by Tonya Plank
Table of Contents
Front Matter Description
Praise for Fever: A Ballroom Romance:
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
About the Author
From the moment I saw her, I knew we were destined to be together. Both on and off the dance floor. I was second-place World Latin ballroom champion. I just needed the right partner. And with her passion, her immense talent, and her beautiful, sweet soul, I knew Rory was the one. But she was also a ghost of someone I’d lost back in Russia, and missed dearly. We were two halves in desperate need of completion. Before we could rise to the top, we had to heal each other.
Sasha is a re-telling of the Fever:A Ballroom Romance trilogy, but told from Sasha’s unique perspective. The Sasha subseries is a duet, and concludes with Sasha, Book Two.
Praise for Fever: A Ballroom Romance
“Fever is exactly what the title describes; a hot, sweaty, passionate read that might make you dizzy, and is most definitely hot, hot, HOT!” Readers’ Favorite
“Wow!!! I’m in love. I forgot how sexy dancing can be… This should be a movie!!!!” Lillian, Goodreads
“This entire book was a build up of sexual tension … so delicious it’s like sex on hardwood.” Romance4thebeach
“Every once in a while, a series comes along with all the right ingredients. Just the right mixture to reel me in. And, my book friends, this is one of them!!” – The Sassy Bookista
“Sasha…is sex on long, strong, and sexy Latin dance legs, with a Russian accent that is drool worthy.” Becky, Reading Alley
Sasha
Book One
Infectious Rhythm Series
Tonya Plank
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and is not the author’s intent.
Copyright © 2016 Tonya Plank
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address Dark Swan Press, 8721 Santa Monica Blvd, #335, West Hollywood, CA 90069-4507.
ISBN paperback: 978-1-942289-10-4
ISBN ebook: 978-1-942289-11-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016907111
Edited by Julia Ganis, Juliaedits.com
Cover design by Marisa-rose Shor, Cover Me Darling
Cover photo from istockphoto.com, photographer: konstantin32
Author photo by Bruce Heinsius
For all of the wonderful readers who loved Fever and wanted the story told from Sasha’s perspective. This book is for you!
Chapter 1
I met her at a party at The Beverly Hilton hotel. I don’t know if “met” is the proper word since we didn’t actually speak to each other. But that’s where I first witnessed her angelic face, her wide-open, beautiful jade green eyes full of wonder, her gloriously long blonde hair that stood out in the dim room like a ray of sunshine. That’s where I first held her delicate, fine-boned hand in mine, wrapped my fingers around the soft, creamy skin of her back as we danced. And where I first breathed in her sweet scent, which reminded me of fresh air combined with peppermint candy, as we danced a sexy little foxtrot neck to neck in close handhold.
I could tell right away she wasn’t from Los Angeles. I could also tell she’d been a ballerina. The way she turned out her feet, held her back and shoulders up and elongated her swanlike neck made that clear. She held herself that way, full of grace, even though she had a sad look in her eyes. It was that combination of stunning but natural beauty and unhappiness that struck me. Well, along with the fact that she bore an incredibly uncanny resemblance to someone dear to me, who I may have lost—my sister, who’d left our family home in Siberia to become a model in Tokyo over two years ago and was now missing. But that’s another story…
Rory, as I soon learned was the name of this gorgeous girl, was at the party with a man. He appeared to be her significant other, though she seemed a bit beaten down by him. You can tell a lot by watching people. And from the moment I saw her at the dinner table with that man and an older couple, while my professional partner, Xenia, and I were waiting offstage to perform, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The way she held her head tilted down toward her lap and fidgeted with her napkin at the dinner table every time he or the older man talked to her. She was not enjoying herself, but pretending to. And no one at the table caught on.
It was a law firm’s holiday party, so I assumed either she or her boyfriend or both of them were lawyers who worked at the firm. The firm hired my studio, Infectious Rhythm Ballroom Dance, in Hollywood, to entertain. As usual, Xenia and I were to perform several Latin dance numbers—our specialty—then dance a bit with the crowd. I generally despised these kinds of events, since you mainly get lots of stuffy, elitist people who may think you’re a hot dancer but really look down on you and wouldn’t be caught dead with you in “real life.” But this firm knew that Xenia and I were the current U.S. National Champions and were second at the Worlds, and insisted the studio owner send us. I have the ultimate say in where we perform because of my standing—so I often choose only events with a heavy ballroom fan contingent, since people at those tend to be more appreciative. But something told me I needed to do this one, that it was important I go tonight. Sometimes I got these kind of sixth-sense feelings. The instant I laid eyes on Rory, I knew she was it. She was the reason.
