by Jade Kerrion
With a soft sigh, Marisa Chantilly slid Nicky’s medical report back into the folder. She rarely read clinical reports ahead of time, preferring instead to trust the patient’s self-assessment of aches and pains, but when she heard her patient was Nicholas Dragov, she had grabbed the folder. Nicky had always been a stubborn fool. She wouldn’t be able to get the truth out of him; she never had.
In lieu of Nicky’s non-information, the medical report summarized in bloodless clinical prose the devastating damage done to Nicky’s back as a result of his motorcycle accident. The police report was also in the file. Eyewitnesses reported that something large and black—most likely a dog, given that black panthers weren’t endemic to Westchester, N.Y.—had dashed across the road and Nicky had swerved to avoid hitting it. He lost control of the bike and crashed the vehicle, mercifully into a pre-Black Friday traffic jam, with few cars actually moving. He was lucky to have escaped with his life and only a screwed-up back.
A screwed-up back that might never recover its full strength.
A screwed-up back that might never hold up to the demands and rigors of professional ballet.
Well, that was her job—getting him back on his feet and back on stage. Nicky had a host of professionals—doctors, physical therapists, chiropractors, and massage therapists—on his side, courtesy of his anxious employers at the American Ballet Theatre. She only hoped he knew they were on his side.
A soft knock on the open door of her office drew her attention away from Nicky’s medical report. Jon, her business partner and the resident chiropractor, looked in. “He’s waiting for you in room three.”
“Nic…” She caught herself before the childhood nickname slipped past her lips. “Nicholas Dragov?”
“Didn’t scream or pass out, although I thought he came close several times.”
She frowned. “You were gentle, weren’t you?”
“As much as I could be, but his back is a mess. He may not have broken anything, but you’ve seen his x-rays. His spine is out of whack and squeezing on all his nerves. Oh, and he isn’t on pain medication.”
“But Dr. Carter prescribed codeine.”
“Well, he’s not taking it. He says it messes with his head.”
“It couldn’t possibly mess him up any more than he already is.”
“Yeah, precisely.”
“How is he going to handle an hour’s massage if he hardly survived a ten-minute chiropractor session?”
“Through raw willpower, I imagine. Don’t make him cry.”
I can’t. He doesn’t.
Marisa set the folder aside and went to room three. She paused outside the door and braced herself. He’s just another client now. Past. Bygones. All that.
If only her swirling emotions were in sync with her thoughts. Unfortunately, they congealed into a hard and resentful knot in the middle of her chest. She wouldn’t make him cry, but damn if she didn’t want to make him hurt, the way he had made her hurt.
Marisa tapped on the door. The only sound from within was a grunt that might have sounded like “yes.” She stepped into the room and picked up his clothes from the floor, before setting them on the chair. His scent—a rich, male musk—evoked images of pine, cedar, and log chips crackling in fireplaces. It hit her as hard—harder, perhaps—than it had when she was younger, more innocent, and less clued in to raw sex appeal.
Slowly, she allowed her eyes to drift up the length of his body, from his long, lean legs and chiseled calf and thigh muscles to a beautifully tight derrière. His hips were narrow—not an ounce of fat layered beneath his smooth, tanned skin—and his waist slim. His back—Marisa pressed her lips together to hold back the soft cry of distress—was an ugly mass of red and purple, severe inflammation and deep bruising competing to stain his skin.
The medical reports hadn’t quite captured how bad his injuries were. How had he even managed to undress and get on the table?
Marisa turned on the music, foregoing the new age harmonics she knew he despised for the soft sounds of nature, of waterfalls and distant birds. Her eyes narrowed. Was it her imagination or did his broad shoulders relax subtly? There was no need to ask him where he hurt; she could see for herself. There was no need to disturb the quiet that had settled over the room. Instead, she drew the sheet over the lower half of his body before moving around to the side of the table. His face was turned away from her, and his eyes were closed. All she could see was his sculptured profile and the slash of his high cheekbones. He had a face made for stage and screen—stark lines that interplayed light with shadows—and aristocratic good looks that allowed him to fit seamlessly into the role of danseur noble.
Few people could make a claim on destiny, but in Nicky’s case, he had always been meant to dance.
Determination lodged its tiny but unshakeable hooks in a corner of her heart as she stared down as his broken body. And dance he will again.
Marisa infused a small portion of coconut oil with peppermint as a soothing balm against muscular aches and then touched him lightly on the shoulder to let him know where she was. She smoothed the oil over his body and fought the urge to trail her fingers across his heated skin to see if it was as she remembered—steel beneath silk.
She kept her touch as light as possible, yet she mentally cringed at the tautness of the knots in his shoulder and back muscles as she worked her way around the table to his other side. He needed a ton of real work—work she could not do because he was still in so much agony. When he inhaled sharply at a sudden burst of pain, she sucked in her breath too, her fingers trembling, scarcely making contact with his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and she tensed, praying that tears would not leak from them. Nicky was as cold and hard as marble; if he were ever driven to tears, it would have to be over the end of the world, and maybe not even then.
