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.