Dance of Dreams Page 3

  And she had, Ruth remembered, wrapping a towel around her slim body. And Uncle Seth and Lindsay had come, even though Lindsay had been nearly eight months pregnant at the time. Lindsay had cried, and Nick had joked and teased her.

  With a sigh, Ruth dropped the towel in a careless heap and reached for her robe. Only Lindsay would have guessed that all was not quite right. Ruth belted the thin fuchsia robe and picked up a comb. She had spoken of Donald, she remembered, playing back their last phone conversation. She had told them about the fabulous little chest she had found in the Village. They had chatted about the children, and Uncle Seth had begged her to come visit them her first free weekend.

  And through all the tidbits and family gossip, Lindsay sensed something she hadn’t even realized herself. Ruth frowned. That she wasn’t happy. Not unhappy, she thought and took the comb smoothly through her long, wet hair. Just dissatisfied. Silly, she decided, annoyed with herself. She had everything she’d ever wanted. She was a principal dancer with the company, a recognized name in the world of ballet. She would be starring in Davidov’s latest ballet. The work was hard and demanding, but Ruth craved it. It was the life she had been born for.

  But still, sometimes, she longed to break the rules, to race back to the vagabond time she had known as a child. There had been such freedom, such adventure. Her eyes lit with the memories: skiing in Switzerland where the air was so cold and clean it had hurt her throat to breathe it; the smells and colors of Istanbul. The thin, large-eyed children in the streets of Crete; a funny little room with glass doorknobs in Bonn. All those years she had traveled with her journalist parents. Had they ever been more than three months in one place? It had been impossible to form any strong attachments, except to each other. And to the dance. That had been her constant childhood companion, traveling with her in an ever-changing environment. The teachers had spoken with different voices, different accents, in different languages, but the dance had remained there for her.

  The years of travel had given Ruth an early maturity; there was no shyness, only self-sufficiency and caution. Then came her life with Seth, then Lindsay, and her years with the Evanston family that had opened her up, encouraging her to offer trust and affection. Still her world remained insular, as only the world of ballet can be. Perhaps because of this she was an inveterate observer. Watching and analyzing people was more than a habit with Ruth; it had become her nature.

  And it was this that had led to her further annoyance with Nick. She had watched him that afternoon and sensed disturbances, but she hadn’t been able to put a name to them. What he had been thinking and feeling remained a mystery. Ruth didn’t care for mysteries.

  That’s why Donald appeals to me, she mused with a half-smile. She toyed with the bottles of powder and scent on her dressing table. He’s so unpretentious, so predictable. His thoughts and feelings are right on the surface. No eddies, no undercurrents. But with a man like Nick . . .

  She poured lotion into her palm and worked it over her arms. A man like Nick, she thought, was totally unpredictable, a constant source of annoyance and confusion. Volatile, unreasonable, exhausting. Just trying to keep up with him wore her out. And it was so difficult to please him! She had seen many dancers push themselves beyond endurance to give him what he wanted. She did it herself. What was it about him that was endlessly fascinating?

  A knock on her door broke into Ruth’s thoughts. She shrugged, turning away from the dressing table. It was no use trying to dissect Nikolai Davidov. She flipped on a light in the living room as she rushed through it to the front door. Her glance through the peephole surprised her. She drew the chain from the door.

  “Donald, I was just thinking about you.”

  She was swept up in his arms before she had the chance to offer him a friendly kiss. “Mmm, you smell wonderful.”

  Her laugh was smothered by his lips. The kiss grew long, deeper than the casual greeting Ruth had intended. Yet she allowed the intimacy, encouraging it with her own seeking tongue. She wanted to feel, to experience more than the warm pleasure she was accustomed to. She wanted the excitement, the tingling touch of fear she had felt only that afternoon in another man’s arms. But when it was over, her heartbeat was steady, her blood cool.

  “Now that,” Donald murmured and nuzzled her neck, “is the way to say hello.”

