had he looked at another woman? With Zamira in his world, there was no room for another. Just the way he’d liked it, but he hadn’t been enough to keep her.
Shouting and yelling had ended in kissing and making love wherever they landed. The floor, the bathroom counter, the kitchen table. Rarely the bed.
He eyed the full-sized mattress with the upholstered headboard. Standard hotel fare, and on the safe side.
Armand had never gone back to a woman once they’d split. When the relationship was over, he had no interest. This time, his mind and body competed for attention, his groin hardening as he vividly recalled every gorgeous inch of Zamira. The only woman who’d broken his heart.
He sipped his wine and walked to the sliding glass door leading out to a balcony. Pushing the long curtain aside, Armand knew he could be making a huge mistake.
And didn’t give a damn.
He’d never stopped loving her.
The smell of cinnamon and lemon preceded her voice. “Brooding, Armand?”
Turning, he let the curtain fall behind him. “No. Wishing on a star.”
Her lips, glossy and red, lifted in a seductive smile. “You haven’t lost your charm.”
He gently traced the curl of hair where it wrapped around the dusky point of her nipple behind a silky gown. “Neither have you.” Was it possible she was even more beautiful than he remembered?
She’d sucked in a breath at his touch, her brown eyes almost black with desire and heavily lashed. “Wine would be good, if I’m going to last.” She turned on a bare foot to the glass waiting for her next to the cheese and fruit. Smiling, she called over her naked shoulder, “Sustenance?”
Zamira chose a plump strawberry, dipping it in her wine before bringing it to her lush lower lip. She closed her eyes in pleasure and Armand groaned.
Confident, brazen, Zamira took the plate from the dining table and crossed the ten steps to the bed. She sat in the mid
dle of the comforter, cross-legged. The short, sheer nightie revealed no undergarments. “Join me,” she crooned, patting the mattress.
“I’m feeling a little over dressed,” Armand managed to say around tight vocal chords.
She sipped her wine, very aware of the effect she had on him. “Get naked.” Holding up one finger, she added, “Or almost naked. Show me what you’ve got under those slacks, Armand. Or are you, what did you used to say, going commando?”
Her voice teased, as did her eyes. Her finger traced the rim of the wine glass and it was all Armand could do to keep his eyes from the silky row of sable curls between her legs. He knew how to please her, where to suck, when to nibble, how to lightly pinch.
Why had he thought this was a bad idea?
Don’t rush, Armand.
He turned off the light in the kitchen and she reached across the bed to the lamp on the nightstand, dimming the room. Romance. Shoes off. Socks.
She nibbled another strawberry, her breaths pushing her breasts against the fabric of her nightie, the short hem up to her thighs, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.
He unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, revealing skin inch by inch. He started at the chest, aware of her approving gaze. He untucked the shirt, slipped it off his shoulders and tossed it on the dining chair at his back.
Still facing the bed, and Zamira’s smoldering eyes, he unbuckled his belt. She watched him consider what to do with it, a small smile playing around the edges of her rosy mouth.
Temptress.
He put the belt on the table, unbuttoning his pants. Lowering the zipper over his straining hard-on barely contained by his boxer briefs…letting his slacks slide down his hips, was all torture as he waited to get to Zamira.
Armand stepped free of each pant leg and he kicked them aside. He moved toward the bed, feeling Zamira’s gaze on his entire body.
He kneeled on the edge of the mattress. The plate of food dipped but didn’t spill.
“Would you like a grape, Armando?” She nipped the end of the fruit with her white teeth, her eyes holding his, the tension between them building on remembered pleasures.
Anticipation of what was to come.
“Will you feed it to me?”
She dipped the grape into the wine, sucking at the end. Her pink tongue licked a drop of juice before she popped the rest of the fruit into her mouth and chewed. She chose another grape, bit it in half, and rubbed the juicy open part against his lower lip. “Eat,” she commanded.
Armand let the sweetness of the grape explode over his tongue, his senses amplified by the pulse of blood in the vein at her throat. By the glimmer of desire in her eyes.
He knew that it wasn’t time to touch her yet, but he wanted to—he wanted to burrow into her skin and taste her honey.
“One kiss, Armando,” she said, as if reading his mind. She leaned over the plate of cheese and crackers, her mouth slightly parted.
Holding his breath, her warm lips brushed his. Electricity zinged, making his blood boil, going from zero to sixty in that tentative light touch.
It was all about control, prolonging the pleasure to a painful need before giving in for mutual satisfaction.
Instead of pulling away, she deepened the kiss and he tasted strawberry, the oaky white wine, the sweet grape. Zamira.
His heart thumped hard and he dragged in a breath. Her eyes, wide and luminous in the dim light, held secrets and familiar promise.
She liked to kiss with her eyes open, she said to better see his passion.
He closed his, lost in the sensation of her.
Knee to knee they were connected at the mouth, joined by the give and take of the other’s breath.
Her body trembled but he didn’t touch her. He knew she liked to prolong the anticipation. “I,” love you.
“Don’t say anything.” Her whisper warned him to keep things light.
He cleared his mind of everything but her. Her skin, her breath, her mouth, her hair.
“Screw it.” He needed her, now.
Two long years was way too long.
