Chapter Four
The entire cast and crew of Lady in Red gathered in the studio the following evening for the mixer. Well, almost everyone. Zack skimmed the room.
The Lady herself hadn’t arrived, and it occurred to him that she was probably still on Paris time when a small group of dancers huddled around a laptop started shushing everyone. They hooked it up to the TV mounted in a corner and cranked the volume up.
The interviewer was thin and blonde, her features pinched but not cold. She spoke in French, but the subtitles were easy to read.
“I’m here with Mina Allende, the ballerina who caused quite a stir in the ballet world this week when she announced she would no longer be dancing with the Paris Opera Ballet.”
The camera panned out to bring Mina into the frame. She looked like a movie star with her hair styled bone straight, wearing a sleeveless dress that looked like she’d been sewn into it, and makeup that expertly played up her arresting features. Especially her eyes. Even from behind her media-ready mask, they were wide-open windows to her soul, lending a vulnerability to her sexy persona he instantly forgot when her lips parted into a smile.
Some of the dancers nudged each other, and Zack grinned.
“You’ve quickly sparked comparisons to another dynamic dancer, Sylvie Guillem, who left Paris for the Royal Ballet at just twenty-five years old,” the interviewer continued. “She found classical ballet too confining, once describing the Paris Opera boarding school as a prison she wanted to escape, even calling the teachers witches.” She eyed Mina with expert pointedness. “Is that how you feel, too?”
If Mina was uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. Her expression remained stoic and her posture was impeccable, her hands settled primly in her lap. She took her time with her answer, wetting her lips when she was ready:
“I admire Sylvie so much, and I felt a kind of heartbreak when I learned that she was retiring. She said something once that has stuck with me since I first heard it, that having limits to push against is how you find out what you can do…that frightening yourself is how you grow.”
The interviewer’s thin brow rose at Mina’s attempt at evasion, but she was determined to pick her bone. “And you don’t feel that you can grow here any longer.”
The ballerina’s high forehead creased. Suddenly, the interviewer had manipulated the tone to sound distinctly like “us versus them,” and Zack was keenly aware that he was the ring leader of “them.” He tensed in expectation of Mina’s answer, so riveted, he didn’t notice her when she walked in.
Mina was good at going unnoticed when she wanted to. All it took was a shift in her psyche and she affected a posture that was less regal, a gait less assuming. It probably helped that her hair was swept up in its typical bun, her face unadorned except for kohl around her eyes. Her clothes were deceptively understated, a skill she’d learned from her mother. She’d showered after her pointe class and thrown on the cropped black slacks, cream silk camisole and sling-back heels in hopes of making a good impression.
But it looked like the effort had been unnecessary. Hugging the wall, she observed everyone observing her on screen, and felt…relief. Perhaps this days-old interview could satisfy whatever curiosity anyone might have about her, and she could bypass the anxiety of talking about herself too much.
“Even paradise can feel like a cage to a bird if you clip its wings,” she heard herself say. “I’m frightened for the first time in a long while, and there is something freeing about it.”
Mina had done so many interviews that day that she couldn’t even remember saying those words, but they held such naked honesty that she felt completely exposed. Then, the question she’d pushed from memory hit her right in her chest.
“Does this sudden move have anything to do with the tragic death of your long-rumored…friend, principal dancer Étienne Lemaire?”
Mina gasped, and suddenly every eye in the studio held her in its gaze.
Merde.
“Shit! Turn it off!” someone said.
A couple of people scrambled to shut down the interview, and several others migrated to where she stood to introduce themselves. It was sort of a blur. There was the assistant stage manager, musical director, costume designer and makeup artist, members of the chorus line and so many others…Mina was sure she’d get their names and faces down eventually.
A man who looked like he’d stepped out of GQ Magazine presented himself with a bow. An actual bow. Mina stifled a snicker. It was quite good, really. He bent from his trim waist, his thumbs hooked into his suspenders into a near-perfect ninety-degree angle. He looked up at her with grinning black eyes and then stood upright again.
For a split second, it seemed strange to her that he’d dress so formally for no apparent reason in the month of June. He even wore a bowtie, like a young Fred Astaire with deep umber skin. When he opened his mouth to speak, she instantly understood.