  Ruth stayed in his arms a moment, enjoying his solidarity, the unspoken offer of protection. Then, pulling away, she smiled into his eyes. “It’s also a way of saying it’s nice to see you, but what are you doing here?”

  “Taking you out,” he said and swung her further into the room. “Go put on your prettiest dress,” he ordered, giving her cheek a brief caress. “One of mine, of course. We’re going to a party.”

  Ruth pushed her still-damp hair away from her face. “A party?”

  “Hmm—yes.” Donald glanced at Nijinsky, who lay sprawled in sleep on Ruth’s small, glass-topped dinette table. “A party at Germaine Jones’s,” he continued as he and the cat ignored each other. “You remember, the designer who’s pushing her short, patterned skirts and knee socks.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Ruth had the quick impression of a short, pixielike redhead with sharp green eyes and thick, mink lashes. “I wish you’d called first.”

  “I did—or tried to,” he put in. “It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, but I did phone the rehearsal hall. I missed you there and you hadn’t gotten home yet.” He shrugged away the oversight as he drew out his slim, gold cigarette case. “Germaine’s throwing the party together at the last minute, but a lot of important people will show. She’s hot this season.” Donald slipped the case back into the inside pocket of his smartly tailored slate-colored suit jacket, then flicked on his lighter.

  “I can’t make it tonight.”

  Lifting a brow, Donald blew out a stream of smoke. “Why not?” He took in her wet hair and thin robe. “You don’t have plans, do you?”

  Ruth was tempted to contradict him. He was beginning to take too much for granted. “Is that such a remote possibility, Donald?” she asked, masking her annoyance with a smile.

  “Of course not.” He grinned disarmingly. “But somehow I don’t think you do. Now be a good girl and slip into that red slinky number. Germaine’s bound to have on one of her famous ensembles. You’ll make her look like a misplaced cheerleader.”

  She studied him a moment, with her dark eyes thoughtful. “You’re not always kind, are you, Donald?”

  “It’s not a kind business, darling.” He shrugged an elegant shoulder.

  Ruth bit back a sigh. She knew he was fond of her and undeniably attracted, but she wondered if he would be quite so fond or so attracted if he didn’t consider her to be an asset when she wore one of his designs. “I’m sorry, Donald, I’m just not up to a party tonight.”

  “Oh, come on, Ruth.” He tapped his cigarette in the ashtray, his first sign of impatience. “All you have to do is look beautiful and speak to a few of the right people.”

  Ruth banked down on a rising surge of irritation. She knew Donald had never understood the demands and rigors of her profession.

  “Donald,” she began patiently. “I’ve been working since eight this morning. I’m bone tired. If I don’t get the proper rest, I won’t be able to function at top level tomorrow. I have a responsibility to the rest of the company, to Nick and to myself.”

  Carefully, Donald stubbed out the cigarette. Smoke hung in the air a moment, then wafted out through an open window. “You can’t tell me you won’t do any socializing, Ruth. That’s absurd.”

  “Not as absurd as you think,” she returned, crossing to him. “There’re less than three weeks until the ballet opens, Donald. Parties simply have to wait until after.”

  “And me, Ruth?” He pulled her into his arms. Underneath his calm, civilized exterior, she sensed the anger. “How long do I have to wait?”

  “I’ve
never promised you anything, Donald. You’ve known from the beginning that my work is my first priority. Just as your work is for you.”

  “Does that mean you have to keep denying that you’re a woman?”

  Ruth’s eyes remained calm, but her tone chilled. “I don’t believe I’ve done that.”

  “Don’t you?” Donald’s hold on her tightened, just as Nick’s had hours before. She found it interesting that the two men should draw two such differing responses from her. With Nick she had felt equal anger and a sharp attraction. Now she felt only impatience touched with fatigue.

  “Donald, I’m hardly denying my womanhood by not going to bed with you.”

  “You know how much I want you.” He pulled her closer. “Every time I touch you, I feel you give up to a certain point. Then it stops, just as if you’ve thrown up a wall.” His voice roughened with frustration. “How long are you going to lock me out?”

