My biggest dream would be to make you my wife.
Uh, no.
For the record, she had never been married, and if she did get married it wouldn’t be to the bald, ruddy, creepy man who lingered around the theater exit and sometimes right outside her building door. He’d never said anything threatening to her, or tried to approach her, but he was always there and it really freaked her out.
Petra sprawled on the floor to stretch, and laid her cheek against the resin-scented surface. All studios pretty much smelled the same, but the people here were strangers. She’d known everyone back at Met Ballet, from principal dancers to corps, but she didn’t know anyone here yet. Well, she knew one person...
As if on cue, Fernando Rubio entered and swaggered to the far side of the rehearsal room to warm up. He didn’t greet anyone or look in her direction, not that she wanted him to. He wore a black tee and gray sweatpants, typical practice clothes, but the way they hugged his finely-honed body...his broad shoulders...his taut ass...
Stop, Petra. Stop it now. It was normal for dancers to check out one another’s bodies, but she didn’t want to think of him that way. She got to her feet and hid the shake of her knees in deep pliés, feeling each muscle lengthen and respond. She noticed Yves standing to the side with the artistic director, their eyes alert. It would be a coup for them to cement this partnership. It would place City Ballet squarely at the top of the world’s dance pyramid and guarantee ticket sales for seasons to come. It might even place Hewitt and Rubio alongside the great ballet couples of history…
“Hey, you,” Fernando called across the rehearsal room. “Are you going to be ready some time today?”
The entire room went still. Great ballet couples of history? Only if they didn’t kill one another first. Petra tapped her toe box on the floor once, twice, before she turned to him with a scowl. “You know my name every bit as well as I know yours, Fernando. I would appreciate it if you’d call me by it, as opposed to ‘hey’ or ‘you.’”
She heard a few stifled titters. His black eyes burned darker, if such a thing was possible. “My name is Rubio,” he snapped, “not Fernando.” Then he held out his hand, stubbornly refusing to call her anything at all.
She stared at that elegant hand, not moving an inch. If he thought she would come scurrying to him after that display, he was mistaken. She stood where she was, her arms crossed over her chest. He shrugged and, to her shock, tilted forward into a perfect handstand. His shirt fell down, exposing a back of bronzed, defined muscle. Her mouth went dry.
“Nice trick,” she said, turning away. She heard his shoes hit the floor as he righted himself.
“Come,” he said impatiently. “If we are going to dance, let’s dance.”
“I don’t know if we’re going to dance,” she said, lifting her chin. “I was told I would receive an apology for last night.”
“For telling you about your big forehead?” he drawled, across the entire rehearsal space. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it. Not out loud.”
She blew out a breath. “Alrighty then.” She turned on her heel and went to get her bag. “I can fly home today if I hurry.”
“Ms. Hewitt.” Yves’ voice sounded hushed in the dead-silent room as he crossed to her. “Please, wait. Mr. Rubio?” He beckoned to the frowning dancer, who glared at her like a dark-haired demon fallen from grace. The director said a few short words in Fernando’s—no, Rubio’s—ear that Petra couldn’t hear. With an expression of forbearance, Rubio turned to her.
“I apologize for last night,” he said tightly. “Now…please…we dance.”
She looked at his outstretched hand but didn’t take it. “You don’t want to dance with me.”
There was some flicker of sadness in his eyes, a tightening of his jaw. “I can’t dance with who I want. Forgive me, please. Is not your fault.”
That apology sounded a bit less hostile, and Petra felt herself relent. Fernando Rubio was gorgeous and talented, and hell, he was a legend. She’d come all this way. She might as well take a spin around the floor and see what he was like as a partner.
“Okay,” she said. “Past is past.” She turned to Yves. “What part of Romeo are you rehearsing today?”
“Well,” said Yves, a bit tentatively. “We’ve been waiting to rehearse the balcony pas de deux.”
Jesus, the balcony scene was one of the most romantic pieces in all of ballet, and it ended with a huge, passionate kiss. Was this the director’s way of trying to smooth the tension between them? They would have done better to start with the death scene.
She would look unprofessional if she refused, so she deferred to Rubio, who shrugged and mumbled something unintelligible. Yves beckoned to the accompanist, a disheveled-looking guy hunched over a coffee mug in the corner. He scurried over to the piano and banged a handful of keys as he sat. The tuneless, dissonant sound seemed an appropriate opening coda as Rubio reached for her hand. Their eyes met and held, and for a moment no one in the room seemed to move or breathe, including the two of them.
Was this the start of history, or disaster? Rubio turned her hand over and their fingers laced, and in his gaze, some connection flowed to her, some recognition of their rightness for each other. No matter her misgivings, no matter his gruff rudeness, as artists they belonged together, as did their hands, their feet, every part of their painstakingly trained bodies. Rubio was the dark to her light, the strength to her grace, the premier to her prima.
Damn it. Why did it have to be him?
If Rubio felt a similar pang of connectedness, he gave no sign. He looked away and pursed his lips, and she became aware again of the world around them, the soft chatter of other dancers and Yves’ consultation with the pianist. Petra did a few passés while Rubio supported her, to give him an idea of her weight and balance. He was taller than her, perhaps six-one or six-two to her five-four. Though his touch was light, his manner was as forceful and imperious as ever.
