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.