  Ruth felt a pang of guilt. She knew he spoke the truth, just as she knew there was nothing she could do to alter it. “I’m sorry, Donald.”

  He read the regret in her eyes and changed tactics. Drawing her close again, he spoke softly, his eyes warming. “You know how I feel about you, darling.” His lips took hers quietly, persuasively. “We could leave the party early, bring a bottle of champagne back here.”

  “Donald. You don’t—” she began. Another knock at the door interrupted her. Distracted, she didn’t bother with the peephole before sliding the chain. “Nick!” She stared at him foolishly, her mind wiped clean.

  “Do you open the door to everyone?” he asked in mild censure as he entered without invitation. “Your hair’s wet,” he added, taking a generous handful. “And you smell like the first rain in spring.”

  It was as if the angry words had never been spoken, as if the simmering, restrained passion had never been. He was smiling down at her, an amused, cocky look in his eyes. Bending, he kissed her nose.

  Ruth made a face as she pulled her thoughts into order. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I was passing,” he said, “and saw your lights.”

  At the sound of Nick’s voice, Nijinsky leaped from the table to rub affectionate circles around the dancer’s ankles. Stooping, Nick stroked him once from neck to tail and laughed when the cat rose on his hind legs to jump at him affectionately. Nick rose, with Nijinsky purring audibly in his arms, then spotted Donald across the room.

  “Hello.” There was no apparent change in his amiability.

  “You remember Donald,” Ruth began hurriedly, guilty that for a moment she had completely forgotten him.

  “Naturally.” Nick continued to lazily scratch Nijinsky’s ears. Purring ferociously, the cat stared with glinted amber eyes at the other man. “I saw a dress of your design on a mutual friend, Suzanne Boyer.” Nick smiled with a flash of white teeth. “They were both exquisite.”

  Donald lifted a brow. “Thank you.”

  “But you don’t offer me a drink, Ruth?” Nick commented, still smiling affably at Donald.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, automatically turning toward the small bar she had arranged on a drop leaf table in a corner. She reached for the vodka and poured. “Donald?”

  “Scotch,” he said briefly, trying to maintain some distance from Nick’s cheerful friendliness.

  Ruth handed Donald his Scotch and walked to Nick.

  “Thanks.” Accepting the glass, Nick sat in an overstuffed armchair and allowed the cat to walk tight circles on his lap. Nijinsky settled back to sleep while Nick drank. “Your business goes well?” he asked Donald.

  “Yes, well enough,” Donald responded to Nick’s inquiry. He remained standing and sipped his Scotch.

  “You use many plaids in your fall designs.” Nick drank the undiluted vodka with a true Russian disregard for its potency.

  “That’s right.” A hint of curiosity intruded into Donald’s carefully neutral voice. “I didn’t imagine you’d follow women’s fashions.”

  “I follow women,” Nick countered and drank again deeply. “I enjoy them.”

  It was a flat statement meant to be taken at face value. There were no sexual overtones. Nick enjoyed many women, Ruth knew, on many levels—from warm, pure friendships, as his relationship with Lindsay, to hot, smoldering affairs like that with their mutual friend Suzanne Boyer. His romances were the constant speculation of the tabloids.

  “I think,” Nick continued, disrupting Ruth’s thoughts, “that you, too, enjoy women—and what makes them beautiful, interesting. It shows in your designs.”

  “I’m flattered.” Donald relaxed enough to take a seat on the sofa.

  “I never flatter,” Nick returned with a quick, crooked smile. “A waste of words. Ruth will tell you I’m a very frugal man.”

  “Frugal?” Ruth lifted a brow, pursing her lips as if tasting the word. “No, I think the word is egocentric.”

  “The child had great respect once upon a time,” Nick said into his empty glass.

  “When I was a child, yes,” she retorted. “I know you better now.”

  Something flashed in his eyes as he looked at her; anger, challenge, amusement—perhaps all three. She wasn’t certain. She kept her eyes level.

  “Do you?” he murmured, then set the glass aside. “You would think she’d have more awe for men of our age,” he said mildly to Donald.