“Harper Holloway at your service, Little Bird.” He made fluttering motions with his hands. “Composer extraordinaire and very happy to make your acquaintance.”
Charisma dripped from every word, and Mina couldn’t help but smile at his clever name for her. He was obviously making light of the interview, trying to make her feel comfortable. And it was working.
“Enchanté,” she offered her hand.
He took it and kissed it, to her further amusement, and then the hairs rose on the back of her neck…
“Good stuff, Harp.” Zack came to stand beside him. “I think you’ve made your point, you’re a smooth son of a bitch.”
Mina gasped, looking at Harper for any sign of offense, but the younger man just laughed and embraced Zack enthusiastically.
“Watch how smooth.” He winked and spun on his heel, crossing to the other side of the room where the laptop was set up.
Mina would have kept her eyes trained on Harper (she was curious about the expensive looking equipment he was setting up) but they were distracted by the way Zack was moving toward her…The way his eyes trailed her open neckline and down her body…The way they came right back up again, pausing at her exposed throat, like he could see her pulse beating triple time. When he lifted his eyes to hers, she knew that he would kiss her.
Merde.
It happened so fast. His warm hand touched her naked shoulder in greeting. The breadth of his chest grew wider as he loomed over her, occupying her space. His face was so close, she could trace his tawny eyebrows with her tongue.
A tiny gasp escaped her at the thought.
What the hell? her subconscious snapped. Pull yourself together!
Enfin, she would have pulled herself together just fine, except his cheek grazed hers, gently scratching, and she sucked air in through her lips again.
It was just la bise, a friendly little peck on the sensitive skin where her ear met her cheek. But her face heated anyway, the microscopic hairs of her cheek stretching out to prolong the contact.
When he pulled away, her eyes were glued to his bottom lip. She still felt its pressure against the tip of her ear lobe. He cleared his throat and her eyes flew up to meet his dancing gaze.
Dieu, he heard me!
He was so polite, greeting her in the French custom, trying to make her feel welcome, and here she was behaving like une idiote. It was kiss, not a kiss. And it was their third time meeting in-person, so some familiarity was to be expected, non?
Of course. Back home, there’d have been two cheek kisses.
Bon Dieu.
The way she was hyperventilating, two kisses would have killed her.
Don’t be ridiculous.
She was a grown woman, not some swooning schoolgirl.
It’s fine. He probably didn’t hear me.
He’d heard her.
That first little intake of breath hardly registered in his brain. She could have been overwhelmed with meeting so many people at once, and Harper wasn’t exactly subtle. But when he brought his lips to her cheek, his ear was positioned just right to hear it a second time. Uneven and sharp. It was just a whisper of sound, but it was loud and clear to his libido.
Zack knew women. And this one wanted him.
He wasn’t gonna to do shit about it, either…no matter how much he was enjoying the way her eyelashes did that fluttery thing before she took a deep breath and stepped two feet away from him. She really should stop staring at his mouth.
Don’t start, his brain told the blood zinging to his extremities. Eight years to get here. Don’t fuck it up now.
“Ladies and gents!” Harper interrupted Zack’s thoughts mercifully, snapping his fingers and motioning with his arms for people to clear the floor. “We’ve come to the entertainment portion of the program, and today’s your lucky day, because it’s your first look at Zack’s crazy choreo. —That’s right, give it up…” He waited for the applause to subside. “Accompanied by a little something I’ve been working on, me and my homeboy Chopin. Hope y’all enjoy.”
Mina’s expression turned to sheer admiration, and Zack understood why. Two incredible bodies took their positions in the middle of the floor. They were nearly nude in flesh-colored dance briefs, the woman in a bra top to match. They looked like Olympic gymnasts…or gladiators. Their overt strength and definition was a stunning contrast to Mina’s lithe frame. She was about to get a peek at her future here, and Zack couldn’t wait.
The opening piano strokes were gentle, a meandering solo line that went on for fifteen seconds and always made him hold his breath. The dancers hadn’t moved; they just stood there, him behind her, their chests rising and falling, the sound of a soft heartbeat coming through Harper’s speakers.
