The Billionaire's Ballet: A Contemporary Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance (Friends with Benefits) (12 page)

“It’s just up ahead,” Bennett said. “I can get a car for us for the way back if you are tired.”

“For a few blocks?” I said. “Of course not.” I lifted a foot and wiggled it. “Besides, I’m in friend-date shoes.”

Bennett smiled and reached for my hand. He held it only a moment when he realized what he had done and let it go again.

I looked away, watching our distorted reflection in the windows as we walked. If we kept having to say it, possibly that meant it wasn’t a friend date at all.

I tried to picture Quinn again and summon those feelings I’d nursed since I was a girl. They didn’t quite spark. Come on, I thought. The carriage. The bouquet. The kiss! Don’t forget the kiss!

When I felt sufficiently back on track, I turned back to Bennett. He glanced at his watch. “Our timing is good,” he said.

He pointed at a door ahead. Two small elaborate lamps lit an antique oak entrance. Above it was a small pressed-tin sign that said simply, “Art Gallery.” In an open window was a sculpture in elaborate twists and turns of weathered iron.

The streets were quiet. All the other small shops and businesses with storefronts on this stretch were closed up and dark. It was almost ten o’clock.

“How did you get them to stay open for you?” I asked.

“I’m pretty convincing,” Bennett said. “When I want something.”

His pronouncement clearly had a double meaning. My heart hammered again as he opened the door.

Inside, the air-conditioning was like a cool breeze. A young woman in a silky gray blouse stood up from where she sat behind a long carved desk. “Hello, Mr. Claremont. Miss Small.”

My eyebrows lifted that she knew my name.

The woman came forward with an outstretched hand. “I’m Tami, the art director here. I am pleased to show you around.”

I shook her hand, then she moved to Bennett. I could see she was a bit flustered by him, but she hid it fairly well.

“I hear you are a ballerina,” she said to me.

“Yes, my company is from New York,” I said.

“How lovely. The sculptures here are based on the art of Degas. Where appropriate, we have placed a reproduction of the original art that inspired a piece near the new work.”

She flipped on a light, and I sucked in a breath as the first sculpture appeared. The image was a ballerina in an arabesque. And the corresponding art was incredible, lively and three-dimensional.

“You can feel the movement,” I said. “It’s amazing.”

The sculpture was primarily strips of iron, partially painted pale blue to match the costume of the ballerina in the Degas. The iron was bent and curved to show not so much the dancer herself, but the lines of her position.

“It’s almost as if he knew the dance himself,” I said.

“She,” Tami corrected. “The artist is Blair Long. And she was trained as a ballerina, only to be sidelined with a serious injury before she got old enough to work in a company. Fifteen, I believe.”

I approached the sculpture until I was close enough to touch it. “May I?” I asked.

Tami looked uncertain for a moment, then said, “Yes. It should be fine.”

I ran my fingers along the cool metal. Blair had a gift. As I followed the fluidity of the lines, I could almost feel the iron bending. Without thinking about it, I moved into the position myself, arm outstretched, leg straight.

After a moment, I relaxed. Bennett stood holding his jacket, his eyes devouring me. I blushed, but it didn’t take away from the awe of the moment. I felt the artist running through me, Degas, Blair Long, the dance.

“I assume there are more?” I asked.

“Yes,” Tami said. “This way.”

We walked around the false wall that served as the backdrop of the arabesque. Three more sculptures stood in a line, each lit from above.

In the paintings, the young girls were frozen mid-spin, arms outstretched. In the sculptures, they came alive, moving across the room.

I couldn’t help but perform the turns myself. I wanted to laugh at the beauty of the sculptures, the movement they showed while being still. I whirled and whirled, exuberant in their presence, amazed beyond words at what this artist had done.

When I finally stopped, Tami and Bennett were watching me, Tami with amusement, and Bennett with that hungry look I had become used to.

“That was beautiful,” Tami said.

I tucked a strand of hair that had come loose behind my ear. “I might have gotten carried away.”

“No,” Bennett said. “It was perfect.”

His low voice sent another shiver through me.