  “Donald doesn’t demand awe,” she returned, hardly realizing how quickly she was becoming heated. “And he doesn’t care for me to think of him as aged and wise.”

  “Fortunate,” Nick decided as neither of them so much as glanced at the man they were discussing. “Then he won’t have to adjust his expectations.” He gently stroked Nijinsky’s back. “She has a nasty tongue as well.”

  “Only for a select few,” Ruth responded.

  Nick tilted his head, shooting his disarmingly charming smile. “It’s my turn to be flattered, it seems.”

  Blast him! she thought furiously. Never at a loss for an answer.

  Regally, Ruth rose. Her body moved fluidly under the silk of her robe. Donald’s gaze flicked down a moment, but Nick’s remained on her face. “Like you,” she said to him with a cool smile, “I find flattery a waste of time and words. You’ll have to excuse me,” she continued. “Donald and I are going to a party. I have to change.”

  There was some satisfaction to be gained from turning her back on him and walking away. She closed her bedroom door firmly. Impatiently, she grabbed the red dress out of her closet, pulled lingerie from her drawers and flung the heap onto the bed. Stripping out of the robe, she started to toss it aside when she heard the doorknob turn. Instinctively she held the robe in front of her, clutching it with both hands at her breasts. Her eyes were wide and astonished as Nick stalked into the room. He shut the door behind him.

  “You can’t come in here,” she began on a rush, too surprised to be outraged or embarrassed.

  Ignoring her, Nick crossed the room. “I am in here.”

  “Well, you can just turn around and get out.” Ruth shifted the robe higher, realizing impotently that she was at a dead disadvantage. “I’m not dressed,” she pointed out needlessly.

  Nick’s eyes flicked briefly and without apparent interest over her naked shoulders. “You appear adequately covered.” The eyes shot back to her face and locked on hers. “Isn’t a twelve-hour day enough for you, Ruth? You have an eight o’clock class in the morning.”

  “I know what time my class is,” she retorted. Cautiously, she took one hand from the robe to push back her hair. “I don’t need you to remind me of my schedule, Nick, any more than I need your approval of what I do with my free time.”

  “You do when it interferes with your performance for me.”

  She frowned as he stepped onto artistic ground. “You’ve had no reason to complain about my performance.”

  “No
t yet,” he agreed. “But I want your best—and you can hardly give me that if you exhaust yourself with these silly parties—”

  “I have always given you my best, Nick,” she tossed back. “But since when has every ounce of effort and sweat been enough for you?” She started to swirl away from him, remembered the robe no longer covered her flank and simmered in frustrated rage. “Would you please go?”

  “I take what I need,” he shot back, again overlooking her heated request. “Not so many years ago, milaya, you were eager to give it to me.”

  “That’s not fair!” The jibe stung. “I still am. When I am working, there’s nothing I won’t give to you. But my private life is just that—private. Stop playing daddy, Nick. I’ve grown up.”

  “Is that all you want?” His burst of fury stunned her, so that she took an automatic step back. “Is being treated as a woman what is important to you?”

  “I’m sick of you treating me as if I were still seventeen and ready to bend at the knee when you walk into a room.” Her anger grew to match his. “I’m a responsible adult, able to look after myself.”

  “A responsible adult.” His eyes narrowed, and Ruth recognized the danger signals. “Shall I show you how I treat responsible adults who also happen to be women?”

  “No!”

  But she was already in his arms, already molded close. It wasn’t the hard, overpowering kiss she might have expected and fought against. He kissed as if he knew she would respond to him with equal fervor. It was a man’s mouth seeking a woman’s. There was no need for persuasion or force.

  Ruth’s lips parted when his did. Their tongues met. Her thoughts, her body, her world concentrated fully and completely on him. The scent of her bath rose between them. Reaching up to draw him closer, Ruth took her hands from the robe. It dropped unheeded to the floor. Nick ran his hands down her naked back, much as he had done to the cat, in one long, smooth stroke. With a low sound of pleasure, Ruth pressed closer.