Dance of Dreams Page 9

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” She tried to pull out of his arms. He resisted her efforts, then, when her eyes lifted questioningly to his, he released her to take her hand.

  The applause was muffled against the heavy curtain, but with a nod from Nick, the drape was lifted. The applause was thunderous. Ruth winced at the volume of noise. Again and again she made her curtsies, hanging on to the knowledge that the long day was almost at an end.

  “Enough,” Nick said curtly when the applause battered against the curtain yet again. He began to lead her offstage left.

  “Nick,” Ruth began, confused because her dressing room was in the opposite direction.

  “Ms. Bannion is ill,” he told the stage manager as they brushed past. “She goes home. She sees no one.”

  “Nick, I can’t,” Ruth protested. “I have to change.”

  “Later.” He all but pushed her into the elevator. “We’re going up to my office.” He punched a button, and the doors slid shut. “We’ll talk.”

  “I can’t,” Ruth began in rising panic. “I won’t.”

  “You will. For now, be quiet. You’re shaking.”

  Because she knew he wasn’t above force to get his own way, Ruth subsided when the doors opened and he propelled her down the hall. The entire floor was dark and deserted. Without the least hesitation, he located the door to his office. Pushing her through, Nick flipped on the lights, then closed and locked the door. “Sit,” he ordered shortly, then moved to a low, ornate cabinet.

  Ruth had rarely been inside the room. It bespoke a different aspect of Nikolai Davidov, the dancer, the choreographer. This was his executive domain. Here he dealt with the rich, urging money from them to keep the company alive. Ruth could easily imagine him sitting behind the huge, old oak desk, radiating charm and coaxing dollars from patrons. Hadn’t she heard Nadine state that Nick was as valuable to the company behind a desk as he was onstage?

  Charm. Charisma. That generous, intimate smile that made it impossible to say no. Yes, it was a talent, just as double tours en l’air required talent. And style. What was talent without style? Davidov had an abundance of both.

  Ruth glanced around the stately office with its old, tasteful furniture and fat, leather chairs. How many thousands of dollars had begun their journey in this office from silk-lined pockets to props, costumes and lights? What elegant balletomane had paid for the costume she was wearing at that moment?

  “I said sit.”

  Nick’s curt order broke into Ruth’s thoughts. She turned, but before she could speak, she found herself being turned toward the sofa. The unarguable pressure on her shoulder convinced her to sit. A brandy snifter, a quarter full, was thrust into her hands.

  “Drink.” So saying, Nick moved back to the cabinet for his own brandy. When he was sitting next to her, Nick leaned back into the curve of the sofa arm and watched her. A lift of his brow repeated his order, and Ruth sipped at the brandy.

  Silently, he continued to study her while he swirled his own. The quiet was absolute. Ruth drank again, focusing her entire concentration on a scar in the wood of his desk.

  “So.” The word brought her eyes flying back to his face. He kept his own on hers while he lifted his glass. “Tell me,” he ordered.

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Ruth.” He glanced down at the liquor in his glass as if considering its vintage. “You know at times I am a patient man. This,” he said and brought his eyes back to hers, “is not one of those times.”

  “I’m glad you clarified that.” Ruth finished off the brandy recklessly, then set down the snifter. “Well, thanks for the drink.” She hadn’t even started to rise when his hand clamped over her wrist.

  “Don’t press your luck,” he warned softly. He kept her prisoner while he leisurely sipped his drink. “Answers,” he told her. “Now.”

  “May I have the question first, please?” Ruth kept her voice light, but her pulse betrayed her by beating fitfully against his fingers.

  “What was wrong with you tonight?”

  “I was a little off.” She made an impatient move with her shoulders.

  “Why?”

  “It was a mood. I have them.” She tried, without success, to free her arm. The ease with which he prevented this was infuriating. “Aren’t I entitled to any privacy?” she demanded. “Any personal feelings?”

  “Not when it interferes with your work.”

