Dance of Dreams Read online

  Should there have been? she wondered. Certainly last night had been no ordinary consummation of a typical relationship. Nick had seen her sweat and swear and rage, seen her weep. His hands had worked pain from her calves and feet. But she knew him only as well as he allowed himself to be known.

  Ruth shut off the water. It was too soon, she decided, to explore her heart too deeply. She understood pain, had lived with it, but wouldn’t deliberately seek it out. Nick could bring her pain. That, too, she had always known.

  After toweling briskly, she slipped back into her robe and walked into the bedroom. She could hear Nick talking to Nijinsky in the kitchen. She smiled and began to pull leotards and tights from her drawer. There was something essentially right about Nick’s voice carrying to her through the small apartment. She knew the cat would be much too busy attacking his breakfast to enjoy the conversation, but it pleased her. Another small bond. How many mornings had she held conversations with the disinterested cat?

  Nick came into the bedroom with two steaming mugs in his hands. He was naked. His body was glorious; lean and muscled from the rigors of his profession. He strode into the room without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. Another man, Ruth mused, would have pulled on his jeans. Not Davidov.

  “It’s hot,” he stated, setting both mugs down on the dresser before pulling Ruth into his arms. “You smell so good,” he murmured against her neck. “The scent of you follows me everywhere.”

  His chin was raspy against her skin. She laughed, enjoying it.

  “I must shave, yes?”

  “Yes,” Ruth agreed before she turned her mouth into the kiss. “It would hardly do for Davidov to come to class unshaven.” They kissed again. His hands went to her hips to bring her closer.

  “You have a razor?” He took his mouth to her ear.

  “Hmm. Yes, in the medicine cabinet.” Ruth let her fingers trail up his spine. She gave a muffled shriek when he bit her earlobe.

  “The shaving will wait,” he decided, drawing her away to pick up his coffee. He sipped and then rose.

  “Will you have to go to your apartment for clothes?” Ruth watched the easy rhythm of his muscles before he disappeared into the bath.

  “I have things at my office.” She heard the shower spurt back to life. “And a fresh razor.”

  He sang in Russian in the shower. Music was an intrinsic part of him. She found herself humming along as she went into the bath to brush her teeth. “What does it mean?” she asked with a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “It’s old,” he told her. “And tragic. The best Russian songs are old and tragic.”

  “I was in Moscow once with my parents.” Ruth rinsed her mouth. “It was beautiful . . . the buildings, the snow. You must miss it sometimes.”

  Ruth didn’t have time to scream when he grabbed her and pulled her into the shower with him.

  “Nick!” Blinded by streaming water, she pushed at her eyes. Her clothes were plastered against her. “Are you crazy?”

  “I needed you to wash my back,” he explained, drawing her closer. “But now I think there is a better idea.”

  “Wash your back!” Ruth struggled against him. “You might notice, I’m fully dressed.”

  “Oh, yes?” He smiled affably. “That’s all right, I’ll fix that.” He pulled the soaked leotard over her shoulders so that her arms were effectively pinned.

  “I’ve already had my shower.” Ruth laughed, exasperated, and continued to struggle.

  “Now you can have mine. I’m a generous man.”

  He fastened his mouth on hers as the water poured over them.

  “Nick.” His hands were wandering, loosening clothes as they went. “We have class.” But she had stopped struggling.

  “There’s time,” he murmured, sighing deeply as he found her breast. “We make time.”

  He drew the tights down over her hips.

  ***

  Arabesque, pirouette, arabesque, pirouette. Ruth turned and lifted and bent to the commands. The practice was rigorous, as always. Her body, like the bodies of the other students, was drenched with sweat. Every day, seven days a week, they went over and over the basic steps. Professionals. Class was as much a part of a professional dancer’s life as shoes and tights.

  The small, intimate details were drummed into their minds at the earliest age. Who noticed the two little steps before a jeté? Only a dancer.

