by Lynn Turner
“Yeah well, better than smacking the shit out of him,” she teased.
Mina felt the blood drain from her face.
“Too soon?” Sophie continued without mercy.
“It was a reflex!”
“Response.”
“What? I had no idea that he was going to…to-”
“Toucher ton chatte.”
Mina gasped, tossing her fork away and straightening her spine.
Sophie nodded, as if her suspicions were confirmed. “He touched it and you responded.”
“It wasn’t like that! I didn’t enjoy it.”
Sophie shrugged a slim shoulder. “It was a shock, so I don’t blame you for hitting him. But you’ve experienced uncomfortable scenarios before without losing your temper. Hell, we usually laugh this stuff off.” She eyed Mina quizzically. “Tell me you would have responded the same way if you weren’t so aware of him?”
Mina looked away.
“I thought so.” Sophie softened her tone and stroked Mina’s hair. “There must be another reason he has you so on edge. I’ve never seen you this way before, chère. So wound up. It can’t just be sleep orgasms.”
“You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?” Mina groaned.
“Not until something more entertaining happens to one of us. Stop changing the subject.”
Resigning herself to an uncomfortable conversation, Mina looked toward the ceiling. “Chai pas… I try not to think about it because it’s so distracting.”
“Come on. It can’t be that bad.”
“Non, not bad. Strange. It makes me feel crazy, like this thing with Étienne.”
“I told you.” Sophie took Mina’s hands in hers. “You are not crazy. What happened was horrible. We don’t even know why it happened. And as much as I know you love me, you and Étienne shared something not even I can understand…but I know it was real.”
Mina stared down at their hands. “Something about Zack reminds me of Étienne.”
“Zack?” Sophie looked intrigued.
“He asked me to call him that, the night we met. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have obliged—out of propriety, of course, but something happened that I didn’t tell you about. Something…”
“Strange.”
“Like déjà vu. But not in the sense that I’d met him before.” Mina swallowed.
“Not. Crazy.”
Nodding, Mina took a deep breath. “I was lost in my own head, I guess. For a second, it really did feel like Étienne was standing there with me. Speaking to me. It was so strong, when I turned around and saw Zack standing there, I was confused.”
“Merde,” Sophie breathed. “Réincarnation?”
“Non, not quite.” Mina bit her lip, thinking. “I don’t know what to call it. It just felt like a connection. Like the way I felt when I met Étienne, but different.”
“Of course it’s different. You weren’t attracted to Étienne, not in that way. Even before you knew he was gay.”
“Non, not in that way.”
“I see why you’re such a mess. You lose someone you have this insane connection with, probably thinking you’d never feel it again, oui?”
“Oui.”
“And then it happens again when you least expect it, with someone you’re attracted to, and you’re working very closely with him almost every single day. Touching each other, breathing all over each other. Now I understand why you keep running away.”
“I don’t run away. I’m still here!”
“You do,” Sophie insisted. “You’ve had a few rough rehearsals, and you’re giving up. Whenever it gets too hot, you snap. And then you run.”
Mina’s sigh was ragged this time, as if she was releasing two weeks’ worth of tension from her lungs. “I don’t know what else to do.”
They both startled when three solid raps sounded at the door. “Room service.”
“Un moment, s’il vous plaît!” Sophie called, hesitating a moment. “It’s passion. Like anything else. We do what we’ve been instructed all our lives. We use it.” Giving Mina’s hand a squeeze, she went to collect their dessert.
*
Rehearsal…2 Weeks Before the Tonys…6:05 pm
They were just forty-five minutes into rehearsal and already Zack was contemplating throwing Mina out of the window. Fat good that would do, though. The infuriating little cat would just land on her feet. On her fucking toes. Always the toes. Maybe he’d suspend her upside down by her toes instead…
Closing his eyes, he massaged the tick between his brows. “Stop.”
“What?” She looked up at him with wide eyes, controlling her heavy breaths. “That was better, I think.”
The tick had migrated to his forehead. “Your toes. You’re pointing them again.”
She frowned, her hands on her hips. “I-It’s not something I was consciously doing.”
“Because it’s ingrained. I show you something and you think, ‘I know what that is, it’s an arabesque, I recognize those shapes.’ But it’s completely different shifts of weight, completely different upper body contortions,” he explained patiently.
“I know this.” Her words were clipped. “This is week three. I understand the fundamentals well enough. I just…haven’t mastered it yet. It still feels so…awkward.”
He took in her tense body lines, her chagrined expression, and softened his tone. Bringing his hands to her stiff shoulders, he gently massaged until she started to relax. “You’re doing what feels natural to you. The ballerina in you can’t resist trying to make the moves look pretty. It’s my job to push you into bigger shapes. Push you out of your comfort zone. Okay?”
She blew a long breath. “Okay.”
He turned her at her waist to begin again.
Two hours into rehearsal…
“I can hear the five…six…seven…eight in your head, petite.” Zack halted their movement.
“I can’t help it!” Mina snapped, catching her breath. “It’s how I learn the steps in the beginning.”