  “I can’t dance on automatic.” The passion she tried to control slipped into her voice. Her eyes flared with it. “No matter what anyone thinks. I’m not just a body that dances when someone plays the tune. Oh, let me go!” She tugged on her hand again. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  Ignoring this demand, Nick set down his glass. “Who puts these thoughts into your head?” He took her shoulders, keeping her facing him when she would have turned away. “Your designer?” Her expression gave her away even as she shook her head.

  Nick swore quietly in Russian. He increased the pressure of his fingers. “Look at me,” he demanded. “Don’t you know nonsense when it falls on your ears?”

  “He said I had no feelings,” she said haltingly, trying to control the tears that thickened her voice and blurred her vision. “That my life, my emotions were all bound up in ballet and without it . . .” She trailed off and shook her head.

  “What does he know?” Nick gave her a quick, exasperated shake. “He’s not a dancer. How does he know what we feel? Does he know the difference between jumping and soaring?” There was another quick, concise oath. “He’s jealous. He wants to cage you.”

  “He wants more than I’ve given him,” Ruth countered. “He’s entitled to more. I do care about him, but—” She pushed her hair back from her face with both hands.

  “You’re not in love with him,” Nick finished.

  “No. No, I’m not. Maybe I’m just not capable of that kind of feeling. Maybe he’s right, and I—”

  “Stop!” He shook her again, harder than before. Springing up, he prowled the room. Ruth heard him muttering in Russian as he paced. “You’re a fool to let anyone make you believe such things. Because you are not in love with a man, you let him convince you you’re less than a woman?” He made a sound of disgust and whirled back to her. “What’s wrong with you? Where’s your spirit? Your temper? If I had said such things to you, you wouldn’t have allowed it!”

  Ruth pressed her fingers to her temple and tried to rearrange her thoughts. “But you would never have said those things to me.”

  “No.” The answer was quiet. Nick walked back to her. “No, because I know you, understand what’s in you. We have this, you see.” He took her hand and laced their fingers. Ruth stared at the joined hands. “You have your world and your designer has his. If there was love, you could live in both.”

  Ruth took a moment, carefully thinking over his words. “Yes, I’d want to,” she said slowly. “I’d try to. But—”

  “No. No buts. Buts tire me.” He sank back down beside her, managing to make the inelegant movement graceful. “So you fought with your designer, and he said stupid things. Is this enough to make you pale and sick?”

  “It didn’t help to have my replacement shoved down my throat,” Ruth shot back. “I didn’t care for being taunted with a copy of Keyhole chatting about his new relationship an hour before curtain.”

  “Keyhole?” Nick frowned in confusion. “What is this Keyhole? Ah,” he said, remembering before Ruth could elaborate. “The silly newspaper with the very bad pictures?”

  “The silly newspaper that speculated Donald Keyser had lost interest in the ballet.”

  “Ah.” Nick pressed his fingertips together. “He brought that by your dressing room?”

  “No, not Donald . . .” Ruth broke off, alerted by the sharpening of his eyes. Quickly she moistened her lips and rose. “It doesn’t matter; it w
as stupid to let it upset me.”

  “Stop.” The quiet order froze her. “Who?” Ruth felt the warning feather up her spine. “Who brought the paper to you before the performance?”

  “Nick, I—”

  “I asked you a question.” He rose, too. “It’s inexcusable for a member of the company to deliberately set out to disturb another before a performance. I do not permit it.”

  “I won’t tell you. No, I won’t,” she added firmly as she saw the temper leap into his eyes. “I should’ve handled it better. I will next time. In any case, there was something more than Donald that upset me tonight.” Ruth stood her ground, not so much wanting to protect Leah but more unwilling to subject anyone to the full force of Davidov’s temper. She knew he could be brutal.

  “I want a name.”

  “I won’t give you one. I can’t.” She touched his arm and found the muscles rigid. “I just can’t,” she murmured, using what power she knew her eyes possessed. “There’s something more important that we have to settle.”