Xenia is an excellent dancer. But the last few months we’d been fighting nonstop. We’d been together for several years. We’d lived and trained hard together in Moscow, won the Russian national championships, then headed to New York, then California, in search of not only the best job with the best pay but, more importantly, a chance to compete with the Americans—with the top couples in the world—and increase our international standing and celebrity. We shot to the top. But we were still second in the world. It seemed the judges would never rank my former partner, Micaela, who’d broken up with me because of my intensity, and her new partner and beau, below Xenia and me. Xenia was getting tired of trying. I wasn’t. I needed to be number one. I’d given up too much. I’d sacrificed too much of my childhood, my family. My sister. But more on that later. Suffice it to say I very badly wanted to win the Worlds, and Blackpool. But I was coming to terms with the fact that it wasn’t going to be with Xenia. I knew we could get there. She didn’t. And that’s how I knew our partnership was over. She’d lost her ambition. She didn’t believe in me, in us. And deep down, I was beginning to detest her for it.
But the second I saw this woman, this sad, captivating ballerina seeming so out of place in a business suit, the darkness lifted. I sat watching her from the corner of the room. Xenia and I were hidden in the shadows until the emcee announced us. We’d just had a horrible fight
over a step she’d missed during rehearsal. I’d yelled at her. She’d broken down and cried. I was too hard on her. I knew I needed to calm down, stop being such a demanding perfectionist. But I’d become the way I was largely because of my anger at her for her loss of faith.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special surprise for you tonight,” the emcee said as the lights dimmed. “Before we open the floor for general dancing, we have, here to perform for you, from Infectious Rhythm, Hollywood’s premiere ballroom studio, the current national Latin ballroom champions, Sasha Zakharov and Xenia Lupinski!”
As polite applause ensued, I watched the sad ballerina lawyer. As I knew it would, her expression brightened, albeit ever so slightly. She sat up straighter, took her gaze from her lap and shone it out toward the room, looking around as if searching for something, reminding me again of my sister, looking for something she longed for, something she’d lost. At least that’s what I chose to believe of Tatiana’s situation. It was entirely possible she simply didn’t want to be found. I instinctively reached toward the sad ballerina, as if inviting her to dance instead of my partner.
“What are you doing?” Xenia spat at me.
I was thrown back to reality. I redirected my gesture, now reaching out to her. “After you, my dear,” I whispered.
She frowned, and, walking to the opposite side of the vacant floor, now in darkness, gave me a sharp look.
“Okay,” I mouthed to the head conga drummer seated next to me, as soon as I saw Xenia in her place, in starting position. We were beginning with a sexy samba.
The chandelier over the middle of the ballroom floor slowly began to light as the drummer began his pulsating beat. The second that conga started and the lights shone down on us, I was on fire. That’s the way it had always been and always would be. Dance was my life’s passion, and I couldn’t stop myself from moving. I turned to face the drummer, and began shaking my hips to the speed of those beats while taking tiny backward steps toward the middle of the floor. The bachacata—my forte. As I neared the center of the floor, and the spotlight, I heard the oohs and ahhs coming from around me. The drummer went faster and so did I. I looked back at him and smiled. He grinned widely. It was like we were in a competition. Which could go faster—my hips or his hands?
Once I was in the middle of the floor, under the light, I looked out for my ballerina. I knew exactly where she was sitting. I’d memorized her table, her seat. The lights were so bright I knew I wouldn’t be able to see her until my eyes adjusted. But I knew where she was. And I knew she returned my gaze.
Xenia, who was doing the same step coming from the other direction, met me. As soon as she was close enough, I reached out, whisked her around me, and pulled her bottom up against my lap, where we rolled our hips in unison. All the while, I kept looking for her, my ballerina. My eyesight was adjusting.
And then I saw her beautiful arms. She was doing this elegant little port de bras. She was grace in motion. Our eyes locked. She smiled but immediately looked away, self-consciously. She’d thought no one was watching her. Her eyes widened as they returned to me, full of wonder and desire. I couldn’t help but shoot her a smile right before I stood straight and sent Xenia out in her cruzados walks with a press of my pelvis against her backside.
It took everything I had not to keep looking at my ballerina. But I had to focus on Xenia. It wouldn’t look right to dance mentally with someone other than my partner. Even though that’s what I was doing. But I couldn’t make it appear so obvious.
The music changed to a slow, soulful Spanish flamenco, our paso doble. I briefly glanced down at the floor, where my assistant, Sadie, had placed my red matador cape. I lifted it up slowly and, when the music sped up, tossed it up and over my head, then used one arm to whip it around in the air in a figure-eight pattern, going fast to make it look like a flash of fire in the night sky. While doing this solo motion, I could look back at my ballerina. Though I was in a different position on the floor, I knew exactly where to find her. Her mouth was open and she appeared to be breathing quickly. I knew I was setting her passions as afire as mine were.
The guitar crescendoed and I was off, sprinting, kicking high in the air, doing a mid-jump turn, my favorite part of paso. I landed and immediately went down to my knee, arching my back and raising my chest, looking to the sky proudly, as if I’d just conquered the villain for my lady. I knew my tour jeté had good height, and my form was at its peak—a dancer can tell these things. You know it’s on when it’s on, and it’s off when it’s off, and this one was so on. I knew my ballerina could appreciate the move.