Several moments passed with scarcely any contact between them. Marisa breathed shallowly as Nicky’s breath shuddered out of him, each one a grinding rasp of pain. His fingers dug into the cushioned massage table, stiffening until they were as taut as talons before slowly relaxing as his breathing eventually steadied.
Marisa wrung her fingers. Guilt made it hard to breathe through the weight pressed against her chest. Why had she even begun to massage someone who had been so badly injured less than a week ago—someone who had stubbornly refused to take his prescribed painkillers? Nicky wasn’t ready for treatment, and she should have told him so immediately without starting the massage.
His eyelashes fluttered; his eyes opened and his shocked gaze locked on Marisa.
Nicholas shoved away from her. “What the—?”
His curse ended in a scream of agony as his back muscles clenched so violently that his vision blacked out for a moment. Nausea churned in his stomach. Walls melded into floors and ceiling as the pain twisted, turned, and knotted him before spitting him out into a crumpled, broken mess.
“Here.” Marisa held a tissue paper to his mouth. Only then did he realize his mouth was bleeding; he had bitten through his lower lip to keep from screaming—fail—and to keep from throwing up. Still okay there.
He jerked his head up to her. “What are you doing here? Get out.”
With a toss of her head that sent her long, blond hair flying, she turned to the door before suddenly stiffening. She spun to face him. “This is my clinic. If you don’t want me treating you, then you get out.”
Was she blind? Couldn’t she see he could hardly move? Or was she just mocking him?
Probably the latter. She hates my guts.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to a sitting position and off the massage table. His legs did not give out on him, but his lower back did, and he collapsed onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and sheets.
Marisa raced around the table, reaching out to him. Her always-expressive face screamed her alarm and distress.
As if she cared.
Nicholas didn’t need that kind of bullshit. He snarled. “Go away.”
“I have to help�
��”
“Get out!” he roared.
The cry, more wild animal than furious man, rang through the small room. Shock flared into her eyes before melting into a faint shimmer. She fled, slamming the door behind her.
Damn it! He hadn’t intended to make her cry.
Heck, he had never intended to see her.
And he sure as hell had never intended for her to see him like this.
Broken.
Chapter 3
“I’m not going to tolerate that shit.” Jon huffed. “He can’t treat my employees like crap.”
Marisa flipped her fingers at him, and he scooted away from the counter so that she could open a drawer in search of forks and spoons to lay on the table. After Nicky yelled at her, she had rushed from the room, pale and panicked. Shock had startled tears into her eyes; at least, that was her story and she was going to stick to it. No number of wild horses or other creatures would tear the truth of her tears from her.
She had managed to avoid talking about it for the rest of the day, and had hurried home immediately after her last client. She had dinner to get ready, but Jon had followed her home to discuss the “Nicholas Dragov incident” that was bound to be the talk of the town by tomorrow.
Marisa stepped over the large black Labrador Retriever sprawled in the middle of the kitchen. Daisy’s muzzle was grizzled with white hairs, but her eyes were alert and her ears pricked even though she did not raise her head off the floor. On the other side of the house, Eva, Marisa’s eighteen-month-old daughter, babbled as she toddled around the playroom. As long she was making noise, everything was fine.
Quiet was to be dreaded.
With her simple household obviously trucking along in the right direction, Marisa turned back to Jon. “To begin with, I’m not your employee. I’m your business partner,” she said. “And secondly, he was shocked. It was at least partially my fault. He was in a restful state when I entered the room, and I left him there instead of introducing myself. When he finally opened his eyes and saw me, he freaked.”
Jon frowned. “But why? What was he expecting? Godzilla?” His eyebrows drew together. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this story that you’re not telling me?”
“Don’t you have to get home to Anjali?”
“She knows I’m running late. Should I tell Nicholas to find another clinic?”
“No.”
“There are other places in Westchester where he can get chiropractic and massage treatments.”
“But few other places specialize in sports injuries and rehabilitation. We do.”
“You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of verbal abuse.”
“I won’t. You don’t know Nicky. He’ll apologize and then he won’t step an inch out of line.” But neither will he come any closer. He’ll maintain that icy distance he shoved into our friendship ever since I started dating Michael eight years ago.
Jon’s eyebrows shot up. “Nicky? So there is history you’re not telling me.”
“We were best friends in high school—he, Michael, and I. Nicky and I were also dance partners; we’d taken ballet lessons together since we were children. He was always meant for greatness; I was just along for the ride, but we had wonderful times dancing together—hours and hours every day in the studio.”
“And then what happened?”
“And then Michael and I started dating in senior year.” Marisa’s exhalation of breath was almost a sigh. She left out the part about the subtle competition for her attention that she had sensed between Nicky and Michael. It was ancient history, and she had probably been wrong about it anyway. Just a silly girl’s fancies. A silly girl who had hoped she had meant more to Nicky than a pretty face on pointe. Her gaze rested briefly on Daisy. The dog had been Michael’s gift to her. Marisa had always wanted a dog, although she had never mentioned it to anyone, and Michael’s unexpected gift had transformed her friendship into affection.
