Fever Dream (2 page)

Fernando Rubio danced at London City Ballet.

He was called The Great Rubio, for his partnering skills, his graceful strength and instinctive touch. It was a stupid name, but the ballet press had coined it in his heady younger days, and over the years it had stuck. People also called him “this generation’s Petr Grigolyuk” because of his sex appeal, and because women congregated outside the stage door squealing and jostling each other to get a look at him. As it happened, Grigolyuk was Petra’s father and she didn’t consider any comparison to the man flattering. In fact, she hoped Fernando Rubio was nothing like her asshole of a dad.

Well, she would soon find out. She twitched at her plum-colored silk dress and turned her clutch over in her lap. The sedan eased up to the curb of The Gilded Swan and the smiling driver told her in a charming accent to “hold tight, luv.” He got out and shooed some photographers away. London had paparazzi, like New York, although not as many, and surely not for her. These photogs would snap Rubio’s photo in a heartbeat, but she didn’t share his widespread playboy appeal. She was a serious dancer. Once the driver helped her from the car, she strode into the restaurant without cracking a smile.

“Petra?” A tall, thin, middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses emerged from the press of elegant people standing inside the door. He held out a hand to her. “How wonderful to see you.”

She recognized Yves Thibault at once. He was well-known in dance circles, admired for his work as the head director of City Ballet. She returned his smile as he kissed her on both cheeks. “I’m so glad to finally meet you in person,” she said.

“How was your flight? Is the hotel to your liking?”

He pelted her with polite questions as he led her to a table set for three in the corner. After all her nerves, The Great Rubio wasn’t even here. Yves pulled out her chair and a waiter came to fuss over them and offer menu suggestions. “What a lovely place,” she said, looking around the opulent restaurant. White tablecloths, gleaming china, sparkling chandeliers. It was old world
richesse
, ornate and glittering. Like ballet, it seemed to be trying very hard to be beautiful.

“Mr. Rubio will join us shortly,” said Yves, glancing over the menu. “He’s excited to meet you. Everyone at City Ballet is thrilled you’re considering our company.”

Yves’ French accent clipped each of the words; perhaps he felt as nervous as she. Petra sat very straight, surreptitiously watching the door. She might look down on Fernando’s bad-boy, sex-appeal image, but she was curious to meet him and see what he was like. He could do great things for her as a partner. In some way, they belonged together since they were both acknowledged as the world’s best dancers. Their pairing at City Ballet would be legendary. Historical.

She drew in a deep breath and reached for her water as soon as the waiter poured it. That’s when she saw him, mid-sip. The Great Rubio crossed toward them in a tailored suit and tie, looking more “fashion-week” than formal. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome—she’d known that—but in person he was so much more. He had an
aura
, a way of moving that communicated both sensuality and masculine power. Female heads turned, mouths dropped open. They all got that
look
.

Petra tried not to have that look when he locked eyes with her, but it was difficult. He was strikingly, alarmingly sexy. His height, his confidence, the way he moved, the way he presented himself. He was gigolo material, with his tousled black hair and dark eyes, and that carved Brazilian jaw line.

Be cool, Petra. He’s just a guy.
She took another sip of water, reminding herself that they’d asked her here, that they wanted her, not the other way around. She had nothing to prove, nothing to live up to except a pleasant dinner between contemporaries. She glanced up from beneath her lashes as he navigated the last of the candle-lit tables to arrive in their private corner. Somewhere along the line his casual smile had transformed to a scowl. He stopped a few steps from the table and glowered at her like he wished he could throw a knife through her solar plexus. “No,” he said, turning to Yves. “I said no. Why did you bring her here?”

Hm, not a knife. An axe. Fernando Rubio wanted to bury an axe in her rib cage, she could see it in the black depths of his eyes. Cold anger washed over her.

“You said he was excited to meet me,” she said, turning to Yves.

“Yes, well—”

“Yes, well,” Fernando cut in, “sorry you made the trip for nothing. We don’t need another principal here.”

Yves gave him a harried look. “Yes, we do. We’ve lost two principals recently. Ashleigh and Mariel have both retired.”