“Turn,” he ordered, touching her waist.
Petra hesitated. She was used to respect and deference, not commands. His dark eyes bored into hers, waiting with the sense of someone used to being obeyed. What had Yves called him? Rough around the edges? It was a little more than that. Rubio stepped closer, right into her space, molding his hands to curves of her waist, and she felt her nipples tighten against the sheer nylon of her leotard. Please don’t betray me, body. Don’t get hot for him. No, just no. How could she be sexually attracted to this man?
She pushed those disturbing thoughts from her mind and launched into a neat series of pirouettes. She could assert her own dominance in this arena. She twirled eight, nine, ten times in a row. He attended her cues, his touch every bit as deft as it was reputed to be. He didn’t stand too close or too far away, but perfectly right. She forced one last pirouette, just to see if she could trip him up. He made a sound of irritation but they pulled it off, the way partners pull things off when they have to. She liked that he helped her when he could have left her to wobble to a stop in front of everyone.
Then his hands tightened on her waist and he lifted her, a cold lift with the strength of his arms. She hadn’t expected it, and the landing jolted her. She looked over her shoulder at him with a frown. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Lift, again,” and this time she was ready. It felt like flying when they were in tune. He set her down and stepped away from her. No comments, no words, just a grunt and a hooded look.
So that was that, a quick assessment for both of them. She wondered what he thought of her lines, her technique. How did she compare to his other partners? And how did she feel about him? She wasn’t sure she could judge. She felt curiously shaken-up at the moment.
“Are you warmed up enough?” she asked, bending down to fiddle with her laces. “This pas de deux has a lot of lifts.”
She straightened to find his lips curled in an unpleasant sneer. “Don’t worry. I won’t drop you.”
“I never said you would. I was just asking if you were warmed up.
”
“I’ve been dancing as long as you. Longer. I can manage my own preparation.”
“Fine.” She waved a hand at him and they backed away from one other. This was a rehearsal studio, not a boxing ring. They weren’t going to accomplish anything by sniping at each other, aside from feeding the gossip mill. She watched as he bounded to the other side of the room, executing some astounding cabriolets.
“Okay,” he said, returning to her. “You ready?”
She was more “ready” than she wanted to admit. He emitted some chemical or pheromone that was making her crazy, or perhaps it was the close physical contact with his body. She could feel his hard abs through his shirt, and smell the fresh, clean scent of his cologne. Or was it only soap?
God, why did she care? With determined concentration, she pushed everything out of her mind but Juliet’s adolescent excitement and emotion, and the precise execution of the steps. This balcony scene was lyrical and romantic, a stolen interlude between two lovers who desired each other desperately but were never meant to be. Her partner fell easily into the role of Romeo, and seemed to become a whole other person.
She’d hoped this rehearsal might be a disaster from beginning to end so she could hop on a plane and put this whole thing behind her, but she found herself impressed with his partnering. He made everything so easy. He gave her the emotion she needed to lose herself in the role, so it felt natural, almost magical, and he gave her only as much support as she needed, so all her energy might go to the dance. As for him, he performed his steps with such finesse, even now in a casual rehearsal. He could make you a better dancer, she thought to herself. He’s that good.
At least he was good until the second series of lifts. He absolutely did not have to put his hand there. A mistake, she hoped. They moved on to more sweeping movements, to balanced poses that felt easy and graceful.
“Beautiful,” he murmured when she stretched into a taut arabesque. “So pretty, your extension.”
“Thank you.” She felt a weird tightening in her chest, some giddy pleasure that he’d noticed and complimented something about her. His partnering made her feel so safe, allowed her to become naive, impulsive Juliet without reservation. She thought if Romeo and Juliet were real, they might have felt this connection as they came together in the dark of Verona’s night. In the middle of an intricate series of lifts she met his gaze and some recognition passed between them.
But then, damn it. He groped her again, and this time she knew it was intentional. Was he testing her? Her limpid gaze turned into a glare.
“Stop,” she muttered under her breath. “I know what you’re doing. Stop it.”
“Not doing nothing,” he said. “You’re taller than my last partner. Hands in the wrong place. Sorry.”
That was a bald lie, because Ashleigh Keaton was the same height as her. Irritation propelled Petra through an abbreviated solo and made it easy for her to shy away in character when Romeo tried to kiss her. But then, oh God, how he made her fly. It was impossible to stay angry, to not be drawn back into the emotional flow of the piece. His hands were a miracle, such a miracle.
I wonder what else he can do with those hands...
This part of the ballet was meant to be innocently provocative, but with Rubio it took on whole new shades of sensuality. His dark eyes caressed her, his arms clasped her close and then propelled her into beautiful movements. On either side of the room, dancers stared at them, still as statues. Yves appeared to be holding his breath. Petra met Rubio’s gaze and found such intensity, such tenderness that it shook her.
It was a moment, as they said in the theater. It was the beginning of them, of their legendary partnership. Yves was right—they only had to dance together to understand each other. Petra thought she would remember this first dance forever, the emotion, the perfection, the soft, flowing legato of the piano, and the preternatural stillness of the room. They began the final turns leading up to the big kiss but then—again—his hands weren’t in the right place.