“I take it Nicky didn’t like you dating Michael,” Jon said.
“He drifted away from Michael and me. He left for New York City immediately after graduation from high school, joined the American Ballet Theatre, and we never saw him again. Losing Nicky’s friendship devastated Michael, even though Michael rarely talked about it. I saw it in his face when he looked at pictures of himself and Nicky hanging out at the old swimming hole.”
“And Nicky never came back at all? Not for eight years?”
Marisa shook her head. Her voice quivered but her eyes were dry. As far as Nicky was concerned, she had run out of tears a long time ago. “He didn’t come back for Michael’s and my wedding. He wasn’t here when Michael left to join the Army. He wasn’t here when Michael came back in a box.”
Jon slung a hand over Marisa’s shoulders and gave her a comforting hug.
Marisa leaned against Jon. For the past three years, he had been the friend Nicky should have been, especially since Michael’s death two years earlier. “Nicky wasn’t here when Eva was born either.”
“Did you stay in touch with him?”
“For a few years, I did. I didn’t believe he would just walk away. He and I were best friends and dance partners even before Michael came into the picture. I e-mailed him and told him what was going on in our lives. I sent him invitations for Thanksgivings and Christmases. He never replied, like he couldn’t even be bothered to type out a reply, ‘Thanks, but I’m busy.’ And then Michael died. Nicky didn’t come to the funeral.” Her voice cracked. “I really thought he would show up. You know, just for Michael.”
“And for you.”
“I needed him. He wasn’t there.” Her shoulders sagged as a sigh whispered out of her. “After that, I stopped e-mailing him. What was the point? I had my own battles to fight. Why stay in touch with someone who probably wasn’t even reading my e-mails?”
Jon shrugged. “So what was he doing in Westchester?”
“He probably came back to see his parents for Thanksgiving. They still live here.” And he didn’t bother to stop by or call to say hi. The oven beeped. “Dinner’s ready. I have to get Eva fed and off to bed.”
Jon pushed away from the wall. “All right, I’m off. I’ve never fired a client before, and I’m not going to fire him yet, but if he gives you any more trouble, you let me know.”
“He’ll be fine.” Marisa saw Jon to the door and then called for Eva. The little girl came running, a doll in one hand and a train in the other.
“Kiss!” Eva ordered, holding up the train and then the doll for her mother’s kiss. Her wispy blond hair was pulling out of her matching ponytails, and she smelled of vanilla, and regrettably, dirt—a sweet blend of spring and summer. Her eyes were blue, like Marisa’s, and she was a chubby, huggable child with a slightly stubborn streak.
The stubborn streak manifested that day in Eva’s insistence on feeding Daisy off her plate. Daisy gobbled all the lasagna and licked the plate clean. “Good puppy,” Eva cooed.
Not quite a puppy. Marisa smiled as she reached down to stroke Daisy’s head. The black bundle of fur Michael had given her had spent several years as a rambunctious puppy, but eventually matured into a steady and loving adult dog. Her only lingering fault from puppyhood was a tendency to wander the streets and dash through traffic, one that Marisa tried to curb by keeping all doors locked and windows bolted. Daisy, however, had shown a remarkable knack for sneaking out of the house, and on many mornings, Marisa would wake to find Daisy stretched out on the front porch, having found her way out, but not back in.
“Love puppy!” Eva threw her arms around Daisy’s neck and snuggled against the thick black fur.
A sliver of worry lodged in Marisa’s heart. What would Eva handle losing Daisy? At eight years old, the Labrador was a veritable matriarch in human years; it was only a matter of time before she passed on, and then what?
Marisa sucked in a deep breath to conceal her sniffle. The sliver of worry expanded into a deep ache. Daisy was one of Marisa’s most precious connections to t
he husband she had loved and who had died too young. How would she handle losing Daisy?
Not well.
What we need is a puppy.
Another living being to fill the empty spaces in the house. A little fur ball to keep Daisy company. A puppy that Eva could call her own. A dog to hug and hold if anything ever happened to Daisy.
It was one more thing to add to the endless To Do List, but this one, at least, would be something fun that they could all do as a family. Daisy, Eva, and I.
Her gaze fell on a picture of Michael and her on their wedding day. They had dated for four years through college and had been married for a year and a half when he was killed in Afghanistan. He had only found out that she was pregnant after a year and a half of trying. Peanut. That was what Michael had called Eva after seeing the first ultrasound pictures over their video chat.
She’s changed so much. She’s not a peanut anymore. Some things change.
And some things—like Nicky—don’t.
Chapter 4
Nicky did not show up at the clinic the next day, but he did the following day. Marisa heard his footsteps first, the unsteady shuffle of leather soles against tile. Her shoulders stiffened, but she continued changing and smoothing down the sheets on the massage table until a shadow fell over the doorway.
For a moment, silence held its breath.
Nicky spoke first. “I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse as if he had not spoken in a while.
She looked up and met his green-eyed gaze. “Apology accepted.” She studied the bruised darkness under his eyes. “You’re not resting enough.”
“I’m trying.”