The music changed to a slow, romantic rumba. As I pulled Xenia toward me into our opening embrace, I peered out again to my ballerina. Our eyes immediately connected. She held her hand to her chest as she swallowed. She had the most beautiful long-lashed eyes. She looked like a china doll. I felt Xenia’s fingernail tickle my chest. It was part of our routine. I could only look away from my ballerina by pretending she was Xenia. As I lunged toward her, down on one knee as if proposing, Xenia bent toward me, lifting her back leg high in the air behind her. I wondered how flexible my ballerina was, how beautiful she’d look doing that arabesque penchée. As I led Xenia into our spin sequence, I wondered how fast the ballerina could do all those chaîné turns. How beautiful her flowing hair would look cascading around her. As I lifted Xenia into my arms and carried her offstage in our ending cradle lift, I imagined how my ballerina would feel in my arms. How long and luscious her lines would be, her back arched, her legs draped over my arms, her toes pointed.
How could this girl I’d never met inhabit my thoughts so? I’d never been so mesmerized by a woman I’d only seen and never danced with. I’d never been so mesmerized by a woman, period.
The lights went down and the chandeliers slowly lighted again. Applause filled the room as I swung Xenia out to my side, leading her into a series of turns, and held my arm out toward her as she took her curtsy. Then, I followed with my bow. I looked back at my ballerina. This time her eyes weren’t on me. She held her head down. She was the only one in the room not clapping. She appeared even sadder than before the performance had begun. Her stupid boyfriend clapped and grinned, totally oblivious to her emotions. But I could tell he didn’t truly appreciate the dancing. He was only being polite. He turned toward her and said something. She looked at him, then shook her head, seeming confused. Our eyes locked once again before she blinked hard and looked away. It appeared now as if she were blinking back tears. What had he said to her?
The chandeliers dimmed and the applause died down. It was time for us to go outside and take a cooling-off break before returning to dance with the crowd. I led Xenia off the floor and out through the hallway, then through the back doors. We walked outside into the night air.
“You put on jacket, mister?” a member of the waitstaff said to me.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you, sir,” I said politely, with a smile and a nod. I believed in always being polite, and in speaking with the most clear American accent I could. I have to say, I was quite proud of myself for my English grammar. I’d been working hard on it, taking private lessons and listening to CDs. I didn’t like people knowing I was Russian. I loved my new home and I wanted to fit in. It killed me that the studio wanted to capitalize on my Russian-ness and insisted on calling me by my Russian nickname. It was the name I’d won all the competitions with, though, so it made sense. I called myself Alex with all my American, non-dancer friends.
I was wearing a mesh shirt, opened to the breastbone, but the nice, crisp air felt good against my sweaty skin. Angelenos cracked me up sometimes. It never got truly cold here, even in the winter. Most of them would never survive in Siberia. But that was okay. I’d never survive Siberia if I ever went back either.
I’d given up smoking but I blocked the wind from Xenia’s face and lit her cigarette. She smoked, and I paced, in silence. I wondered what my ballerina’s boyfriend had said to her that made her upset. I wondered was
he saying to her now. I wanted to go back inside. But I waited for Xenia to finish.
“Come on,” she finally said, tossing the cigarette down and vigorously crushing it out with the heel of her Latin stiletto. “We have to dance with them,” she said in Russian, rolling her eyes and running a hand through her shiny platinum hair.
I walked toward the back door, opened it for her, and gave another nod to the waiter. He looked at her, then up at me, with a raise of his brows. His expression said it all: “Beautiful girl; too bad she’s so bitchy.” Yes, exactly. One of the many reasons we’d broken up.
I followed Xenia back through the hallway, toward the main room. The band was playing big band, forties-era music. Couples were holding hands and bopping around on the floor, not knowing actual swing steps. As I passed a back table, I spotted Sadie pouring a box of business cards into a glass jar. Ah yes, the raffle for a pair of private dance lessons at the studio.
The sight of her stopped me in my tracks. I’d never done anything dishonest before. Okay, maybe once, maybe a few times, but not in a long, long time. And not that wasn’t necessary. I stared into her eyes. She looked back at me. Sadie’s an older woman, a retired ballet dancer from Eastern Europe. She was in my very first class at the studio. She’s a quiet, refined lady, and I noticed her talent the first time I saw her. She reminded me of my grandmother, my babushka. I think I reminded her of someone—a son, a lost love. Anyway, we had an immediate connection. I never did learn a huge amount about her—Eastern Europeans abroad can be like that. Just reticent to open up. Not wanting to reveal anything of their past. To revel in the present. I should know. Sadie began assisting me, helping me demonstrate steps in class, and accompanying me to the professional/amateur competitions I did with my students, even though she never competed herself, helping with changes of wardrobe and calming down nervous students. Eventually, I offered her a salary to be my dance assistant, figuring she really should be paid for doing what she was.