“You said we were meeting to talk about the ballets for next year,” Fernando said to Yves.

“We will. We are. Now, if you’ve made enough of a scene, perhaps you’ll consider sitting down and behaving like a civil person.”

The director’s voice never rose above a level tone, but the reprimand was obvious. Rubio snapped his mouth shut and slid into the remaining seat, fidgeting with his jewel-patterned tie. He angled himself away from her, as if to deny her presence. Petra felt gob-smacked. She’d flown all the way across the ocean, only to sit here and endure his scorn?

“We talked about this,” he said to Yves in a stage whisper. “You said I got to pick. I told you, specifically, not this.”

At “this,” he flicked a finger at her, the ballerina-who-must-not-be-named.

“What’s wrong?” She shot him an arch look. “Afraid I’ll outshine you if I join the company?”

“Outshine me?” Fernando snorted. “Maybe in makeup you outshine me. You have a tragically big forehead.”

Yves made a faint, distressed sound as Petra drew herself up to her full height, which was not very high.

“I do
not
have a big forehead,” she said. “And I find it hypocritical that you’d talk about my ‘tragically big’ forehead considering those massive feet you drag around the stage.”

His expression hardened. “My feet are not massive. I have the best feet in ballet.”

“No,
I
have the best feet in ballet,” she corrected him. “Everyone knows that. Your feet are big and square like...like bricks.”

“Petra, Rubio, please, people are staring—” Yves tried to interject.

“Me and my big feet do not want to dance with you,” Fernando snapped. “I need a partner with grace and lyrical beauty. Not a big-forehead robot like you.”

She gasped. “I’m not a robot.”

“You dance like a robot. You’re famous because you’re Grigolyuk’s daughter,” he said, waving a hand. “Nothing more.”

That flippant wave infuriated her. She hated Fernando Rubio, hated him for dismissing her fame and accomplishments like they were nothing. She’d earned everything she’d achieved through her own hard work, not her father’s support. Grigolyuk had never even acknowledged her, although everyone knew he and her mother had had a torrid affair when they were partners at the New York Metropolitan Ballet, and that Petra looked exactly like him, down to his light blond hair and Slavic hazel eyes. And yeah, her mom had named her Petra to drive the point home.

But Hillary Hewitt had never demanded a paternity test or financial support. “Petr knows he’s your father,” she used to say. “If he doesn’t want you, we don’t want him.”

To this day, Petra lived by those words. She threw her napkin beside her plate and pushed back her chair.

“Forget it,” she said to Yves. “If he doesn’t want me, I don’t want him.”

The slim, stolid director shot up from his seat and followed her as she stormed toward the door.

“Petra, please, let me explain.” He drew her over by the coat room and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Rubio wants you—he just doesn’t know it yet. He’s in a bad place right now. He was...” Yves paused, frowning. “He was very close to his previous partner.”

Well, that wasn’t the way to make Petra rethink things. After all the pain her father caused her mom, she was dead set against partner relationships. She wondered if The Great Rubio had knocked up Ashleigh Keaton, if that was why she’d left ballet.

“He doesn’t even know me,” she said. “How can he be so rude?”

Yves looked over his shoulder to where his star dancer sat alone, tapping his fingers on the table. “He’s a bit rough around the edges. Temperamental, like many artists. You shouldn’t take it personally. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“I don’t care how famous he is. I’m an artist too, and I’m not temperamental and condescending. I can dance with anyone in the world, anywhere I want to. New York, Paris, Berlin, Moscow.” She knew she sounded bitchy but, for God’s sake, she did
not
have a big forehead. She felt embarrassed and disappointed. Rejected. “You misled me,” she said. “I came here because you said Fernando Rubio wanted to dance with me.”

“He does! I promise you he does, it’s only a matter of adjustment and change.”

“You asked me here knowing he would refuse me. That doesn’t inspire a lot of trust.”

Yves sighed and removed his glasses. “I asked you here because he chased off the previous four prospects, and you’re the only one left.”

“What?” That kicked her ego right in the gut. “So I was your last-ditch choice? Really?”