“It’s not enough,” he insisted. “The quickest way to pick it up is by listening to the music-the rhythmic phrases and the melody. You’re not carrying out certain steps at certain times like a robot. You’re telling a story.”
“Bah.” She positioned herself again. “I don’t know how anyone learns this way.”
“That’s the idea.” He grinned. “Shucking convention.”
“Is that why you changed her name?”
“Whose name?”
“The courtesan. Her name was Marguerite.”
Someone’s been doing her homework. “That’s what Alexandre Dumas named her in La Dame Aux Camélias. She’s Violetta in the opera version. In real life, her name was Marie Duplessis. I’m calling her Camille.”
“How very américain.”
“Artistic license, petite. Stop stalling.”
“But-”
“Quiet. Move.”
Three hours, thirty-six minutes into rehearsal…
Mina was exquisite. She could control every part of her body, it seemed, even the thick, curled lashes that fringed her pretty eyes. And it was driving Zack insane.
“Your torso should be slightly bent for that turn, petite, and it’s still too stiff. Use your muscles, it’s what they’re there for.”
Mina whipped around, clearly annoyed by his needling. Well, that was too bad.
“You say ‘relax,’ and then you say ‘engage,’” she snapped. “It’s impossible!”
“I promise you it’s not. You’re still overthinking it.”
She sucked in a breath, and he prepared to be cut at the knees, probably with a biting response about men who don’t like women who think, when her expression relaxed.
He angled his head at her. “Well?”
“Fine. You’re the teacher.”
“That’s right, I am.” It was petty, but tough shit. She was being a brat.
“You don’t have to say it like that. ‘That’s right!’ I just said you’
re the teacher.”
“Do you always have to have the last word?”
“What? Non!”
Zack dropped his gaze to her foot, which tapped the floor wildly like Thumper the bunny. “You’re about to pee your pants, you want to say something so bad.”
Mina gasped. “You can’t say that!”
“What?”
“’Pee your pants!’ It’s inappropriate.”
“Maybe, but it’s true. Look at your foot.”
She looked down at her wayward appendage and froze, her head lifting in defiance. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t say what I want to say.”
“Because I’m the teacher?”
“Oui.”
“Good.” He turned her around by her shoulders. “Move.”
Four hours, twenty-two minutes into rehearsal…
Zack held Mina in a daring hold. She was upside down, the length of her elegant back pinned to his torso, her long legs over his shoulder. She clung to him with just one hand on his calf, her muscles straining as she curved her body into a graceful bow.
He felt her body twist just slightly as she angled her head, and immediately knew what was distracting her. Again.
“Dammit, petite, you’re upside down! Stop looking in the fucking mirror.”
“Ugh!” she cried as he twirled her upright and set her on her feet. “Don’t do that! I need some kind of notice before you just…throw me around! The blood rushes to my head and I have to catch my-”
“What is with you today?”
“What?”
“We’ve wasted at least a third of our time going over technique—technique you were nailing two days ago. You’re distracted. Off your game. And I want to know why.”
“It’s nothing,” she mumbled, walking to her gym bag to remove her towel and pat her face.
“I didn’t catch that.” His back stiffened at the way she strolled away from him with such aloofness.
Whirling around, her face was dewy and flushed, her nostrils flaring. “It’s none of your business!”
“It damned well is my business if it’s affecting my show!” His voice had risen to match hers, strengthened by the pressure of having to whip her diminutive ass into shape in such a limited amount of time. “I have to push you to get results!”
“Oui, well, there is pushing and there is throwing off a cliff!”
He threw his hands up. “It’s impossible to adjust my teaching method to suit you when your behavior changes from day to day! Which Wilhelmina Allende am I arguing with right now? Let me know and I’ll try and be more genteel.”
She gasped. “You don’t have to be such a—such an ass!”
“And you don’t have to be so fucking neurotic!”
They squared off, their breaths loud in the sweat-dense air. Then Mina slung her bag over her shoulder and stormed out.
No, he thought, immediately regretting his words. Mina Allende did not “storm.” She did not stalk. She slipped away with silent dignity. And yet, he felt like he was standing in the aftermath of a hurricane.
He noticed a pretty brunette standing in the hallway when he left the studio. Mina must have breezed right past her in her haste to get away from him. He cursed inwardly. Based on the petite woman’s stunned expression, she’d witnessed the explosive whatever-that-was he’d just had with Mina. Thankfully, since it was nearing nine o’clock, she was the only person privy to the unfortunate spectacle. He tried to move past her, but she stepped directly into his path.
Despite being a sweaty, seething mess, he attempted a courteous smile. “Excuse me,” he said gruffly, stepping aside.
“Wait,” she said. “My name is Sophie Danis, from the Paris Opera Ballet. I’ve danced with Mina since we were little girls and I… I-” She seemed at a complete loss.
Registering her mellifluous accent in his brain, and then her actual words, harried as they were, he extended his hand politely. “Sophie. Pleasure to meet you. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time-”
“I know.” She offered a rueful smile. “I couldn’t help overhearing you, and I’m sorry to intrude, really I am, but no one knows her like I do—not since Étienne died—and I really think you should…”
“Miss Danis…”
“Monsieur Coen, s’il vous plait. Today would have been his birthday.”
