Dance of Dreams Page 8

  Ruth dropped her eyes. “But he’d have to feel the same about me.”

  “That’s part of the risk. It’s like pulling a muscle.” Francie grinned again. “It hurts like crazy, but you don’t stop dancing. You haven’t pulled a muscle yet.”

  “You’re a great one with analogies.”

  “I only philosophize on an empty stomach,” Francie told her. “Want lunch?”

  “I can’t. I’m meeting Donald.” Ruth picked up her watch from the dressing table. “And I’m already late.”

  “Have fun.” Francie headed for the door. “George is picking me up after tonight’s show. You can get a look at him.”

  “George?”

  “George Middemeyer.” Francie tossed a grin over her shoulder. “Doctor Price Reynolds. He’s a neurosurgeon with a failing marriage and a conniving mistress who might be pregnant. Tune in tomorrow.”

  With that, she was gone. Ruth laughed and grabbed her purse.

  The delicatessen where Ruth was to meet Donald was two blocks away. She hurried toward it. She was aware that she was ten minutes late and that Donald was habitually prompt. She had little enough time before she had to report back for company calls.

  The rich, strong smells of corned beef and Kosher pickles greeted her the moment she opened the door. The deli wasn’t crowded, as the lunch rush was over, but a few people lingered. Two old men played a slow-moving game of checkers at a far table littered with the remnants of their lunch.

  Ruth’s glance swept over them and found Donald sitting back in his chair, smoking. She walked lightly, with rippling, unconscious confidence through the rows of tiny tables. “I’m sorry, Donald, I know I’m late.” She leaned over to give him a quick kiss before she sat. “Have you ordered?”

  “No.” He tapped his cigarette. “I waited for you.”

  Ruth lifted a brow. There was something underlying the casual words. Knowing Donald, she told herself to wait. Whatever he had to say he would say in his own time.

  She glanced over as the rotund, white-aproned man behind the counter shuffled over to their table. “What’ll ya have?”

  “Fruit salad and tea, please,” Ruth told him, giving him a smile.

  “Whitefish and coffee.” Donald didn’t glance at him. The man gave a little snort before shuffling off again. Ruth grinned at his retreating back.

  “Have you ever been in here at lunch time?” she asked Donald. “It’s a madhouse. He has a boy helping out during the rush, but they both move at the same pace. Adagio.”

  “I rarely eat in places like this,” Donald commented, taking a last drag before crushing out his cigarette.

  Again Ruth detected undercurrents but waited. “It’s really all I have time for today, Donald. Today must be pretty frantic for you, too, with your fashion show and reception tonight.” She settled her purse strap over the back of her chair, then leaned her elbows on the table. “Is everything going well?”

  “It appears to be. Some last-minute mayhem, naturally. Temperamental disagreements between my senior cutter and my head seamstress.” He shrugged. “The usual.”

  “But this show is quite important, isn’t it?” She tilted her head at his offhand tone.

  “Yes, it’s important.” He shot her a direct look. “That’s why I wanted you there with me.”

  Ruth met the look but kept her silence as the food was set unceremoniously on the table in front of them. Deliberately, she picked up her spoon but left the salad untouched. “You know why I can’t, Donald. We’ve already discussed it.”

  He spilled a generous spoonful of sugar into his black coffee. “I also know you’ve got an understudy. One missed performance wouldn’t matter that much.”

  “An understudy is for serious problems. I can’t take a night off because I want to go out on a date.”

  “It’s not quite movies and pizza,” he said crossly.

  “I know that, Donald.” Ruth sipped the tea. A light throbbing had begun behind her eyes. “I’d be there if I could.”

  “I didn’t let you down on opening night.”

  “That’s hardly fair.” Ruth set down her cup. She could see by the cool, set look on his face that his mind was already made up. “If you’d had a show scheduled to conflict with mine, you wouldn’t have missed it, and I wouldn’t have expected you to.”

