She looks up, and waves to the crowd. She’s still holding my rose, and she’s still glowing from her performance. She’s got that high that can only come from something like performing in a venue like this. An opening night smash success.
My eyes are locked on hers. I’m not sure if I want her to see me here now, or to surprise her backstage.
The choice is taken from me when her gaze drifts down to meet mine, her eyes widening and opening even more.
She freezes, her body locking up, just like mine. My golf clap stops, my right hand in my left. I’m known for my ability to stay calm in any situation, but not now. I can feel my arms twitching, and for the first time in my life I’m tapping my foot nervously.
This girl’s got me, and she’s got me good. And now I’ve absolutely got to get her.
CHAPTER 3
Barbara
The curtain comes crashing down in front of me before I can motion to him. We’re separated by things beyond our control yet again.
I know he saw me. Did he recognize me all covered in makeup? Was he here by chance to take in the performance, or did he come looking for me?
It can’t be for me. Not after all these years. I have a different name for Pete’s sake. He wouldn’t have been able to track me down.
My parents had paid in cash at the ballet school and registered me under a variety of stage names since I was a child. They were adamant about my privacy, especially if, “I got famous one day.”
I never thought it was a possibility, until him. It always seemed so silly to even imagine it until he came along and made what was so unlikely sound realistic. Suddenly my dreams seemed obtainable. Sure, I’d have to work at them, but I knew the tremendous amount of work wouldn’t be all for naught…especially if I caught a little well timed luck.
And luck was on my side tonight.
My performance was flawless, as were all the other dancers. And most importantly I was lucky enough to see him again, even if just for a brief second.
“Show’s over, sweetheart,” a voice says. I feel a hand on my arm, and turn to see my manager. “You really wowed them.”
“Thanks,” I say, realizing I’m still facing forward like the curtain will go up again and I’ll pick up right where I left off.
“Now are you ready to wow the press?”
“I’m ready,” I say.
“Good, because you have the media from over fifty countries waiting in the back, plus the VIP Backstage pass holders.”
“Who’s on the list for the VIP Backstage?” I ask.
“A few celebrities you’ll be sure to recognize,” Daniel says, with a wink.
“But I’m not really interested in celebrities right now.”
“Then who are you hoping to see?”
“Um…no one in particular, I guess,” I say, knowing it’s not true. If he made it this far I know there’s nothing holding him back from those last few steps that separate him from his side of the curtain and mine.
Daniel guides me backstage where I am greeted by a swarm of flashes, questions, translators, and more questions. There are so many camera flashes and those heat emitting, always on lights that the TV crews use make it so that I can barely see straight, not to mention my makeup feels like it’s melting on my face.
I’m waiting to see him at any second, but no. He doesn’t show.
After a solid thirty minutes with the press I’m guided to the VIP area, where I’m congratulated by a bevy of Academy Award winners, athletes, and other rich and famous people…but not him.
This whole moment is surreal, and I’m enjoying every second of it, but there’s a feeling of emptiness in the pit of my stomach.
As the only child of parents who passed away just last year in a car crash, there’s no family here to share this moment with. No one who was there with me through the immense struggle I went through in order to reach this moment.
An hour after meeting the VIPs and posing for pictures with the donors, I’m finally back in my dressing room.
I sit down in front of my makeup mirror and slide out the drawer, looking at the picture of myself as a little girl, my parents working together to hold me up above their heads.
I feel my eyes watering just before the first tear rolls down my cheek. For some reason I start smiling, and then laughing, knowing they saw me tonight, just not here. They had the best seats in the house, and I know they were there dancing right along with me, guiding me in each and every movement.
I let go of the picture and slide the drawer shut, wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand.
“We did it,” I say silently to the mirror. “We really did it.”
And it’s definitely we, and not just me. It took a tremendous amount of sacrifice from them to get me here, I just wish I could have shared it with them in the flesh.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Come in,” I say, ready to share the moment with Daniel, the amazing manager who got me this booking. The man who convinced the New York City Ballet that I was up to the task, even though I wasn’t a well-known name, or technically any name at all.
“I’m not sure what was more beautiful, you or your performance. They were both equally incredible.”
My hands freeze on my earring and my eyes refocus from short to far in the mirror. Even after all these years, I’d never forget those deep, resonant notes his words strike like the keys on the far left end of a piano.
