Lead and Follow (26 page)

The dazed expression on his face said otherwise and put a smile on Lizzie’s.

The music ended on a huge flourish. The applause roared through the studio.

The spell of make-believe passion was broken.

Dima stood with the bearing of a beautiful, commanding prince. He held out his hand—just enough of an aid for Lizzie to smoothly twirl into his arms. They stood together as one before the cheering crowd. Not the most historic performance of their lives, but it was the most personally significant.

To the sound of more applause, they exited through a side door, toward the student dressing rooms.

Lizzie slammed them in together. “What the hell was that?”

“What? You kissed me!”

“I’m not talking about the kiss.” She popped a fist onto her hip. “How’s your back? You nearly busted it out there, like you’ve been doing with Jeanne. Or are you determined to do everything in a partnership alone?”

“It’s been a while since I lifted you.”

“Bullshit. You know what, Dima? I call bullshit on everything you’ve been pulling lately.”

A furious scowl closed over his brow. “In that, I’m most definitely not alone.”

“You know what? It gets old.” A dam burst in her mind and all of her frustrations lashed out as frenetically as their dancing. “You make plans all the goddamn time. I know, because you drag me along with you. But I never get to hear the dreams behind them. You must have them in there somewhere, propelling all of your strategies, but I never get a glimpse of what must burn so strong and beautiful. Why would you want to hide that? From me of all people?”

Her voice broke. Emotion closed her throat but she swallowed it back. His shoulders had not lost their rigidity. Was any of this getting through to him?

“The best I get is weeks later when you suddenly look happy,” she continued, undeterred. It was now or never. “Then I know we’ve reached some secret milestone, some dream of yours fulfilled. You relax a little. Things are easy for a while, before the rollercoaster starts up again. It would be nice to be included. Do you even get that? I want to be included in the beginning when we decide together, and the end when you…Jesus, when you hold me and we share something amazing. You’d better know I’m not just talking about our dancing.”

She dared to touch him like reaching out for a wounded animal. Ironic, considering his matador gear. He didn’t pull away when her fingers found his.

“I’d like to know when you’re scared too,” she said. “It’s hard being the only one.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Scared?”

“I’m scared of us changing. I’m scared of getting hurt again. It’s bad enough how our whole world got shaken up, needing to leave the circuit. I can’t imagine what a worse injury would do. What if I couldn’t dance again?”

She dared more intimate contact. The tight, thin skin along his low belly was hot. He breathed heavily, but Lizzie knew her own throbbing pulse wasn’t because of the dance. Not anymore. He held as still as a statue other than the rise and fall of his magnificent chest. Dark eyes blazed.

“But you can’t take the bulk of that guilt on your own,” she whispered. “Any more than it was fair of me to accuse you.” She took his face in her hands. “You didn’t hurt me, Dima mine. I’m sorry for hurting you by saying so. It was an
accident
. If you think you can overcompensate in a lift or in any other area of my life…you
can’t
. We’re in this together, or bad things happen.”

“Are we in this together?”

Lizzie swallowed. “You tell me. You’re the one who hasn’t opened up.”

A knock on the door shocked her back a few steps. Janet called, “It’s an intermission, Lizzie. We wanted to introduce you both around. You coming out?”

“Of course. Be right there.” She glanced at her partner, heartsick with worry that they’d shared their last dance. “Ask yourself who ran the other morning and why Svetlana’s back in your life. Hell, why you haven’t renewed your contract with Declan. Then be prepared to let me into that head of yours. I know we’re both braver than this.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Until Lizzie was injured and staying with her parents, Dima had never realized how much life she breathed into their tiny apartment. No more salsa music pouring through the sound system in the living room. No more singing—badly—under her voice as she dusted and cleaned. No more late-night movies with her feet kicked up on the couch, eating air-popped popcorn.

That their place was equally quiet now settled like lead in his stomach. They lived together, but she might as well be gone. She stuck to her room, much as he stuck to his own space.