His palm brushed over her breast in such a way that Yves wouldn’t notice, or the accompanist, or any of the two dozen or so dancers arrayed along the walls. But she noticed, because she felt the betrayal of trust down to her toes.
She stopped mid-step and spun on him. He grinned at her, a filthy, knowing grin that felt like a kick between the legs, especially after the magic that had come before. Without thinking, she reached out and cracked him across the face. The slap echoed in the silence of the room.
“You’re an asshole,” she said.
He didn’t reply, only stared at her, his hand held over the red mark of her blow. Why did she feel like crying?
Because he’d showed her the prince and then turned into the toad, like she wasn’t good enough for the prince. Like she wasn’t good enough for him. But God help her, she’d gouge out her eyes before she cried in front of him. She shoved the tears down, beneath her anger and her outrage. “If you want to dance with me,” she snapped, “you need to act professional out of respect for my art. Out of respect for all the hours I’ve put in to get to this fucking place.”
In her peripheral vision, she saw Yves start toward them, then stop again. The rehearsal room grew even quieter than before. “You know what I mean,” she finished in little more than a whisper. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, rubbing his fingers across his cheek. “I made a mistake.”
He looked at her with his head bowed a bit to the side, like a chastened boy. A gorgeous, chastened boy. How could he be so beautiful and so awful at once?
“Yes, this is a mistake, all of it,” she said, looking away from him. Emotions assaulted her—anger, disappointment, confusion, and worst of all, horribly inappropriate lust. She could still feel the pull to him, the agitation of all her erogenous zones, but she thought she’d die if she had to dance with him again. She’d die if he ever groped her crotch or her breast again with that leer on his face. If she had to kiss him, even on stage...
No, she couldn’t sign a contract here. She ducked her head and started for the door, but he followed, catching her wrist.
“My mistake,” he said. “Let me fix it. We go again. Please.”
“No, you were right about us. This isn’t going to work—”
“I think this will work,” he said, speaking over her. “A good partnership doesn’t start until the first slap.”
She stared into his dark eyes. The lurid mockery was gone, replaced by an apologetic gaze.
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” she said, pulling her hand from his. “A stupid way to start a partnership.”
“I didn’t start nothing. This just happened. This... This...” He gestured helplessly. This magic, she supplied in her mind. He lowered his voice and took her hand again. “You know what I mean,” he said, borrowing her earlier words.
Yes, she did know what he meant, but her courage had left her. She felt too vulnerable now, too afraid. “You don’t really want to dance with me,” she said, staring at the middle of his chest.
“I need a partner and you’re here.” His fingers tightened on hers. “And there’s a lot to do before the season gets underway. So...we go again, Petra. Please.”
She might have had the power to leave if not for that please, because she understood how much it cost him to add it. “I don’t know,” she said, deeply conflicted. “I’m not sure about you and me. I’m not sure it will work out.”
He gave her a look that said liar. And she was lying. She was grasping for any way out of this, because his artistry cowed her and his enigmatic sexuality seduced her. This must have been how her mother felt when she danced with Petr Grigolyuk, and that had ended so badly. Dancing with Fernando Rubio would be hell for her, a constant struggle against feelings she didn’t want to have.
He glanced to the side at a stifled outburst of giggles, and Petra remembered everyone was watching this private moment. Would this story be in the tabloids
next? Slappily Ever After. She wouldn’t put it past any of these dancers to sell a play-by-play of this interlude to the press.
“Is because you don’t want to kiss me?” he said in a loud voice, bringing the audience in again. “I’ll take a breath mint first, if you want.”
She understood she had to play along, if they were going to put this episode behind them. If she was going to forgive him, it had to be public, so they could all move on. “No breath mint on earth could compel me to kiss you,” she sniffed with playful derision. “Maybe at the final rehearsal, I’ll take a stab at it. Not before.”
The room erupted in appreciative laughter, and Yves visibly exhaled. Petra squared her shoulders. Take a deep breath and smile at him. Everything will be okay. She would find some way to survive working with Rubio, because they really did belong together. Her suffering seemed like a small thing when measured against the beauty they could bring to the world.
“Okay. We do it again?” he prompted, all business now. He turned to Yves, who nodded in agreement.
Petra angled her face to Rubio’s so no one could see. “Don’t disrespect me,” she said. “From now on, keep your grabby fucking hands where they belong.”
He regarded her from beneath his lashes with a disconcerting shadow of a smile. “If you say so. If that’s really what you want.”
Oh Jesus, he knew. He sensed the attraction she felt to him, she could see it in the teasing glint of his eyes. What a fucking situation. She’d shed blood, sweat, and tears to get to the top, only to end up partnered with this profane virtuoso. Somehow, he made it through the rest of the rehearsal without groping her again.
Afterward, Yves led her to the dressing room set aside for her, with a cozy couch, chair, and vanity, a smallish but private bathroom, and plenty of closet space. She told him there, privately, that yes, they could proceed with the contracts. Yes, she would come.
Fever Dream Page 3