It’s him.
I don’t move, and neither does he.
“May I come in?” he asks.
“How did you find me? I mean, yes.”
“Years of never giving up the search, and a stroke of incredible luck.”
I spin in my short barstool type chair, facing him. Words escape me.
“You are glad to see me, aren’t you?”
He forms it as a question, as a respectful man of his stature would, but we already both know the answer.
“Glad isn’t the right word.”
“Shocked?”
“Something along those lines.”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asks. I realize my words and body language aren’t exactly rolling out the red carpet for him, but it’s entirely unintentional.
“No. Definitely not. I want you here.”
“Good, because there’s no place I’d rather be,” he says moving closer.
We haven’t seen each other in ten years, let alone spoken to one another. It doesn’t matter. I’m still that giddy little eighteen-year-old, and he’s that thirty-six-year-old from that one night we had in that dance studio on the other side of the country.
But I’m twenty-eight now and he’s forty-six. We’re eighteen years apart, just like my age when we first met.
He steps closer until there is no more room between us. I can smell him. Oh how I remember that smell. Its masculine wooden scents with a mix of exotic botanicals. Hugo for Men by Hugo Boss. At least I assume it’s that cologne, after all I spent hours at the men’s fragrance counter looking for it after we first met. I kept a bottle in my room and sprayed it in the air when I wanted to be reminded of him, which explains why I went through multiple bottles over the years.
“I can’t believe you’re here…that you came.”
“I came as soon as I heard. As soon as I saw your face.”
“You saw my face?”
“It was in an inflight magazine. A client showed me this morning.”
“This morning?”
“This morning. I left immediately.”
“And you made it.”
“You made it. You’ve achieved what you set out to all those years ago.”
I say nothing, knowing there’s something else I’ve been wanting since that first time we laid eyes on each other.
“How does it feel?”
“Complete, yet incomplete at the same time.”
“How so?” he says, his brow tightening as his eyes narrow.
Dancing is intense, but his look is equally so.
/> I want to tell him everything. How I feel. How much I want to thank him for everything he did. And how I want so much more with him.
I’m confused. I’ve just completed my opening night, and now the real work begins. Every night for the rest of the summer I must perform. It’s three straight months of pure mayhem. A battle between fatigue, injuries, and the other girls competing to take my spot.
Yet all I can think about right now is him, but I can’t tell him. Not right now.
His hand comes forward, and I stare at it before placing my hand in his.
He must feel the calluses on my fingers from all the hours of training. I always thought my hands were masculine, but in his those thoughts immediately fade away.
For a man of means his fingers feel thick, long, and strong as if he’s a working class man. His grip is tender, yet protective.
He lifts our hands up, and I stand moving in unison.
He brings our hands to his face, pausing just before the back of my hand reaches his lips.
He kisses my hand softly, while maintaining that deep, intense focus his eyes have on mine.
The feel of his lips against my skin has me wanting to melt into him right here and now. I just want to fall into him, and feel his arms wrap around me.
He lowers our hands and leans in toward me, taking my face in his other hand.
He rubs my cheek with his thumb, shifting his gaze to my skin, before returning it to mine.
I can see the fire in his eyes, the want in his lips, as I feel the firmness in his trousers as his erection makes contact with me through our thin layers of fabric.
His hand slides around my head, his fingers in my hair as our other hands tighten their grasp on one another.
I feel the heat of his skin as his face is just inches from mine.
My eyes close and I feel those masculine lips gently press against mine.
I waited ten years for this moment, and I would have waited a lifetime for one kiss with him if I knew it would make me feel like this.
CHAPTER 4
Barbara
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I roll over and press the button on the alarm.
11:00 already?
Yesterday exhausted me. The anticipation, performance, and then seeing him was too much of a roller coaster of emotions.
And then we kissed.
It felt so perfect, and so imperfect at the same time.
We finally found each other again, after all these years. It felt real. It was real. It wasn’t just some crush from long ago that I misinterpreted.
And it wasn’t just some crush for him either. The way he pulled me in close. The way his lips parted as he moaned slightly in between kisses. I know he wants me just as bad as I want him.
But the timing couldn’t be worse.