She looked at him, though—not like the three days after they’d made love in the dark, when they’d ducked each other like they were on the run from the police. No, she watched him silently.

It hurt worse.

Every day she went out to dance and he still didn’t know where. She returned to the apartment with that special combination of exhausted and thrilled that came from working on new material. That she spent so many hours in someone else’s arms wasn’t the worst of it. He mostly worried she’d set her own path. That he’d lost her forever.

Because she’d been right the other day, at Woodruff exhibition. He’d run. He’d always sworn that he would only take Lizzie where she wanted to go, but that didn’t count when he ran blindly. All his talk about plans, all his maneuvering. He’d walked away from them all.

His goal certainly hadn’t been the big dance tonight. He and Jeanne weren’t the partnership he wanted. He still hadn’t signed the renewal contract, and Lizzie had been right about that too.

Even as he grabbed his dance bag from his room, then filled his pockets with wallet, keys and cell, he realized he was waiting. Listening. Searching for some hint of sound that said she was getting ready, though in her own sweet time. Because as awful as this strain was between them, he didn’t know how to experience any important event without her at his side. She was simply, solidly always there.

As he walked past her room, he couldn’t help himself. He stopped and knocked. The pause and silence stretched like saltwater taffy.

The door opened.

Right away, he knew the answer to his question. Low-slung jeans. A tight T-shirt with a Rangers emblem. Bare feet. Not exactly dress-code attire for Club Devant.

“You’re not going.”

Her gaze dropped somewhere near his throat. Tiny violet shadows draped under her eyes. Not enough to claim she was exhausted, but their presence was shocking in comparison to her normal vitality. If she was coping as poorly as Dima, then she hadn’t been sleeping.

She idly thumbed a bit of nicked wood on the doorjamb. Funny, her close-trimmed nails were in full competition mode, glossed with a deep red color. “I’m tired,” she said.

“Oh.” He wanted to touch her. More than that, needed to. His skin pulled and tingled with flat-out desire. “Paul texted me. He’s going to be there.”

Fuck if that wasn’t the dumbest thing he’d ever said. Terrified of admitting everything going on in his head—and his heart—for so long, he dangled another man in front of her, much as he had resented of Lizzie the night Sveta appeared at the club.

At least he’d severed that tie. Svetlana had called again, and he’d told her they were done. That wasn’t somewhere he wanted to go. She didn’t intend for them to proceed in a solely professional capacity, and he certainly wasn’t prepared for anything more.

Not when he was so very in love with Lizzie.

He was beginning to suspect that was half the problem. He’d loved her even before her injury. For too many years to see clearly, he’d trusted in a deep, endless connection. And still, he’d been unable to keep her safe. Hell, she’d fallen right out of his arms.

Maybe it was shitty of him, but the fear wasn’t so potent when he danced with Jeanne. Still there, but manageable. He only needed to pull her a little harder and guard her a little closer. Taking the weight of it was what the male partner did.

He couldn’t imagine what he’d do if he let Lizzie down again. Break in two? Like his parents, once they no longer had the structure of their careers? Perhaps he would spend the next fifty years sitting on a plastic-wrapped sofa with a tumbler of vodka.

She seemed to regard him as some sort of planning god. Like if he had a goal, it automatically came true. That wasn’t true. He’d failed plenty of times. Keeping that from her was to protect her from cruelty. It was better that he be the only one disappointed.

Her head tilted to the side, and she pursed her lips. “Was there something else you needed?”

If that wasn’t a loaded question, he’d never heard one. The answer, however, was surprising clear in his thoughts.

He needed the assurance that if not even a single one of his plans worked out, he’d still be loved. Not for being the son trained to carry on aborted dreams, forced into dance lessons once his parents’ career had hit its zenith. Not for being one half of the dance world’s most successful pair. Just for being him.

