Counterpointe
Authors: Ann Warner
Ann Warner
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Counterpointe
Copyright 2012 Ann Warner
http://www.AnnWarner.net
Editing by Pam Berehulke
Cover Art by Ann Warner
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published in the
United States of America
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical works or reviews.
Chapter
1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Note to Readers
About the Author
The End
DEDICATION
V.
Always...All ways.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to all the readers who have enjoyed my novels and let me know it, and a special thank you to Kari Brunson for ballet details and to
fellow writer Judy Carpenter for valuable suggestions.
Counterpoint
Multiple melodic lines played at the same time
Spring 1986,
Cincinnati
Clare Eliason escaped the crowded reception and slipped into a deserted studio. Lips curving into a smile, she leaned into an
arabesque penchée
. Her hair, usually tightly controlled for rehearsal and performance, brushed against her cheek. She leaned further still, then slid into fourth and pirouetted, imagining other dancers weaving through the room in response to the
allégro
playing in her head.
“Hiding, are we, Clare?” The sharp words bounced and echoed.
She turned to find Zachary Showalter lounging in the doorway, arms crossed.
Damn
. She thought he’d left already. Usually he couldn’t be bothered to spend more than ten minutes at a company get-together.
“I never took you for a coward, Clare, but having Monica make the announcement...that was cold. ‘And I have one other bit of news.”’ His mimicry of the artistic director’s nasal twang was spot-on. “‘Clare is leaving us to join Danse Classique. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say I wish you much success, Clare. We will miss you.’”
He straightened and strolled toward her, moving with what one critic had branded a panther’s grace. “Don’t you think,” the words were spoken in the low purr she used to find appealing but now found ominous, “that, oh, I don’t know, you might have told your partner before announcing it to the rest of the world?”
He reached for her, but she stepped away. Away from that touch that had once been so welcome. Had once been what she lived for.
He dropped his arm, giving her a thoughtful look, and she closed her eyes to block out the sight of him. This man who had once dazzled her with his beauty, his charisma, his unexpected regard.
“You’re right to leave, of course.” His tone had changed again. Now it was careless, dismissive. “We are too good for Cincinnati. But we’re a team. Mannie, you know who Mannie is, don’t you, Clare? Manuel Ortega, the artistic director of
the
American Ballet Theater? Mannie is this close,” Zach held up two fingers pinched together, “from a contract offer. For both of us. That was my news. News you upstaged with this ridiculous announcement about going to Boston.”
Clare lifted her chin and pulled in a slow breath, hoping it would steady her voice. “You have no right to negotiate for me.”
“No right? Aren’t we being a wee bit precious?” He held out his hands as if balancing two balls. He mimed flipping the balls and catching them. “
“Isn’t it obvious? I didn’t want you to know.”
“Oh, ho. Afraid I might change your mind?”
“No.”
“Clare, Clare. After what we’ve shared? Just like that, you walk away?”
“Just like that.”
“You said you loved me.”
“I was mistaken.” It pleased her that she’d managed to pull off a dismissive tone of her own.
A brief expression flitted across his face. Regret? No, the Zach she knew didn’t do regret.
“You’ll never find another partner like me.”
“I certainly hope you’re right about that.” Standing up to him was getting easier with each exchange.
Zach blinked, his lip curling in irritation. “Lest you forget, I’m the reason you’re a principal dancer. You owe me, Clare.”
And she’d paid, with pieces of her heart and the dashing of her dreams. Still, knowing she’d never dance with him again brought with it an ache. All that power and grace, his sure hands supporting her. The two of them moving together, one perfect entity.
Without the offer from Danse Classique, she would never have found the strength to give that up.
“In actual fact, you’re rather ordinary, you know,” he said.
The sharp edges of those carelessly tossed words sliced at her composure and her throat tightened. Carefully, she pulled in another slow breath seeking the discipline that underpinned her every performance. And perhaps if she viewed this as a performance, she could survive it. “Odd you singled me out, then. If you thought me merely ordinary.” Good. She’d managed to sound calm, in control.
“You’ll see, Clare. You’re going to regret it. Without me, you’re nothing.”
She straightened her spine and lifted her head, going for a disdainful look. “Wouldn’t it be funny if it turned out to be the other way around. That without me, you’re nothing.”
“How dare you.”