  “You’re not willing to make adjustments for me or for my work.”

  Ruth thought of the parties and functions she had attended at his insistence. “I give you what I can, Donald. You knew my priorities when we started seeing each other.”

  Donald stopped stirring his coffee and set the spoon on the table. “It isn’t enough,” he said coldly. Ruth felt her stomach tighten. “I want you with me tonight.”

  Her brow lifted. “An ultimatum?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Donald.” Her voice was low but without apology. “I can’t.”

  “You won’t,” he countered.

  “It hardly matters which way you put it,” she said wearily.

  “I’ll be taking Germaine to the showing tonight.”

  Ruth looked at him. His choice showed a certain shrewdness. His biggest competitor would probably be more useful to him than a dancer.

  “I’ve taken her out a few times recently,” he explained. “You’ve been busy.”

  “I see.” Ruth’s response was noncommittal, although his words hurt.

  “You’ve been too self-absorbed lately. There’s nothing for you in your life but ballet. You refuse to make room in it for me, for any man. You’ve a selfish streak, Ruth. Class after class after class, with rehearsals and performances thrown in. Dancing’s all you have, all you want.”

  His words shocked her at first, then cut. Ruth fumbled behind her for her purse, but Donald caught her arm.

  “I’m not finished.” He held her firmly in her chair. “You stand in front of those mirrors for hours, and what do you see? A body that waits to be told what to do by a choreographer. How often do you move on your own, Ruth? How often do you feel anything that isn’t programmed into you? What will you have when the dancing stops?”

  “Please.” She bit down hard on her lip, trying without success to stop a flow of tears. “That’s enough.”

  He seemed to focus on her face all at once. On a sharp breath, Donald released her arm. “Damn it, Ruth, I’m sorry.”

  “No.” Frantically shaking her head, she pushed back her chair and rose. “Don’t say any more.” In a flash, she darted out the door.

  The steamy summer air struck her like a blast. For a moment she looked up and down the street, confused, before turning toward the studio.

  She hurried past the sea of strangers. The barbs that Donald had aimed had struck home—struck deep. Was she just an automaton? An empty body waiting to be filled by the bid of choreographers and composers? Was that how people from the outside saw her—as a ballerina on a music box, pirouetting endlessly until the music stopped?

  She wondered how much truth had been in his angry words. Bursting through the front door of the building, she headed straight for her dressing room.

  Once inside, she closed her door and leaned back against it. She was shaking from head to foot. A few short remarks from Donald had dehumanized her. Ruth moved slowly to her mirror and switched on all the lights. With hard, searching eyes, she studied her face.

  Had her love and devotion for dancing made her selfish and one-dimensional? Was she really unable to feel deeply for a man, to make a positive commitment?

  Ruth pressed her hands to her cheeks. The skin was soft, smooth, the scent on her hands was feminine. But was she? Ruth could read the panic in her eyes. Where did the dancer end and the woman begin? She shook her head and turned away from her own image.

  Too many mirrors, she thought suddenly. There were too many mirrors in her life,
and she was no longer certain what they reflected. What would she be in a decade, when the dancer faced the twilight of her career? Would memories and clippings be all she had?

  Closing her eyes, Ruth forced herself to take several long breaths. She had three hours until curtain. There was no time to dwell on problems. She would look for the answers after the performance.

  Deciding what she needed was the lunch that had been so recently pushed aside, Ruth went down to the canteen for tea and an apple. The simple familiarity of the place helped level her. There were complaints about strained muscles, impossible dance combinations, Nadine’s tight purse strings and the uncertain state of the plumbing on the fourth floor. By the time she was back at her dressing room door, she was steadier.

  “Ruth!”

  She looked over her shoulder as she placed her hand on the knob.

  “Hello, Leah.” Ruth tried to drum up some enthusiasm upon seeing the elegant blond dancer.

  “Your reviews are marvelous.” Leah eased her way into the dressing room as Ruth opened the door and entered. Too well, she knew the blond’s penchant for stirring up trouble. Ruth felt she had had her fair share for one day.