He cursed. So that was the trigger for Mina’s strange mood swings…and their more frequent battles of will.
Sophie must have taken his silence as an opportunity because she spoke again at a mile-a-minute, breathless and red-faced. “Several years ago, when we were still new to Les Étoiles, Mina was filmed for a documentary. ‘Une étoile dans la ville de lumière.’ It’s on YouTube. I just think, if you could get to know her, you’d understand. Enchanté.” She didn’t wait for his response, hurrying away to catch up to her troubled friend.
He didn’t bother checking the time that night. Dinner was his cheat meal, the one meal he didn’t plan. Tonight, it was Stromboli from Peppino’s a couple blocks away. He’d reluctantly ordered a mixed salad to go with it—the only vegetable option on the menu—and tried not to think about the risk of contracting E. coli.
Sitting up in bed, a video with English subtitles playing on his laptop screen, he ate straight from the takeout box, smiling at the title above the video.
“A Star in the City of Light.”
Fitting.
The documentary was a drama as engrossing as any movie. Its star stole every frame with a gentle magnetism that was equal parts confidence and vulnerability. He watched with increasing fascination as a younger, less jaded Mina embraced her new title with the tentativeness of a fawn learning to walk. He read the captions as hungrily as he ate, eager to gain insight into a woman whose motivations had eluded him since the day he’d met her.
It wasn’t the camera following her around and capturing what went on behind the curtains, at rehearsals, and during performances that enlightened him. It was the quick interviews between scenes, when the narrator asked the starry-eyed ballerina the most probing of questions:
“Was it difficult, assuming that title?”
Mina was glowing with youth and ambition, her hair pulled into a bun on top of her head. “Yes,” she answered, her eyes shining with honesty. “At first it was very difficult.”
“How so?”
“Well, it isn’t something that happens easily, overnight. The title is…flattering…and I know I’ve earned it, but it doesn’t suddenly make me a better dancer. I’m still the same dancer, with the same flaws, the same body. I still have to push myself.”
“I imagine it’s very competitive. Is it easy to make friends?”
“It can be difficult at times—there are so many of us, and it’s so hierarchical.” Her smooth brow creased with a tiny frown. “But we grew up together, so I suppose it’s like any family. Some of us are closer than others.”
“Ah, the principal dancer, Étienne Lemaire.”
A blush filled Mina’s fuller cheeks.
Today would have been his birthday, the brunette had said. Zack unconsciously sat up straighter, watching Mina with keen eyes.
“He’s the most beautiful dancer I’ve ever seen,” Mina said with undisguised admiration. “And my dearest friend.”
“You love dance.”
The narrator’s statement seemed to ring true, so Zack wondered at Mina’s bemused expression. After a full minute, she spoke again.
“People grow out of people and things they claim to love all the time.” She shrugged. “I don’t understand how something so profound can be so fickle. I’ll never grow out of dance. It’s just a part of me. It’s…consuming. It overpowers love.”
“Wow.” The narrator was obviously taken aback by such a statement from someone so young. “I think you already answered this, but I have to ask, why? You say it’s part of you, so I assume there are other things you are passionate about. Why dance?”
“I’m naturally very shy. In the movies, when you see someo
ne like me—the introvert, or the nerdy one, perhaps—she always has a makeover to change the way she looks and acts, so others will accept her.” Taking a deep breath, she looked at the narrator straight-on. “I just…I get carried away by the music, the movement. When I’m on that stage, I get to be the butterfly. Anything I want to express, I can, and everyone is listening to me. Watching me. But I’m still me. Inside. Still the introvert when I leave the stage and take off my makeup.”
Mina blushed again, and Zack got the impression she’d never shared so much of herself with the public before…and he was pretty damn sure she hadn’t done it since then. He felt privy to the most precious secret, and his chest tightened at the wistfulness in her voice.
“How long will you do this?”
“Dance isn’t what I do. It’s what I am. It’s what I’ll be until I can’t anymore.”
“And then?”
“And then…” Mina hooked her thumbs together, fluttering her hands like a butterfly.
“A metamorphosis.”
“Yes, into a teacher.”
“We’ve talked about the physical demands, and thanks to your letting us follow you around, we’ve seen it first-hand. But what of the emotional demands?” the narrator went on. “How does this profession affect your self-image?”
Mina shifted in her seat. She clearly wasn’t comfortable with this question, and Zack was intrigued.
“It can be quite hard. It’s so competitive. And you’re always working in front of a mirror, always examining what flaws to work on. You push yourself, flex your muscles—your arms, your feet, your back—everything. I don’t think it’s possible for a dancer to feel absolutely confident with her body.”
“But on tour, you’re on stage a lot. No mirrors.”
“So, I’ll look for my silhouette…on the floor…and I use it to correct my movements. If I see that my foot is wrong-”
“I don’t imagine Wilhelmina Allende’s foot is wrong very often.”
Mina grinned. “No. No, not often.”
Zack set the empty takeout box aside and clicked his laptop shut, smiling in satisfaction. He’d gained a new understanding of Miss Allende. He knew exactly how to get through to her. But first, he had some groveling to do.