He swept the plate off the bed with a crash and brought her close, wrapping his arms around her and bringing her flush against his aching groin.
She released a surprised moan before pulling him back so that she fell into the pillows behind her with him on top.
“Not yet,” he said.
Armand knelt before her and visually took her in, his eyes feasting on her sleek thighs, her belly, her sex. The sheer nightie did nothing to shield her breasts from his gaze, and he leaned down to suckle one nipple into his mouth, dampening the fabric.
His groin, heavy, aching, needing Zamira as she reached out to caress the bunched muscle of his thigh, teasing the fabric around his leg, dipping her fingers beneath his waistband. Brushing a feather-light touch over his erection. God.
She pushed him back, settling on top of him. “You are right, it has been too long. Hurry, Armand. Do you have…”
He lifted her up and carefully set her aside, each step away from her agony as he dug in his pants pocket for his wallet and a condom.
Zamira’s brow arched.
“No questions,” he said. “Just pleasure.”
He tore the foil packet with his teeth. Zamira crawled off the bed and tugged his briefs down, her fingers digging into the clenched muscles of his ass as she rained kisses along his abdomen.
He picked her up and settled her on the edge of the mattress. “You’re beautiful,” he said. Her heart, her spirit.
He entered her, an inch at a time, as she laid back, her hands curled into the comforter. She clenched around him, lifting her hips, her eyes at half-mast as she watched him. Her sheer nightie bunched below her breasts, her long mahogany hair spread out beneath her.
She was open to him and he stroked her with the rough pad of his thumb, in tune to the changes in her breath, deepening his thrusts until she tightened her legs around his waist.
“Armando,” she said, coming apart with a sigh.
He thrust once more, thigh to thigh, his body pulsing as she clenched around him, needing just Zamira as they came together in a rush of pure pleasure that he’d only ever known with her.
*****
Zamira woke in the early dawn, her head on Armando’s chest. Twice already they’d loved, their bodies knowing exactly what to do. If only their hearts and minds would get the message.
Love heightened the pleasure, but led to greater pain. Was it worth the risk?
Chapter Fifteen
Zamira slapped Armand’s hand away from her backside with a satisfied laugh. “Stop. You are not helping. How many times can I get dressed in one morning?”
“I prefer you naked,” Armand said. He sat in the armchair between the bed and sliding glass door that led out to the small balcony.
They’d made love three times and she wasn’t through with him, either. He touched her and her body responded. Tight breasts, damp panties. “How are we supposed to get through today’s practice? I’m so glad it will be a short day.” Smoothing her skirt down, she leaned in front of the mirror next to the television and lined her lips in cherry red, applying the gloss. Again.
“Third place for the first time we competed is not bad. There were a few hiccups. Give me your honest opinion, Zamira. What do you think about entering that competition in Miami?”
She met his gaze in the mirror and turned to face him. This would mean dancing in Lucas’s hometown. On his turf. She saw how badly Armand wanted to do it. “With some tweaks, I think we’re ready. Lance and Lila are both caught up—but we all need more practice. As you say, there were some hiccups.” Like Lance almost tripping Christine on the turn, but he was one of the newest members. Young, too. “When do you have to decide?”
“Deadline is tomorrow.” Armand tugged at his smooth-shaven chin. He’d borrowed her razor, just like old times. “You really think we can do it?”
His uncertainty tore at her heartstrings. “We have the talent, no prob
lema. Will we beat Lucas?” She shrugged, sensing his hesitation. Male pride was on the line. “But of course.”
Armand shot to his feet and kissed the top of her head. “Let’s do it. Where’s my phone?”
He was a man of action, Armando was, she thought, her body humming. She’d missed his touch, his laugh. His heart.
She knew he wasn’t sure about where this might go, but in the end, nobody had answers. You had to take a leap of faith, which she’d done by leaving Argentina.
Armand had come to her bed, where he belonged, but that too was a leap of faith. Now they would have to decide how to traverse the road of him as the dance leader, and she a member of his troupe. Lovers.
But she was not just a member of his company, she was his partner in all ways if he would just let her be. She sensed he held something back from her, even at their closest moments, heart to heart, flesh to flesh.
“Armand, have you ever competed against Lucas before?”
“Nope.” Armand returned to the chair and sat back, putting the phone on the footrest, setting it on speaker so she could hear.
“Colin Matthews,” a man answered in a gruff tone.
“Colin? This is Armand Vargas.”
“Armand!” Colin’s voice turned friendly. “How are you? How is that studio in the sticks doing?”
“Ft. Lauderdale is hardly the sticks.” Armand looked at her and rolled his eyes.
“It’s not Miami,” Colin laughed.
“We can agree on that.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to enter my troupe in the regional dance competition next month.”
“You do?” Colin didn’t mask his surprise. “It’s just two weeks away.”
“I do.”
“You have twelve trained dancers?”
“Yes. More, actually—just twelve are needed to compete?”
“Yep. Once you fill out the entry paperwork, you can’t be down any people, or add any.” Colin chuckled. “I am pleased to hear from you, Armand. It’s a five-hundred-dollar entry fee. First prize is two thousand dollars, second prize a thousand. Third prize, seven hundred. I’m always happy to take in some extra money.”