“There are two more over here,” Tami said. She led us beyond another false wall.

These sculptures were suspended from the ceiling, a ballerina in two stages of a grand jeté. “Ohh,” I breathed. These were painted pure white. Their movement was perfect, glorious, inspiring.

I knew better than what I did next.

I knew a ballerina’s body is her job.

I knew the movements a ballerina made are difficult and require care and precision and open space.

I knew each muscle needed to warm up and stretch and prepare for each and every position.

But I could not stop myself. Despite the small room, the intrusion of false walls and statues and little information stands, I took a couple preparatory steps and leaped into the air for my own grand jeté.

My hand brushed against a sculpture. I shifted my weight to move away from it, but my landing wasn’t perfect. My ankle bent as I hit the slippery floor, and I overcorrected.

I vaguely registered Bennett’s hoarse “Juliet!” Before I could fall all the way, he swooped me up.

The seconds ticked slowly as I felt each nuance of the movement. Bennett’s arms behind my shoulders and beneath my knees. The twinge of my ankle as the weight forced it sideways. The hot bolt of fear as I realized I had fallen. And the soft thud of his jacket hitting the floor, dropped so that he could catch me.

Then everything returned to life speed.

Tami, asking if I was all right.

Bennett, cradling me against his body.

The room, suddenly hot.

My ankle, screaming.

My heart, thudding madly.

“Over here,” Tami said, gesturing to a red leather sofa near the large desk. She picked up Bennett’s jacket and laid it over the back.

Bennett carried me with long strides and set me on the cool cushions.

I took several calming breaths, then lifted my ankle, my fingers probing the tendons and bones.

“Do you have ice?” Bennett asked.

“In the back,” Tami said and hurried away.

Bennett took his phone out and quickly tapped a few commands.

“Don’t call an ambulance,” I said. “They can do more harm than good.”

“Just getting us a car,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”

“It’s nothing dramatic,” I said. Now that the sirens in my head were starting to quiet, I could tell the ankle wasn’t seriously hurt. I moved my foot back and forth. The pain was dying down to only a small twinge.

“What do you need?”

“Ice and pressure,” I said. “I’ll treat this like a sprain. It happens fairly often. Thankfully I’m not portraying a swan tonight.”

Bennett gave me a rueful smile. “At least you can joke about it.”

Tami returned with ice in a plastic bag and a hand towel. “Will this do?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. I wrapped the towel around the bag and pressed it to my ankle.

Bennett tapped out more on his phone.

“Will you be okay?” Tami asked. She looked positively panicked.

“It’s fine,” I said. “I shouldn’t have been so impulsive.”

Bennett stuck his phone in his pocket. “Car’s here.”

“Already?” I asked.

He bent down and scooped me up again.

“I can walk,” I said, trying to hang on to the bag against my ankle.

“Not on my watch,” he said.

Tami picked up his jacket and followed us to the front door. Outside, a gleaming black Mercedes idled by the curb. A driver in a gray suit hurriedly opened the back door when he saw us.

The deep cushions of the seat surrounded me as Bennett settled me into the car. He turned to take his jacket from Tami and murmured a few words to her. The driver closed my door and walked around so Bennett could enter on the street side.

In seconds, we were off. The streetlights came and went in a blur of white against the dark buildings. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“There’s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy ahead,” he said. “The pharmacist is meeting us with compression options.”

We pulled up before a brightly lit CVS. A man in a white coat pushed through the exit and met us at the car. Bennett reached across me and opened my door.

There were no introductions. “I have cold packs that you can freeze,” he said, passing them to Bennett. “And then two styles of compression wraps.”

“We’ll take them all,” Bennett said. “Thank you for coming out.”

“There’s an all-night clinic about two miles from here,” he said. “If she wants an X-ray. And of course, the hospital.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t think it is terrible.”

“You can call around the sports injury therapists Monday,” he said. “It’s a big city. There is bound to be someone who specializes in dance.”

“I can report to my own trainer,” I said. “Thank you.”

He nodded and backed away from the car. The driver met him on the sidewalk, presumably to pay for things.

“Will these work?” Bennett asked.