The cello started, deep and soulful like the tender voice of a lover, and she began to touch herself. Her arms wound in a slow filigree, and she moved her hands up over her body, caressing her face and the hair that fell softly about her shoulders. Her partner rested his hands at her waist a few seconds as the heartbeat intensified, her arms rising above her head in invitation. His hand smoothed a path over her hip and down her thigh to grip her calf, his cheek to hers. They pantomimed breathless sighs with their open mouths.
Only twenty seconds passed, but the tension was nearly unbearable. Mina’s breathing had become audibly labored. Zack listened and watched her with rapt interest, anticipating the moment the tension would be released.
A single keening note from a violin cut through, sharp and lingering. The woman’s leg was pushed up high by her lover’s hand, opening her up to him in a most sensual way. Ten agonizing seconds of breathing, heartbeats and longing ticked by before he slowly let her leg back down.
The rhythmic chords exploded, and he flung her into the air by her waist, her legs flying apart into a side split. He caught her by her open thighs in the crooks of his arms, her toned derriere sitting on his chest as he spun them around. Facing forward again, his hands pressed down on her lower back to angle her body down, and her legs moved over his shoulders, his face nestled between her thighs.
She dropped down at startling speed, swung between his legs, her head dangerously close to the floor…and back up again. Down, and back up again, gaining momentum until he threw her into a lift over his head. Suspended there, her back arched exquisitely, her legs curving until her toes nearly touched her head.
Mina was practically panting now. Pure bass had replaced the heartbeat in the music and she looked like she was struggling to breathe. Zack licked his lips at the intensity on her face. Part of him simply desired to share his art with another exceptional artist…but there was something else inside him that was finding it increasingly satisfying to stun this pristine ballerina until she was hot and flushed.
Wait for it, he willed her silently.
The dancer’s thighs returned to their position over her partner’s shoulders, her legs extended behind him as he pushed her down again. This time, her hands trailed slowly down his thighs, her torso aligning perfectly with his. His hands held her in place by her ankles, and her arms hugged his waist, their heads nestled between each other’s legs. They were posed in a perfect sixty-nine.
Audible reactions filled the studio. Mina’s gasp was full-body this time, forcing her chest forward, her eyes widened in shock.
Zack’s ego soared. Working with her was going to be fun.
The music faded back to lyrical piano and persistent heartbeat, signaling the demo’s finale. The male dancer pushed one of his partner’s legs until they scissored apart into a split while she was still upside down. She clung to his waist as they pulled apart, and he leaned back as far as he could go. It was a stunning show of strength and flexibility. Gripping an ankle in one hand, he arched his back until their bodies formed a T.
Zack had to know. “What do you think?”
Mina shivered when Zack spoke. The room had fallen quiet as the dancers held their pose. She hadn’t noticed that he’d moved so close. She couldn’t look at him. His voice was way too deep and low, and given what she’d just watched, it felt like whispers between lovers. The imagery that traitorous thought drummed up…hot, naked bodies twisting and writhing together…made her blink like mad.
Bordel!
“Is… that what we will be doing?” She didn’t mean to sound so panicked.
“Part of it.”
She gasped.
Zack grinned. “It’s a little suggestive.”
“Suggestive?” she breathed, unable to stop herself from staring right into the deep-sea green of his eyes.
“No, you’re right.” He studied her face with unmistakable amusement. “It’s pretty overt.”
Loud whistles, clapping and cheers interrupted the words Mina couldn’t manage to get out anyway, and Harper was already making his way over.
“My guy!” he congratulated Zack with a grin. “I think that pretty much spoke for itself, but I’ll let you say a few words.”
“Hey, shut up, will ya?” Zack said playfully at all the noise. When it died down, he cleared his throat. “Thank you to those phenomenal dancers, by the way. Now I remember why I hired you.”
That brought good-natured jibes from the cast, and then the man who’d introduced himself as Pete Something-Or-Other (the dramatist who’d helped Zack write Lady in Red) handed him a glass of wine.
Zack shook his head. “And the genius that is Harper Holloway—I mean…come on, that was amazing.”
The room erupted with more praise.
