PROLOGUE
I live for this.
I breathed in the scent of dust, heat and perfume; of sweat and leather and hair gel. The scent of the stage.
I stood in the wings, watching Joanna, my friend, taking the lead.
Three more bars to my turn.
I closed my eyes a moment and took a deep, steadying breath. It was my turn next. It was the premiere of the new dance, written by the company’s resident choreographer. I was the soloist.
I could feel the music, alive inside me, each part of me a part of it. As the pitch increased I could feel myself ready to burst onto the stage as the music built and grew and rose.
I glided on, feeling the power of my legs lift me and I hung there, just an instant, then came down, drifting across the floor lightly, then turning. I wasn’t counting in my head, I wasn’t concentrating. I wasn’t here. I was living the dance. I felt my skirt lift and whirl on the air of my passing and knew that it was glittering and fine in the stage lights, as fragile as spider’s webs.
Joanna was there, then, and Keith. I joined them watching Joanna as she moved as gracefully as a wisp of cloud in a wind.
The music changed again, and we joined a roundelay. I could see the sweat that drenched Keith. His chest was bare and his bulging muscles were gleaming in the light.
It is hot out here.
I was hot, too, sweat sticking my costume to my back. I hadn’t noticed. Then the music changed and I stepped forward into my solo. I could feel my dark-red hair flowing loose around her shoulders, whirling in the dance, completely contrary to the norms of neat, styled hair. I was wild and untamed and free. I was me. I was dance.
The music stopped and I bowed, low and graceful. My hand followed the motion and I saw it, slim and fragile. The curtain started to move, coming down.
That was when I noticed him.
He was sitting in the third row back, and his eyes were on me. Big and shining, they radiated a kind of astonished wonder. I felt the gaze wash over me and I blushed. He smiled. I wanted to smile back and the whole audience disappeared, leaving only him and me together.
Then the curtain came down completely and I was in the dark, looking at my friends.
The curtain moving went on and on—we did three calls—and by the end of it we were light with adrenaline and joy.
“We did it!”
Joanna grinned at me and we hugged. Keith clapped us both on the back.
We went off to the dressing rooms to change, and then to head out to the party. Spectacular, fun and wild. As my mind calmed, I couldn’t help but wonder about him. Who was he? The man with the gaze. I laughed, amused. Why had he made such an impression?
Then there was a knock at the door.
“Kerry?”
I frowned. That was Leona, the manager. I wondered what she was doing here in the dressing room, now.
“Yes?”
“There’s someone who wanted to meet you. I told him it was not permitted, but he wasn’t about to take no for an answer.”
I frowned again. Who was it? I was still in my costume—I’d only just got in there, after all. Who would come backstage to see me?
“Come in, then,” I called. I was curious.
Leona Hadford opened the door. And then he came in.
I stared at him in astonishment.
I…hi,” I said.
With his long, handsome face, dark hair and massive shoulders, he was stunning. I couldn’t see much of his body, but the way his suit fit told me he had a trim waist, long, strong arms and narrow hips. He was lean and fit in a way that made my blood race. I stared.
“Hi,” he said.
To my amazement, he looked even more awkward and nervous than myself. He was smiling, with an embarrassed touch on that square-jawed face.
“Yes?” If he came in to meet me, he was going an odd way about it. “I’m Kerry Highgate. Pleased to meet you,” I added. I frowned. “Um…mister…”
He grinned. This time he looked up.
His eyes caught mine. They were green, pale and exciting. They held my eyes and I couldn’t look away.
“Mr. Randall. Brett,” he added. He reached out a hand and I let him take mine in his own and shake. I stared at him. The way he gripped my fingers was strong. I frowned.
“Um…Sorry. Brett?” I frowned, dazed. Maybe it was the adrenaline in my system making me feel a bit silly, or maybe it was something else, but I was sure I knew that name from somewhere.
“What?” he asked shyly.
“I know this sounds dumb, but…” I paused. “Do I know you?”
“Maybe,” he said shyly. “Brett Randall…track events?”
I stared at him. Then I knew who he was. One of the nation’s top athletes and the most likely to represent the country at the next Olympics.
“You’re that Brett?”
He grinned. “The same Brett.”
That was how I met Brett Randall. He said he loved dance. That he saw me on the stage and was amazed. That he wanted to meet me. That was the start of our relationship. I wished it hadn’t ended.
He had disappeared from the athletics scene a year after that. And from my life. No one ever said or knew why. He was there one month, in the news, on television and all over the advertisements, and then no one mentioned him again.
I could understand, in my own way. It was similar to what happened to me. I also disappeared from the dance world.
After the accident, the fall that tore the tendon in my leg, the doctors said it was best for me to take time off. I could never do that and maintain in the company. I resigned that same year. And that ended my career.
I lived for dance, and, without it, I was left with no real means to live and no motivation to. That was probably why, after making a decision to move to Colorado, I didn’t really try to use the skills I had.
That left me here, dangerously broke, trying to find a job, with a head full of memories and a heart full of sorrow, complete with a leg that didn’t work too well, not even now.
It also left me with an empty space beside me that couldn’t quite be filled, no matter how hard I tried to find someone: because how likely was it that I would ever again see Brett, let alone meet someone like him?