  Muscles must be constantly tuned. The body must be constantly made to accept the unnatural lines of the dance. Fifth position. Plié. Even a day’s respite would cause the body to revolt. Port de bras. The arms and hands must know what to do. A wrong gesture could destroy the line, shatter a mood. Attitude. Hold it—one, two, three, four. . . .

  “Thank you.”

  Company class was over. Ruth went for her towel to mop her face. A shower, she thought, wiping the sweat from her neck.

  “Ruth.”

  She glanced up at Nick. He, too, was wet. His hair curled damply around his sweatband.

  “Meet me downstairs. Five minutes.”

  “Five minutes?” Alerted, she slung the towel over her shoulders. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” He smiled, then bent and kissed her, oblivious to the other members of the company. “What should be wrong?”

  “Well, nothing.” A bit confused, she frowned up at him. “Why, then?”

  “You have nothing scheduled for today.” It was a statement, not a question, but she still shook her head. “I’ve seen that I don’t, either.” He leaned close. “We’re going to play.”

  A smile began to tug at her mouth. “Play?”

  “New York is a very entertaining city, yes?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Five minutes,” he repeated and turned away.

  Ruth narrowed her eyes at his back. “Fifteen.”

  “Ten,” Nick countered without stopping.

  Ruth dove for her bag and dashed for the showers.

  ***

  In somewhere under ten minutes Ruth came downstairs, freshly washed, clad in jeans and a loose mauve sweater. Her hair was as free as her mood. Nick was already waiting, impatient, parrying questions from two male soloists.

  “I’ll speak to him tomorrow,” he said, moving away from them when he spotted Ruth. “You’re late,” he accused, propelling her toward the door.

  “Nope. On the minute.”

  They pushed through the door together.

  The noise level was staggering. Somewhere to the left a road crew was tearing up the sidewalk, and the jackhammer shot its machine-gunning sound through the air. Two cabs screeched to a halt in front of them, nose to nose. Their drivers rolled down the windows and swore enthusiastically. Pedestrians streamed by without notice or interest. From a window across the street poured the hot, harsh sounds of punk rock.

  “An entertaining city, yes?” Nick slipped his hand through Ruth’s arm to clasp hers. Looking down, he gave her a quick grin. “Today, it’s ours.”

  Ruth was suddenly breathless. None of their years together, none of the wild, searing lovemaking, had had the impact of that one intimate, breezy look.

  “Where—where are we going?” she managed, struggling to come to terms with what was happening to her.

  “Anywhere,” Nick told her and pulled her to him for a hard kiss. “Choose.” He held her tight a moment, and Ruth found she was laughing.

  “That way!” she decided, throwing her hand out to the right.

  Summer had vanished overnight. The cooler air made the walking easy, and they walked, Ruth was sure, for miles. They investigated art galleries and bookstores, poking here, prodding there and buying nothing. They sat on the edge of a fountain and watched the crowds passing while they drank hot tea laced with honey.

  In Central Park they watched sweating joggers and tossed
crumbs to pigeons. There was a world to observe.

  In Saks, Ruth modeled a glorious succession of furs while Nick sat, fingers steepled together, and watched.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head as Ruth posed in a hip-length blue fox, “it’s no good.”

  “No good?” She rubbed her chin against the luxurious collar with an unconscious expression of sensual pleasure. “I like it.”

  “Not the fur,” Nick corrected. “You.” He laughed as Ruth haughtily raised her brows. “What model walks with her feet turned out like that?”

  Ruth looked down at her feet, then grinned. “I suppose I’m more at home in leotards than furs.” She did a quick pirouette that had the sales clerk eyeing her warily. “And it would be hot in class.” She slipped it off, letting the satin lining linger over her skin.

  “Shall I buy it for you?”

  She started to laugh, then saw that he was perfectly serious. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Silly?” Nick rose as Ruth handed the clerk the fur. “Why is this silly? Don’t you like presents, little one?”