“Can we just take a second and appreciate that this guy deejays nightclubs in a suit and tie? People have no idea they’re getting cultured by a Julliard grad. He’s got them twerking to Mozart. Incredible.”
More laughter.
“Holy hell.” He rubbed his chin. “This is really happening. It took three years from the time the idea came to me, to write the first words…two years after that to write just two songs-”
“And by then I thought it might be time to move things along,” Pete cracked, and more laughter ensued.
“It’s true,” Zack said. “But we’re finally here, and I couldn’t be more grateful. A few weeks from now, one of the best ballerinas in the world is gonna help us shut down the Tony Awards—No pressure, Mina.”
He was obviously joking, but a tiny tornado of terror was brewing in her stomach. What the hell did I get myself into? She managed a small, embarrassed smile.
“I realize our rehearsal schedule is a little unprecedented,” he continued, “but so are we, and so is Lady in Red. I know you’re as invested as I am, and I know we’re gonna kill it.” He dragged his fingers through his magnificent hair. “Shit, I’m no good at speeches—and yes, I realize the irony, thank you very much, Pete.”
Pete guffawed, and Zack wrapped things up. “Just…thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I’m one step closer to my dream, and I can’t think of better people to bring along with me. Cheers.”
“Cheers!”
*
First Rehearsal…3 Weeks Before the Tonys…6:27 pm
She was going to have to stop flinching every time he touched her.
A thin sheen of sweat covered her satiny brown skin, lending a slightly acidic note to her natural aroma. Years of grueling rehearsals made him accustomed to the smell of musk. It was unique to every partner, like a scent signature. It tended to be strong, which was why he detested dancing with partners who wore perfume.
Mina’s musk was burning wood and cinnamon and flowers—and the distinct odor of sweat. His mouth and nose were millimeters from her long, graceful neck. With every inhale, he tasted her, and for the first time in his career, it felt deeply personal.
“Try and relax.” His voice wasn’t as steady as he’d intended, but his hand was, pressing gently against her lower back, encouraging her to arch more deeply. He felt her abs tighten in protest.
“It doesn’t feel right,” she panted, losing her balance despite his support, her leg dropping from its high position behind her.
The vein in his neck throbbed, as much from exasperation, as from the way her words blended together in that sweet French accent. He’d never had this much trouble staying focused before. Dancing required everything: every muscle, every breath, every thought. It was far too demanding—and frankly, dangerous—to be distracted by a partner.
A huffing, puffing, sweaty partner.
For fuck’s sake.
It was more awareness than arousal. He was aware of her, of her breaths and movements, and the thoughts in her head. On some level, it was like this with every partner. He had to anticipate her next move, familiarize himself with her body. He knew women’s bodies the way astronomers knew the sky. Years of partnering had made him aware of the pockets of space most people didn’t think about, the hidden crevices beyond peaks and valleys most recognized and oft-traveled.
His favorite part was a woman’s true ribs, those first seven bones extending from her underarm and down beneath her breast. There was something provocative about them, the way they were strong by design, fragile in his hands. He itched to hold Mina there, to nestle his fingers between those fine grooves, his thumbs brushing the smooth skin of her back; to be entrusted with her safety, to help her make the impossible look effortless. But he couldn’t do any of that until her thoughts stopped screwing with her confidence. He needed to get into her head.
“It’s not going to feel right,” he said finally, in a soft tone. “Not until you relax.”
Merde.
His voice was like velvet, so deep and soothing…and so annoying.
Her back ached, because he insisted she lean forward into the arabesque instead of keeping her spine straight. Her feet felt sticky…and cold. Dancing barefoot was more challenging than she thought. New callouses were forming in all the wrong places and her feet kept slipping. Toe splits were not fun. And his hands…
Dieu, his hands!
They were on her. All over her. All the time. Shockingly, he spoke more with his hands than his mouth, and it was driving her insane.
“I need to catch my breath,” she huffed, feeling quite like she was at the end of her rope.
“You’re fine.” His timbre was even more soothing this time. “The best way to get used to the water is to just jump right in. So jump.”
She groaned inwardly, but positioned herself again, hugging the floor with her foot, extending her arms out wide for balance as she lifted her leg behind her again.
“Good.” He adjusted his palm over her poor, overworked core muscles. “Go as far as you can.”