I took a wrap from him and pulled off the packaging. “It will be fine,” I said. “I don’t even feel it right now.”

Bennett’s face was tight with concern as he watched me move the ice and slide the elastic wrap over my foot. Then I put the bag of ice on it again.

“Here, I’ll hold it. You relax.”

I let him take over and pressed my back against the seat. The exuberance of seeing the statues and the fear that I had injured myself had left me feeling exhausted and shaky.

But truly, we were probably overreacting. I had an ankle turn like this every few weeks, usually when I was paired with a new partner and learning his style on lifts.

I would wrap it for the next few days of workouts. And I would call Camille, the trainer, to make sure I was doing what was necessary for it.

It wasn’t a disaster.

Bennett pressed the ice to my skin, his hand circling my ankle. He concentrated fiercely.

He cares, I realized. Bennett Claremont cares if my ankle is injured, if I am hurt.

His face turned to mine in the darkened car. He looked devastated now, as if he had personally destroyed my career.

I leaned forward and put my hand over his. “I’m fine, Bennett. It’s just a turn. It happens.”

His free hand moved to my face, tracing my jaw. All pretense about being just friends was gone. I could see everything there, his need, his concern, a dozen emotions. I almost wondered how many people saw this Bennett. The world was accustomed to his controlled mask.

The car slowed in front of an enormous hotel and pulled into the valet circle. Bennett glanced out the window. “We’re here.”

He took the bag off my ankle and added it to the pile of ice and wrap pads we had collected. “Don’t you get out on your own,” he warned as the valet opened my door.

Bennett slid away and headed out his own side. He stepped in front of the valet and reached for me.

“Really, Bennett, I don’t need to be carried,” I said.

But he ignored me, scooping me up in his strong arms again.

“This way,” another man said, his gold badge pronouncing him to be the concierge.

I wanted to protest being carried through a hotel lobby for everyone to see, but we were whisked through a side door and led down a long hall.

At first I thought it was a staff entrance, but the hall was hushed and carpeted. In front of an elevator at the end, a uniformed man sat. “What floor?” he asked.

“Presidential,” the concierge said to him and turned to us. “Enjoy your stay.”

Inside the elevator were mirrored walls with soft lighting. The uniformed man turned a key and stepped out. “Let us know if you need anything, Mr. Claremont,” he said.

When the doors closed, I asked, “Stay here often?”

Bennett shook his head. His face was still soft and concerned. “Just once before, a couple years ago.”

“But he knew you.”

“It’s their job to know people staying in their suites. When I made a reservation, they let the staff know who would be in the private elevator. It’s how they can make things secure without being obvious or asking for identification from people who might take offense at that.”

“Would you?”

“Take offense? Of course not. I’m not Justin Bieber.”

The elevator came to a stop.

“I really can walk,” I said. “I’m bound to be getting heavy by now.”

“Not on my watch,” he said.

The elevator opened not to a hall, as I expected, but to a room. I glanced back at the panel inside. There were no floor numbers, only lit buttons that said “Presidential” and “Executive” and “Concierge” and “Spa.”

“Do all hotels have this?” I asked. “A secret elevator only for rich people?”

Bennett laughed, the first time I’d seen the tension in his face break since my fall. He took me to a soft white sofa overlooking a bank of windows and set me down.

“No, only certain kinds of hotels have rooms like this.”

On the side table were the items from the car. The ice and wraps. “What sorcery is this?” I asked.

“It’s called excellent customer service and a really slow private elevator,” he said.

The ice in the bag was melted and leaking onto the towel. When I picked it up, Bennett said, “Let me get something else while the new ones get cold.”

He headed off to a small bar on the right side of the suite, complete with stools and a sink and refrigerator. It reminded me of the inside of Quinn’s room.

Quinn’s kiss came back to me in a rush, along with the hope I had felt that more would happen that night. And then the interruption.

Quinn.

God, I was staying at a hotel with his brother!

“You said you booked two suites?” I asked.

“Yes, I have this entire floor,” he said. “And the one below us.”

I sat up straight. “You booked two floors of this hotel?”