He flinched. Shook his head. “Get some rest, lit—” He cut himself off, though the effort sliced blades under his tongue. “Lizzie.”

He turned to go. She didn’t make a sound. Neither did he as the door shut behind him.

Was this really happening? He couldn’t believe it—that he was moving on to other destinations without Lizzie at his side.

Rather than walk, he took the subway to the club. The headphones in his ears weren’t playing anything he’d consider his music. It was all Lizzie’s. The independent musicians she loved supporting, the world-vibe stuff he could barely make sense of. At least it wasn’t the empty noise of his own head.

When the plans were all gone, he didn’t know what was left of him.

He slipped in the back door of the club, hopeful he’d avoid people until he absolutely needed to interact. By no stretch of possibilities was he prepared to flirt or schmooze or whatever the fuck Declan expected. He needed more quiet, to keep getting his head together. Hopefully there’d be plenty of that in his dressing room.

His room wasn’t empty. A tiny sliver of light pushed into the hallway from the crack under the door. For half a second, he thought maybe Lizzie had come after all. If she’d taken a cab, she could have beaten him there.

Pushing open the door disabused him of that notion but provided a lovely distraction. “Paul.” He dropped his bag on the counter. “God, you look good.”

The blond man wore a black suit over a black shirt that was open to his neck. The white cowboy hat was the topper. Beat up and worn, it was the same damn one he wore every day. “That’s good, because you look like shit.”

Dima laughed, but he didn’t have the energy to put much into it. “
Spasibo
. Thank you so much. Such a kind and polite man you are.”

Paul shrugged. He’d planted his ass against the counter, but now he pushed off and held his arms open.

At first, Dima tried to give him a one-armed hug, since he thought he might split apart under the weight of his own worry if shown too much kindness. Paul wasn’t having any of that. He grabbed Dima, arms wrapping around ribs and sinew, and squeezed tight.

Dima let his eyes roll shut. He let a long, shuddering breath work out of his chest. His head bent to Paul’s shoulder for just a moment. He was exhausted.

But he didn’t have all the time in the world. The show must go on. Plus, if he tried to bail, Declan would lead him on stage by the balls.

After pushing out of Paul’s arms, he turned to the wardrobe in the corner. “It’s good to see you tonight.”

“I begged off work. Said my sister was sick.” Paul plopped into the chair—the same one he’d been in when all this had started. He hitched the knee of his trousers between pinched fingers and crossed his feet. Cowboy boots, of course. “No way was I missing tonight. Where’s Liz?”

Dima’s shoulders snapped taut. He pulled on tight black pants and grabbed his shirt. “She couldn’t make it.”

“Damn.” Paul’s voice was laden with his usual concern. “I really thought you two would work it out.”

Dima caught Paul’s gaze in the mirror. Something hard and spiny jammed in his throat. His eyes burned. “I…I thought the same thing.”

“It’s over? For sure?”

He shrugged the shirt on. Started on a few warm-up stretches. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

To fully explain, he’d need to put everything out there all at once. He’d need to admit how much he loved her—all without a guarantee she’d return it. If there was ever a moment for fear of failure to rear its ugly head, it was now.

“You cannot possibly be serious.” Paul’s handsome features twisted into genuine surprise.

“What?”

“It’s just… If I had any hope of a woman like Lizzie, there’d be no maybes involved. I wouldn’t give up chasing her until I knew I’d won, or until I knew I didn’t have a frog’s chance in a snowstorm.”

Dima chuckled as he stretched his quads. “What a way with words you have.”

“Don’t deflect. You know you’re wrong. You’ve been a champion your whole life, and this is how you act when it really means something? Shit, Dima. Screw trophies and applause. This is Lizzie we’re talking about. All you have to do is decide what you want.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” The words burst from him in a flurry of released emotion. “Throw it all out there in front of her? Tell her what she might not want to hear? I’ve never been able to promise her anything other than trying my best. After all that’s happened, you think she’ll accept that? Forever?”