She did. Flexibility wasn’t her problem. Her arch could go as deep as a Chinese classical dancer’s, and she could hug her leg to her face. So it was a shock to her psyche to feel her weight shift forward suddenly, to have to hobble on one foot to compensate. She winced, her toes splitting again.
“Merde!” she spat. “It’s no use! If I cannot get this stupid move, the others will be impossible!”
“Whoa, hang on, petite.” He was obviously taken aback by her outburst. “Mind over matter.”
“Pardon, ‘petite’?”
He had the nerve to grin. “You’re small. French. Seemed like a no-brainer.”
Espèce d’idiot! The comeback in her head was too easy. She refused to voice it aloud.
Massaging his temples, he seemed disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm for his feckless wit. “Mind over matter, it’s a saying.”
“I know what it is,” she snapped. “English is my first language.”
“Splendid. Then you know it means you have to stop overthinking things. Stop analyzing. That’s what I’m here for, okay?”
She blew a long, uneven breath. He was the teacher. She would try to trust him, though she knew quite well what she was and was not capable of, and the fact that he didn’t was about to break her foot.
She needed her foot.
“D’accord,” she said skeptically, but moved into position again.
“Okay,” he parroted her in English, returning his hands to her waist. “Again.”
This time, she made it all the way into the arch, her arms ascending to the ceiling, her hands wrapping around her ankle. She concentrated so hard, she didn’t notice it when he removed his hands…which is probably why it shocked her so when her precarious balance was lost again.
Leaning forward, she stumbled hard. Her leg swung down fast, providing the sinister momentum needed to twist her other leg just so, that her poor toes split…again.
He stepped forward swiftly to set her aright, but she swatted his hands away.
“Non!” Her eyes watered from the pain. “I don’t understand. What is this? Balanchine? Graham? Lucifer? Hades?”
“Calm down,” he said gently, visibly trying not to laugh at her theatrics, which just further irritated her. “That was actually not ba-”
“Stop telling me to calm down!”
Turning away, she tried to collect herself. Her toes were still smarting, and she mumbled softly to herself in French, trying to get out of her own head.
“I’m not exactly fluent in French from my touring days,” he offered unhelpfully, “but I think I caught enough to know you’re trying to psyche yourself up.”
“I’m a ballerina…” She tried to drown him out. “From the Paris Opera Ballet.”
“Yeah well, we all have to start somewhere.”
She spun around, her eyes stinging. (Annoyingly, she was a crier. Especially when angry.)
Superbe.
Now would be the perfect time to cry. Right now, when she needed to look capable and competent and strong.
“Fuck me…You’re not gonna cry, are you, petite?”
The room grew eerily quiet. Still, but for the sound of her breathing. Heavy and deep, as if she was slowly drawing the energy from the air into her body. The heat of anger roiled through her. She felt flush with it, suffocated by it. She wanted to crawl from her skin until it cooled, but since she wasn’t a lizard, and he had to stand there with his stupid lock of hair falling over his forehead, staring at her like an insipid, crazy, fragile piece of glass…
Merde.
She broke.
A stream of French epithets slammed into him like a ship blown ashore in a tsunami. He recognized quite a few of the choice words (not that he needed a translator to understand she wasn’t singing him a sonnet).
Finally, it was quiet again.
Oh, what’s this?
It seemed he’d just witnessed his first nuclear meltdown from this tiny ball of fire. And damned if it wasn’t the sexiest, most confusing shit he’d ever seen. The cloud of hyper focus evaporated, and desire hit him like an eighteen-wheeler. He trailed his eyes over her sweaty, seething frame with deliberate slowness. It was probably bad that he wanted to snatch her up and lick the pulse in her throat, to bite her pouty lower lip and suck her toxic little tongue into his mouth.
Definitely bad. He’d have to give his dick a stern talking to later.
For now, he smiled inwardly, stowing this particular button away to push as needed. The passion was clearly there. He had three weeks to whip his volatile star into shape and he’d do it by any means necessary. Outwardly, his expression remained passive, and his voice was flat when he spoke again.
“Feel better?”
She gave him a curt nod.
“Good. Again.”