Included in each dancer’s contract is a line that says we can’t change our relationship status during the entire run of the performance. If we’re single when it starts, we need to be single throughout. If we’re married when it starts, well then at least those dancers can stay married…not that they’ll be seeing much of their significant other during the course of the show’s run.
It’s grueling, demanding work. It grinds on. And those that can’t take the grind are replaced, just like those who think they can start a relationship without management finding out. The last thing they need is a heartbroken dancer trying to put their all into a performance, only to come out on stage looking flat. People come from all around the world and pay big money to see us perform. We have to be “on” every night.
And to make matters worse, he’s based in Singapore now. I’m in New York. How is that going to work?
In three months, maybe we could work something out, but what do we do until then? And there’s no telling what could happen between now and the end of those three months.
There are only a few cities in the world where I can live and work, and how can I expect him to drop his billion-dollar business and just come live with me? Not hardly, nor would I want him to.
But I do want him, and I want us to figure out a way to try. I know it can work. I’ve never felt this way about someone before, and I’m sure I never will again.
No one’s ever touched me so deeply on so many different levels, especially in so short a time period. Sure, it’s been ten years, but over the course of that time we haven’t been together much more than a few hours.
It’s crazy. I’m crazy. We’ve only met twice. Two times, and I know this is the only guy for me.
The old saying that life is what happens when you’re busy making plans was never truer.
I stumble to the shower and run the cool water over my body. I eye the showerhead and consider giving it a go, letting it help me relax…unleash this sexual energy that’s built up to a fever pitch, but I can’t. It’s not him. I could never trade a metal object for the real thing.
I finish my shower and dry off. I put on a spring dress and make my way out of the tiny apartment I rent.
There’s a kiosk just outside of my building, but I intentionally don’t buy the morning paper. I don’t want to read the reviews, good or bad. It’s advice that’s been hammered home. I don’t want my head in the clouds if the words they print are good, and I definitely don’t want to feel down if the critics have found flaws. Even keel. That’s the way to survive in this business.
I hail a cab and stare out the window the duration of the ride into Brooklyn.
I arrive at The River Café, and I finally see what all the fuss is about.
On multiple occasions it’s been voted the best restaurant with a view in New York City.
It sits along the East River, just underneath and to the side of the Brooklyn Bridge.
“Brooklyn Bridge is falling down, falling down,” I mumble to myself as I walk up to the entrance.
I laugh at myself for reciting a nursery rhyme and approach the front door. There are flowers on either side of the entrance. They’re in full bloom displaying pink and white, accentuating the path that guided me up to the entrance, where the name of the restaurant is announced in a sophisticated cursive font. Wow, they really know how to impress.
But what’s most impressive is the man at the best table, which sits right next to the window. I thought I would arrive early, but I guess I didn’t realize who I was dealing with.
I’m a full thirty minutes early, but he’s already seated, with a clear drink in front of him. I can see from here that it’s just water, and I appreciate him not enjoying cocktails during a time when I can’t partake myself.
He stands immediately when he sees me, and the host escorts me to the table.
Brian pulls out my chair, helping me get seated before he returns to his side.
He stares at me deeply with those piercing eyes of his. He says nothing, but his look says it all.
Here we go.
CHAPTER 5
Barbara
“I can’t be in a relation—”
“I hear they have good appetiz—”
He smirks and I smile, lowering my face and laughing lightly as I stare down at the tablecloth.
“Relax,” he says, extending his hand out and across the table. “It’s just lunch.”
“You’re right,” I say, knowing all too well it’s a lot more than just lunch.
I place my hand in his, just before the waiter arrives with our menus.
“My mother loved your performance last night,” the waiter says.
“Thank you,” I say, realizing the reviews must have been good.
“She couldn’t stop talking about it when she got home.”
“I’m glad she enjoyed it. Please thank her, for me, for coming and supporting our work.”
“I certainly will.” He pauses. “Can I get you two something to drink?”
“Water,” we say simultaneously, bringing a smile to the waiter’s face.
“Two waters it is,” he says, stepping away, giving us time to ourselves.
“Do ballet dancers eat?” Brian says.
“Come on. I know you know that’s just a misconception.”
“I’ve been told.”
“I’m at three thousand calories a day. Burn right through them.”
Billionaire's Virgin Ballerina: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 27) Page 2