  He became very still. Ruth searched his face, but his expression was guarded. Whatever his thoughts, they remained his alone. Feeling the withdrawal, Ruth took her hand from his arm.

  “What?”

  Ruth caught herself before she moistened her lips again. Her heart was beginning to pound furiously against her ribs. “I think I’d like another brandy first.”

  She waited for an angry, impatient refusal, but after a brief hesitation he picked up the snifters and went back to the liquor cabinet. The only sound was the splash of liquid as it hit the glass. She accepted the drink when he offered it, then sipped. She took a deep breath.

  “Do you plan to release me from the company?”

  Nick’s own snifter paused on the way to his lips. “What did you say?”

  This time Ruth spoke more firmly. “I said, do you plan to release me from the company?”

  “Do I look like a stupid man?” he demanded.

  In spite of her tension, the incredulity in his tone made her smile. “No, Davidov.”

  “Khorosho. Good. For once, we agree.” He flicked his wrist in angry confusion. “And since I am not a stupid man, why would I release from the company my finest ballerina?”

  Ruth stared at him. Shock shot through her body and was plain on her face. “You never said that before,” she whispered.

  “Said what?”

  Shaking her head, she pressed her fingers between her brows, then turned away. “As long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to dance.” Ruth gave a muffled laugh as tears began to flow. “All these years, I’ve pushed myself—for myself, yes—for the dance and for you. And you never said anything like that to me before.” She took a small, shuddering breath. “After a day like this, after tonight’s performance, you stand there and very casually tell me I’m the finest ballerina you have.” Ruth wiped tears away with a knuckle. “Only you, Nikolai, would choose such a time.”

  Though she hadn’t heard him move, Ruth wasn’t surprised when his hands touched her shoulders. “If I hadn’t said so before, I should have. But then, I haven’t always considered words so very important.”

  Nick ran his fingers through her hair, watching the light glint on it. “You’re very important to me. I will not lose you.”

  Ruth felt her heart stop beating. Then, like thunder, it began to roar in her ears. We’re only speaking of the company, she reminded herself. Of dancing only. She turned.

  “Will you replace me as Carlotta for television?”

  “For television?” he repeated. He struggled, as he had to do from time to time, to think in precise English. “Do you mean the cable?” Reading the answer in her eyes, he continued. “But that is not yet finalized, how would you . . . ?” He stopped. “So that’s what you meant before you went on tonight. And this information, I imagine, came from the same person who brought you the little Doorknob?”

  “Keyhole,” Ruth corrected, but he was swearing suddenly in what she recognized as full-blown Russian rage.

  “This is not permitted. I will not have my dancers sniping at each other before a performance. I will tell you this: What plans I made, and what casting I do, I do.” He glared at her, caught up in fury. “My decision. Mine. If I chose you to dance Carlotta, then you dance Carlotta.”

  “I said I wouldn’t dance with you again,” Ruth began. “But—”

  “I care that for what you said,” Nick told her with a snap of his fingers. “If I tell you to dance with me, then you do. You have no say in this.”

  His temper was in full swing, and Ruth’s flared to match it. “I have a say in my own life.”

  “To go or to stay, yes,” he agreed. “But if you stay, you do as you’re told.”

  “You haven’t told me anything,” she reminded him. “I have to hear of your big plans less than an hour before curtain. You’ve barely spoken to me in weeks.”

  “I’ve had nothing to say to you. I don’t waste my time.”

  “You arrogant, insufferable pig! I’ve poured everything I have into this ballet. I’ve bled for it. If you think I’m going to let you hand it over to someone else without a fight, you are stupid. I don’t care if it’s a two-minute pas de deux or the whole ballet. It’s mine!”

  “You think so, little one?” His tone was deceptively gentle.

  “I know so,” she tossed back. “And don’t call me little one. I’m a woman, and Carlotta’s mine until I can’t dance her anymore.” She took a quick breath before continuing. “I’ll be dancing her years after you’re finished with Prince Stefan.”