  She knew he used the term to goad her, but she only gave him a dry look. “I live for them,” she said throatily, for the clerk’s benefit. “But how can I accept it when we’ve only just met?” With a smoldering glance, she caressed his cheek. “What would you tell your wife?”

  “There are some things wives need not know.” His voice was suddenly thickly Russian. “In my country, women know their place.”

  “Mmm.” Ruth slipped her arm through his. “Then perhaps you’ll show me mine.”

  “A pleasure.” Nick gave the wide-eyed clerk a wolfish grin. “Good day, madam.” He swept Ruth away in perfect Cossack style.

  “Such wickedness,” he murmured as they walked from the store.

  “I just love it when you’re Russian, Nikolai.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m always Russian.”

  “Sometimes more than others. You can be more American than a Nebraska farmer when you want to be.”

  “Is this so?” He looked intensely interested for a moment. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “That’s why you’re so fascinating,” Ruth told him. “You don’t think about it, you just are.” Her hand linked with his as they walked. “I’ve wondered, do you think in Russian and then have to translate yourself?”

  “I think in Russian when I am . . .” He searched for the word. “Emotional.”

  “That covers a lot of ground.” She grinned up at him. “You’re often emotional.”

  “I’m an artist,” he returned with a shrug. “We are entitled. When I’m angry, Russian is easier, and Russian curses have more muscle than American.”

  “I’ve often wondered what you were saying when you’re in a rage.” She gave him a hopeful glance, and he laughed, shaking his head. “You spoke to me in Russian last night.”

  “Did I?” The look he gave her had Ruth’s heart in her throat. “Perhaps you could say I was emotional.”

  “It didn’t sound like cursing,” she murmured.

  His hand was suddenly at the back of her neck, drawing her near. “Shall I translate for you?”

  “Not now.” Ruth calculated the distance between Fifth Avenue and her apartment. Too far, she thought. “Let’s take a bus.” She laughed, her eyes on his.

  Nick grinned. “A cab,” he countered and hailed one.

  ***

  Sunlight flooded the bedroom. They hadn’t taken the time to draw the blinds. They lay tangled together, naked and quiet after a storm of lovemaking. Content, Ruth drifted between sleep and wakefulness. Beneath her hand, Nick’s chest rose and fell steadily; she knew he slept.

  Forever, she thought dreamily. I could stay like this forever. She cuddled closer, unconsciously stroking his calf with the bottom of her foot.

  “Dancer’s feet,” he murmured, and she realized that the small movement had awakened him. “Strong and ugly.”

  “Thanks a lot.” She nipped his shoulder.

  “A compliment,” he countered, then shifted to look down at her. His eyes were sleepy, half-closed. “Great dancers have ugly feet.”

  She smiled at his logic. “Is that what attracted you to me?”

  “No, it was the back of your knees.”

  Ruth laughed and turned her face into his neck. “Was it really? What about them?”

  “When I dance with you, your arms are soft, and I wonder how the back of your knees would feel.” Nick leaned up on his elbow to look at her. “How often have I held your legs—for a lift, to ease a cramp? But always there are tights. And what, I say to myself, would it be like to touch?”

  Sitting up, he took her calf in his hand. “Here.” His fingers slid up to the back of her knees. “And here.” He saw her eyes darken, felt the pulse quicken where his fingers pressed. “So, I am nearly mad from wondering if the softness is everywhere. Soft voice, soft eyes, soft hair.”

  His voice was low now and quiet. “And I hold your waist to balance you, but there are leotards and costumes. What is the skin like there?” He trailed his hand up over her thigh and stomach to linger at her waist. His fingers followed the contours of her ribcage to reach her breast.

  “Small breasts,” he murmured, watching her face. “I’ve felt them pressed against me, seen them lift and fall with your breathing. How would they feel in my hand? What taste would I find there?” He lowered his mouth to let his tongue move lightly over her.

  Ruth’s limbs felt weighted, as though she had taken some heady drug. She lay still while his hands and mouth explored her, while his voice poured over her. He moved with aching slowness, touching, arousing, murmuring.

