practice.”
“It’s Jeanne’s bachata. Unacceptably messy. I was hoping you could show her how to sharpen it up.”
The idea visibly caught hold behind her eyes. She lit up from within. She wanted to go. Maybe she always had. The right excuse was all she needed.
“Fine,” she said, ladling put-upon affectation thick. “I’ll go if you need me to.”
“I do.”
She rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? Shit. For what? Dima couldn’t process the possibilities fast enough. They just hit him up and down his ribs.
“Oh?”
“I should’ve come see you dance weeks ago. I think…I think I hurt you by refusing. I’m sorry.” A hesitant pause. “Though I don’t regret what I did with Paul, I should’ve stayed for the whole performance.”
He blinked and breathed and faltered. Back teeth clenched, he pushed his plate aside. The topic was so damn thorny he couldn’t weave through. So he focused on the craft they’d shared for a decade and a half. “What did you think of it?”
He said it casually, but her opinion was all he’d wanted. It was nearly as important as her apology. Nearly enough to ease the strange feelings of jealousy and desire when he thought of her with Paul.
“It was different, of course.” She offered a shy smile. Lizzie could be shy? “Frankly, I didn’t know your body could do that. It was a surprise. And it was…” A furious blush wrapped around her cheekbones. He liked it. The color and the fact that his body had made an impression. Maybe she’d finally seen him as a man. “It was sexy as hell.”
“You need to come to Devant today.” His own smile felt lighter. “There’s plenty more.”
The words hung between them. Promise? Come-on? He was losing track of every innuendo. Speaking his mind wasn’t a habit he’d ever cultivated.
She broke the silence with a nod. “I’ll go get changed.”
Two hours later, Dima admired her ass as she sashayed up the back stairwell of Club Devant. The woman’s curves just wouldn’t quit—and when she was a little annoyed, she poured attitude into her twitch.
Dima managed to control his amusement and his desire before they reached the practice room. He needed to. More rode on the next few moments than he wanted to consider.
The appeal of professional competitions had faded for him about a year ago. Nothing left to sink his teeth into, and no way for him or Lizzie to grow. The permitted choreography had become stifling. Always, they’d received the same backhanded criticisms, even as they won championship after championship. Too theatrical. Too sexual. Apparently certain judges believed there was such a thing as too much connection. What else was Latin dance if it didn’t celebrate chemistry? Competition favored precision over sexuality. Such a farce.
Hanging on to that life would’ve left him a burned-out husk, one of the pathetic old men who sat on the sidelines and made eyes at the new crop of young dancers. His father had been such a man at every single one of Dima’s junior competitions. If evolving would keep him from falling into a bottle of vodka, Dima wanted that opportunity.
He needed to make her see that Club Devant was just such an opportunity. That relatively small stage provided enough of an audience to give both of them the performance rush they craved. But first, even before that hurdle, he had to get her dancing again. Practice was the only place to start.
Remy Lomand sprawled in the middle of the hardwood floor, legs spread wide as he stretched. At night and for performances, he spiked his wide, dark Mohawk, but the bright fluorescents of the rehearsal room shone off an unruly mess. The guy looked like he’d rolled out of bed before grabbing the nearest pair of loose-fitting jeans. Not unappealing in the least.
However, the man was trouble. Brilliant, but trouble.
“Ah, you’ve arrived.” Remy’s accent slithered with deep Louisiana Cajun.
“With a guest. Lizzie, have you met Remy
“It’s Jeanne’s bachata. Unacceptably messy. I was hoping you could show her how to sharpen it up.”
The idea visibly caught hold behind her eyes. She lit up from within. She wanted to go. Maybe she always had. The right excuse was all she needed.
“Fine,” she said, ladling put-upon affectation thick. “I’ll go if you need me to.”
“I do.”
She rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? Shit. For what? Dima couldn’t process the possibilities fast enough. They just hit him up and down his ribs.
“Oh?”
“I should’ve come see you dance weeks ago. I think…I think I hurt you by refusing. I’m sorry.” A hesitant pause. “Though I don’t regret what I did with Paul, I should’ve stayed for the whole performance.”
He blinked and breathed and faltered. Back teeth clenched, he pushed his plate aside. The topic was so damn thorny he couldn’t weave through. So he focused on the craft they’d shared for a decade and a half. “What did you think of it?”
He said it casually, but her opinion was all he’d wanted. It was nearly as important as her apology. Nearly enough to ease the strange feelings of jealousy and desire when he thought of her with Paul.
“It was different, of course.” She offered a shy smile. Lizzie could be shy? “Frankly, I didn’t know your body could do that. It was a surprise. And it was…” A furious blush wrapped around her cheekbones. He liked it. The color and the fact that his body had made an impression. Maybe she’d finally seen him as a man. “It was sexy as hell.”
“You need to come to Devant today.” His own smile felt lighter. “There’s plenty more.”
The words hung between them. Promise? Come-on? He was losing track of every innuendo. Speaking his mind wasn’t a habit he’d ever cultivated.
She broke the silence with a nod. “I’ll go get changed.”
Two hours later, Dima admired her ass as she sashayed up the back stairwell of Club Devant. The woman’s curves just wouldn’t quit—and when she was a little annoyed, she poured attitude into her twitch.
Dima managed to control his amusement and his desire before they reached the practice room. He needed to. More rode on the next few moments than he wanted to consider.
The appeal of professional competitions had faded for him about a year ago. Nothing left to sink his teeth into, and no way for him or Lizzie to grow. The permitted choreography had become stifling. Always, they’d received the same backhanded criticisms, even as they won championship after championship. Too theatrical. Too sexual. Apparently certain judges believed there was such a thing as too much connection. What else was Latin dance if it didn’t celebrate chemistry? Competition favored precision over sexuality. Such a farce.
Hanging on to that life would’ve left him a burned-out husk, one of the pathetic old men who sat on the sidelines and made eyes at the new crop of young dancers. His father had been such a man at every single one of Dima’s junior competitions. If evolving would keep him from falling into a bottle of vodka, Dima wanted that opportunity.
He needed to make her see that Club Devant was just such an opportunity. That relatively small stage provided enough of an audience to give both of them the performance rush they craved. But first, even before that hurdle, he had to get her dancing again. Practice was the only place to start.
Remy Lomand sprawled in the middle of the hardwood floor, legs spread wide as he stretched. At night and for performances, he spiked his wide, dark Mohawk, but the bright fluorescents of the rehearsal room shone off an unruly mess. The guy looked like he’d rolled out of bed before grabbing the nearest pair of loose-fitting jeans. Not unappealing in the least.
However, the man was trouble. Brilliant, but trouble.
“Ah, you’ve arrived.” Remy’s accent slithered with deep Louisiana Cajun.
“With a guest. Lizzie, have you met Remy
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