  “Roses for the whole ballet,” Ruth agreed, walking over to take a seat at her dressing table as Leah settled into a chair. “But I don’t imagine you found ballet reviews in there.” She let her eyes fall on the tabloid Leah had in her hand.

  “You never know whose name’s going to pop up in here.” She smiled at Ruth, then began thumbing through the paper. “I just happened to see a friend of yours mentioned in here. Let’s see now, where . . . ?” She trailed off as she scanned the print. “Oh, yes, here it is. ‘Donald Keyser,’” she quoted, “‘top designer, has been seen recently escorting his fiery-headed competitor, Germaine Jones. Apparently his interest in ballet has waned.’” Leah lifted her eyes, moving her lips into a sympathetic little smile. “Men are such pigs, aren’t they?”

  Ruth swallowed her temper. “Aren’t they.”

  “And it’s so demeaning to be dumped in print, too.”

  Ruth’s spine snapped straight. Color flowed in, then out of her cheeks. “I was dumped in the flesh as well,” she said with the calm of determination. “So it hardly matters.”

  “He was terribly good-looking,” Leah commented, meticulously folding the paper. “Of course, someone else is bound to come along.”

  “Haven’t I told you about the Texan?” Ruth surprised herself, but the blank, then curious expression on Leah’s face was motivation enough to maintain the pretense.

  “Texan? What Texan?”

  “Oh, we’ve been keeping a low profile,” Ruth ad-libbed airily. “He can’t afford to have his name splashed around in print until the divorce is final. Just piles of money, you know, and his second wife’s not being very cooperative.” She managed a slow smile. “You wouldn’t believe the settlement. He offered her the villa in southern Italy, but she’s holding out for his art collection. French impressionists.”

  “I see.” Leah narrowed her eyes to a feline slit. “Well, well, aren’t you the quiet one.”

  “Like a sphinx.”

  “You’ll have to be careful how much Nick finds out,” Leah warned, then ran the tip of her tongue over her top lip. “He really detests nasty publicity. He’ll want to be particularly careful now that he’s finalizing plans for that big special on cable television.”

  “Special?” Ruth echoed.

  “Didn’t you know?” Leah looked pleased again. “Featuring the company, of course, and spotlighting the principal dancers. I’ll do Aurora, naturally, probably the wedding scene. I believe Nick plans to do a pas de deux from Le Corsaire, and, of course, one from The Red Rose. He hasn’t chosen his partners yet.” She paused deliberately and smiled. “We have two full hours of air time. Nick’s very excited about filling it.” She slanted Ruth a glance. “Strange he hasn’t mentioned it to you, but perhaps he thought you wouldn’t be up to it after the strain of these last few weeks.”

  Leah rose to leave. “Don’t worry, darling, he’ll be making the announcement in a few days. I’m sure he’ll use you somewhere.” She dropped the paper into the chair. “Dance well,” she said and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Chapter Seven

  Ruth sat staring at the closed door for several long minutes. How could Leah know about such an enormously important project and she be left in the dark? Unless Nick intended to exclude her.

  She knew she and Nick were having their personal problems, but professionally . . . Professionally, she remembered, she had told him that after this run she’d never dance with him again. Ruth recalled her own words and knew she had meant them, at least at that moment. But did that mean she was not to be partnered by anyone else? Could Nick be so vindictive?

  Ruth knew that she was a good dancer. Would Nick drop her for personal reasons? After all, she had threatened him. Ruth closed her eyes and tried to control the rising sickness in her stomach.

  He had barely spoken to her since that night. Was this his way of punishing her for claiming not to want or need him as a partner? Would he let someone else dance Carlotta? The thought was more than Ruth could bear. Over and over she told herself she was a fool to allow herself to grow so attached to a part. Many other women would become Carlotta; she had simply been the first. Yet Ruth knew she had had a hand in creating the role as much as Nick had. She had put her soul into it.