  “Really?” He circled her throat with his hand and squeezed lightly. The meaning pierced through her fury. “And do you forget, milaya, who composed the ballet? Who choreographed it and cast you as Carlotta?”

  “No. And don’t you forget who danced it!”

  “You have a lovely, slender neck,” he murmured. His fingers caressed it. “Don’t tempt me to break it.”

  “I’m too mad to be frightened of you, Davidov. I want a simple answer. Do I dance Carlotta on this special or not?”

  His eyes roamed over her furious face. “I’ll let you know. You’ve just under a week left in this run. We can discuss future plans when it’s finished.” He cocked a brow when she let out a furious sigh. “Incentive. Now you’ll dance your heart out for me.”

  “You always know what to say, don’t you, Nick?” Ruth started to turn away, but he stopped her.

  Very slowly, very deliberately, he lowered his mouth until it hovered an inch above hers. After a long, breathless moment, his lips descended. He heard her draw in her breath at the contact. He could feel her pulse beat against his palm, but still he did not increase the pressure.

  Caressingly, the tip of his tongue traced her lips until, with a quiet sigh, they parted and invited him to enter. He had never kissed her with such care before, with such aching tenderness. Was there a defense against such tenderness? Always before, there had been heat and fire and hints of fear. Now she felt nothing but mindless pleasure.

  He nipped her bottom lip, stopping just before the point of pain, then he replaced his teeth with his tongue. There was a strong scent of stage makeup and sweat to mix with the taste of brandy. Weak and weightless, she let her head fall back, inviting his complete control.

  Their lips clung a few seconds longer as he began to draw her away. Nick felt the quiet release of her breath as she opened heavy eyes to look at him. In them he saw that she was his. He had only to lower her to the couch or pull her to the floor. They were alone, she was willing. He could still taste her, a dark, wild honey flavor that taunted him.

  “Little one,” he murmured and slid his hand from her throat to stroke her cheek. “What have you eaten today?”

  Ruth’s thoughts were thrown into instant confusion. “Eaten?” she repeated dumbly.

  “Yes, food.” T
here was a hint of impatience in his voice as he scooped up his brandy again. “What food have you had today?”

  “I . . .” Ruth’s mind was a total blank. “I don’t know,” she said finally with a helpless gesture. Her body was still throbbing.

  “When’s the last time you had a steak?”

  “A steak?” Ruth ran a hand through her hair. “Years,” she decided with an exasperated laugh.

  “Come, you need a good meal.” He held out a hand. “I’ll take you to dinner.”

  “Nick, I don’t understand you.” Bewildered, Ruth ignored his outstretched hand, but he took hers firmly in his and was soon pulling her toward the door. “Five minutes to change.”

  “Nick.” Ruth stopped in the doorway to study him. “Will I ever understand you?”

  His brows lifted and fell at the question. “I’m Davidov,” he said with a quick grin. “Is that not enough?”

  She laughed shakily. “Too much,” she answered. “Too much . . .”

  Chapter Eight

  Dinner with Nick had been enjoyable but hardly illuminating. Looking back, Ruth realized that they hadn’t spoken of ballet at all. After a wild cab ride home, which Nick had apparently enjoyed, he had deposited her at her door with a very quick, passionless kiss.

  Ruth had slept until the ring of her alarm clock the following morning. Emotional exhaustion and rich food had proven an excellent tranquilizer.

  The next day, routine had taken over. Though her mind still fretted for answers, Ruth knew Nick well enough to realize he intended to make her wait for them. The more she pressed, the more reticent he became.

  As the two-week run of The Red Rose came to an end, Ruth dealt with the familiar let-down feeling that came with the completion of an engagement. She would be in limbo for a time, waiting for Nick to assign her another role. It was one more unanswered question.

  Ruth hung up Carlotta’s costume on closing night and felt as though she was losing part of herself. She was in no mood to go to the cast party, though she knew she should at least put in an appearance.