  “Even on stage, with the lights and the music everywhere, I thought of touching you. Here.” His fingers glided over her inner thigh. “And tasting. Here.” His mouth moved to follow them. “You would look at me. Such big eyes, like an owl. I could almost see your thoughts and wondered if you could see mine.” He pressed his lips against the firm muscles of her stomach and felt her quiver of response. “And what would you do, milaya, if you knew how I was aching for you?”

  His tongue glided over her navel. She moaned and moved under him. She had never experienced pleasure such as this—a thick, heavy pleasure that made her body hum, that weighed on her mind until even thoughts were sensations.

  “So long,” he murmured. “Too long, the wanting went on. The wondering.”

  His hands, though still gentle, became more insistent. They broke through the dark languor that held her. Her body was suddenly fiercely alive. She was acutely aware of her surroundings: the texture of the sheet against her back, the tiny dust motes that spun in the brilliant sunshine, the dull throb of traffic outside the windows. There was an impossible clarity to everything around them. Then it spun into nothing but the hands and mouth which roamed her skin.

  She could have been anywhere—in the show, in the desert; Ruth felt only Nick. She heard his breathing, more labored now than it would have been after a strenuous dance. Her own melded with it. With hard, unbridled urgency, he crushed his mouth to hers. His teeth scraped her lips as they parted for him.

  The kiss deepened as his hands continued to drive her nearer the edge. Ruth clutched at him, lost in delight. Then he was inside her, and she was catapulted beyond reason into ecstasy.

  “Lyubovnitsa.” Ruth heard his voice come hoarsely from deep within him. “Look at me.”

  Her eyes opened heavily as she shuddered again and again with the simultaneous forces of need and delight.

  “I have you,” he said, barely able to speak. “And still I want you.”

  She crested on a mountainous peak. Nick buried his face in her hair.

  Chapter Ten

  Francie caught Ruth’s arm as they filed in for morning class. “Where’d you disappear to yesterday?” she demanded, pulling Ruth to the barre.


  “Yesterday?” Ruth couldn’t prevent the smile. “Oh, I went window shopping.”

  Francie shot her a knowing look. “Sure. Introduce him to me sometime.” Her face grew thoughtful at Ruth’s quick laugh, but she hurried on. “Have you heard the news?”

  Ruth executed her pliés as the room began to fill with other company members. Her eyes drifted to Nick, who was in a far corner with several corps dancers. “What news?” Look how the sun hits his hair, she thought, as if it were drawn to it.

  “The television thing.” Francie set herself to Ruth’s rhythm so that their heads remained level. “Didn’t you hear anything?”

  “Leah mentioned something.” Ruth sought out the blonde as she remembered the preperformance visit. “I was told nothing was definite yet.”

  “It is now, kiddo.” Francie was gratified to see Ruth’s attention come full swing back to her.

  “It is?”

  “Nadine worked a whale of a deal.” Francie bent to adjust her leg warmers. “Of course, she had the main man to dangle in front of their noses.”

  Ruth was fully aware that Francie spoke of Nick. Again her eyes traveled to him. He had his head together with Leah now. The ballerina was using her fluid hands to emphasize her words.

  “What sort of deal?”

  “Two hours,” Francie said with relish. “Prime time. And Nick has virtually a free hand artistically. He has the name, after all, and not only in the ballet world. People who don’t know a plié from a pirouette know Davidov. It’s some kind of package deal where he agrees to do two more projects. It’s him they want. Just think what this could mean to the company!”

  Francie rose on her toes. “How many people can we reach in two hours on TV compared to those we reach in a whole season on stage? Oh, God, I hope I get to dance!” She lowered into a plié. “I’d almost be willing to go back into the corps for the chance. You’ll do The Red Rose.” She gave an envious sigh.

  Ruth was glad it was time for class to begin.

  It was difficult to concentrate. Ruth’s body responded to the calls and counts while her mind dashed in a dozen directions. Why hadn’t he told her?