  Opening her eyes, Ruth looked directly at the copy of Keyhole that was left on the chair. Leah had done her work well, Ruth realized on a long breath. She had wanted to upset Ruth before the performance, and she had succeeded. Everything Donald had said—every feeling of doubt and inadequacy—had been reinforced. Now she feared that Nick would release her from the company when The Red Rose’s engagement was finished.

  Ruth buried her face in her hands a moment and tried to push it all away. She had a performance to give; nothing could interfere with that. She was a dancer. That couldn’t be taken from her.

  ***

  Less than an hour later Ruth stepped out of her dressing room to warm up backstage. Still shaken, she tried to focus all her power of concentration on the role she was to portray. On another night she would have left Ruth Bannion behind in the dressing room. But not this time. Tonight Carlotta’s free-spirited confidence and verve would be difficult to capture.

  Ruth loosened her muscles automatically, trying to block out Donald’s and Leah’s words, but they continued to play through her thoughts.

  The sounds of the orchestra tuning brought her back to the moment. It all felt wrong—the costume, the lights, the whine of strings as they were tested. She was cold, numb. She forgot the first movements of the ballet.

  Nick came out of his dressing room. His eyes sought Ruth. It was a habitual practice of his, and it annoyed him. A sign of weakness in himself, however slight, irritated him. Ruth Bannion was becoming a weakness. She was as cool as autumn offstage and as sultry as summer on it. The transition was playing havoc with his nerves. He didn’t care for it one bit.

  It was difficult to deal with desire that would not abate even when she appeared to be indifferent to him, then challenged him to take her the moment she moved onstage. No woman had made him feel curb and spur at the same time before.

  Nick could see the tension in her back, although he couldn’t see her face. Her body spoke volumes. “Ruth.”

  Her already tense shoulders went rigid at the sound of his voice. Slowly, fighting to compose her features, she turned. Something flickered over his face before it became closed and still.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Ruth hoped her voice sounded casual. She didn’t flinch when he took her chin in his hand to study her face. Beneath the makeup her skin was pale, her eyes dark and miserable.

  “Are you ill?” Had there been concern in his voice, she might have co
llapsed.

  “No.”

  Nick gave her a long, thorough study before dropping his hand. “Then snap out of it. You have to dance in a moment. If you had a fight with your boyfriend, your tears have to wait.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath, saw the simultaneous cloud of hurt in her eyes. “I’ll dance, don’t worry. No one you’ve got lined up to replace me will ever dance this part better.”

  Nick’s gaze narrowed as he curled his fingers around her arm. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t.” Ruth jerked her arm free. “I’ve had enough dumped on me tonight. I don’t need any more.” Her voice broke, and cursing herself, Ruth walked to the wings to wait for her cue. She took long, steadying breaths and forced as much as possible out of her mind.

  Her opening dance did not go well. Ruth comforted herself, as she stood again in the wings, that only the sharpest eyes would have detected any flaws. Technically her moves had been perfect, but Ruth knew a dancer had to give more than body to the dance. Her mind and heart had not flowed with her. Her inability to give her best shook her all the more.

  She made her second entrance and moments later was dancing with Nick.

  “Put some life into it,” he demanded in low tones as she spun in a double pirouette. He lifted her into an arabesque. “You dance like a robot.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?” she hissed back. Jeté, jeté, arabesque, and she was back in his arms.

  “Be angry,” he murmured, lifting her again. “Hate me, but think of me. Of me.”

  It was difficult to think of anything else. His eyes alone demanded it throughout the performance. Ruth’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point by the last act. Emotions were churning inside her until she feared she would be physically sick. Never before had she prayed for a performance to end. Her head pounded desperately, but she fought to the finish. She sagged against Nick when the curtains closed.

  “You said you weren’t ill.” He took her by the shoulders. Ruth shook her head. “Can you take curtain calls?”