“No, you were the most expensive choice. With Mr. Rubio on the payroll, we couldn’t afford another renowned dancer until a certain donor—who wishes to remain anonymous—agreed to foot the bill for your salary. I invited you to come the same day.” He put a hand over his lips and looked massively stressed out for a moment. He’d composed his expression by the time he looked up again. “Petra, you of all people must understand. Mr. Rubio needs a certain caliber of partner to inspire and motivate him, and that type of partner doesn’t grow on trees. You are his best match in the ballet world at the moment. The two of you could become a legend, one of those pairings that inspires a whole new generation of students to dance.”

We could
, thought Petra,
if he wasn’t such a braying ass.

“He said that he’d already told you no,” she said. “So why—”

“Mr. Rubio is saying no to everyone and everything right now,” Yves said, cutting her off. “Again, you shouldn’t take it personally.”

“It’s hard not to take it personally when someone says you dance like a robot.”

“We all know you don’t dance like a robot. Please, give him a little time and space to redeem himself. You know, he and his previous partner began their acquaintance under terrible circumstances.”

“Ashleigh Keaton? But they were—”

“Amazing together? Certainly, but they first met under the pressure of a last minute substitution. She wasn’t prepared, he was incensed. He called her a whale, if I remember correctly.”

“He called her a
whale
?”

“And she accidentally kicked him during the
pas de deux
, barely missing his testicles,” he said, setting off the
accidentally
with air quotes. “He stormed away after the curtain call and she ran to the dressing rooms and vomited. Repeatedly. It was a disaster, but from such beginnings they developed into one of the most notable partnerships City Ballet has ever known.”

“So what happened? Why did she leave the company?”

“Ashleigh is expecting a baby in the spring.”

She knew it! She shot a vicious glance at Fernando. “By him?”

Yves’ eyes widened. “No, by her husband. Ashleigh and Rubio were friends, nothing more. When he gets to know you better, he will be your friend too. Please, don’t leave yet. Dance with him tomorrow so he can see all you have to give, what a perfectly matched partner you’d be. We’re rehearsing
Romeo and Juliet
for the fall. Perhaps you already know the choreography.”

Petra sniffed and pulled at the clasp of her clutch. Of course she knew the choreography.
Romeo and Juliet
was a much-loved ballet, even if the maudlin, misery-of-cursed-love theme was a bit overblown. At twenty-eight, she’d danced the lead role in five different productions.

“If he wants to dance, I’ll dance. But if all I get from him is attitude, I’m heading back to New York.” She looked past Yves to where Rubio sat scowling at the table. “And I’d rather not stay for dinner. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

Yves squeezed her hands. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll make this up to you, and I promise you’ll receive an apology from Mr. Rubio.”

Petra wouldn’t hold her breath on that one. She climbed into the back of a cab, still fuming. She’d really wanted things to work out here. London City Ballet had great facilities, savvy management, and some of the most lavish productions in the world. There was a history here, a history that extended far beyond that of the companies she’d danced for in the US. Her father had chosen to dance with City Ballet after he left Russia...and he still lived in London.

That wasn’t why she wanted to be here, of course, although she’d had fleeting fantasies of him coming to meet her after a performance. Of the two of them hanging out and bonding backstage. Since her earliest years, she’d imagined a scene where her father would come to find her, perhaps in her dressing room, or in the dark hush of the wings. He would hold out his arms and smile and say, “I’m so proud to call you my daughter. I’m sorry now I was never part of your life.”

She wanted to jab an ice pick in her brain whenever she had those fantasies. Grigolyuk had turned on Hillary Hewitt as soon as he found out she was pregnant with Petra, destroying her ballet career. He hadn’t even come to her funeral a few years ago. Petra had been walking around wearing his face for twenty-eight years without the least acknowledgement of her existence, so why expect him to come meet her now? It was a stupid fantasy and it wasn’t even really a fantasy because she didn’t want it to happen.

As for The “Great” Rubio, she’d dance with him tomorrow for Yves’ sake, but that was it. One chance to redeem himself, or she’d be out of here like Ashleigh Keaton.

No wonder the woman had gotten herself knocked up—anything to get away from him. Four years of Fernando’s brand of professionalism, and Petra would be stark raving mad.