Shifter's Dance (3 page)

“God.” His voice sounded shocked. “How did it
happen?”

How
did
it happen? The answer was easy, but
there was so much more to it than a jealous understudy. The dance
world was full of impossible beauty, and she’d loved it her whole
life. But the competition was fierce, and the dancers fiercer
still. The ugly underside was lethal: rampant eating disorders,
ferocious competition that led to ugly pranks. She’d never had
Nair
put in her shampoo bottle, but that one was common
enough that she’d always taken a good long sniff of her shampoo
before lathering up. Ashley had been more resourceful than that old
prank.

“My understudy was a damned fine ballet dancer, too.
And Giselle is a career-making role. She put something in my
contact-lens solution. It blinded me and caused some damage to my
tear ducts.”

A vicious snarl rent the air behind her—he sounded
more animal than human. She shuddered—she’d come out here, alone,
blind, with a man she didn’t know.

That was dumb, Romy.

“She should be in prison.”

“It was supposed to be a prank. She just wanted to
dance opening night and steal all the press. As it is, the police
arrested her at dress rehearsal, opening night was delayed while
they looked for someone else who knew the steps, I spent a week in
the hospital, she pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor, and neither of
us will
ever
perform the role of Giselle.”

She felt his hands on her shoulders then, and let
him turn her to face him. She shuddered again as she remembered her
vulnerability, but his hands were gentle and his voice filled with
tenderness. Stupid or not, she felt safe with him.

“How on earth are you okay with this?”

“I’m not.” It was an easy admission. She might never
be
okay
with what had happened. “But I’m moving on because
life doesn’t fucking stop because Romy Lewis had a jealous
understudy. I reached
has been
status a little faster than
anyone expected, that’s all.”

* * * *

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
That’s
all?
The loss of her vision being shrugged off as a casualty of
a business so focused on perfection that it shed promising young
dancers like a snake sloughing off dead skin?

Yet, in spite of that…He looked at her, feeling her
way through the water in the moonlight. She seemed, at the very
least, resigned to her fate, determined to make something beautiful
out of it.

“I wish I could have seen you dance.”

The words slipped out before he could stifle them.
The winsome smile creeping across her lips in response stirred up a
longing in him that seeing her in her yoga pants couldn’t
touch.

“I wish you could have, too.”

She slipped further into the water, a sound of deep
appreciation spreading through her. He felt the echo of that sound
in his own skin as he followed her. Was this what it was like then,
to meet one’s mate? The desire to keep her safe, protect her—that
was strong. But something else bubbled under the surface, like the
heat that came up from the bottom of the spring. A sense of awe and
wonder stirred him as he watched this delicate little human woman
wade out into the unknown with a bear shifter at her back and her
chin held high.

Rekkus, the island’s head of security, could be an
intimidating man. The black were-tiger was a good friend to Cyrus,
and the Syndicate had done well to choose him for the man’s
bodyguard. He looked at Stephen warily; they weren’t friends,
exactly. The Syndicate had Stephen on the lookout because of
proximity, nothing more. The property he shared with his brothers
in the wilds of Quebec was an unlikely place for a spy, but it was
a perfect place for bears to live unmolested, and it was closer to
the ferry that led to the Wiccan Haus than most of North America
was. There was a fair amount of mutual respect, but he was pretty
sure Rekkus didn’t trust him entirely, which was fine with Stephen;
he didn’t trust Rekkus entirely either. Just part and parcel of
intelligence work. Trust was earned, not given—and he and Rekkus
weren’t in that deep. If Stephen had his way, he’d
never
be
in that deep with the guy. But here he was.

“The Syndicate asked that we make room for you this
week. We did. What’s going on?”

“A couple of months back, we started noticing some
chatter—messages in chat rooms and on web forums—all suggestive of
a move against Cyrus. The coding was clumsy which makes me think
they wanted me to hear it.”

“You’re compromised?” Rekkus folded his arms across
his chest and stared Stephen down.

“Me? No. But whoever it is knows someone is
listening, and so they put out plenty to overhear.”

“So what did you overhear?”

“A lot of nothing, trying to sound suspicious. But
under the nothing, I’d say that you’ve got unlikely suspects
working together—shifters and vamps maybe. I think they’re going to
make a move here on the island, but I think they want to fake me
out. And by doing that, fake you out.”

“Here? No way.” Rekkus shook his head. “They
wouldn’t dare.”

“For the right price, I think they would. Want me to
have my brothers look into your guests?”

“No. Not now. Probably not ever. They didn’t come
here to be spied on.”

“I’m not really a spy, Rekkus.”

“Close enough for government work.” Rekkus scrubbed
a hand over his eyes before piercing Stephen with a wary glare.
“Thank you, for the information. I know you risked your cover to
come here.”

“No thanks necessary.” He stood and held out a hand
to shake, but Rekkus wasn’t done with him.

“The dancer, she’s not involved, is she? That’s not
why you’ve taken such a keen interest in her?”

“No. She’s something else.”

She’s my mate.

“What? Is she some sort of threat?”

Stephen bristled, a low growl rising in his throat,
and he fought the urge to get in Rekkus’s face and roar.

“She’s not a threat to anyone but me.”

“What—oh. It’s like that.”

Stephen avoided the other man’s gaze, still trying
to calm his protective instincts, but when Rekkus started
laughing…?

“Go to hell.”

“No, Stephen, I’m sorry.” Rekkus held up his hands
in a placating gesture, even though his shoulders still shook. “I
shouldn’t laugh. It hasn’t been that long since I was in the same
position. I just think maybe you should look at this as a good
thing. You know, being mated has some advantages.”

“I’ve got Ed and Bruno back at home. You really
think that bit of a woman would be safe in a house with three
bear-sized tempers? Hell. Having cubs would break her in two.”

“So you’re planning to avoid her then? Tempt fate?
Good luck with that.”

Stephen snarled again. “Tell me something I don’t
know.”

Romy couldn’t quite identify the noise she heard as
she stepped off the elevator. Something slapping. It took a moment
to realize it was playing cards. Someone playing solitaire?

“Hi, Romy.” The voice was familiar. What was the
woman’s name who showed her to her room yesterday? It was difficult
not being able to place faces with names, instead having to try to
match a voice. Finally, it came to her.
Myron.

“Hi, Myron,” she answered, sweeping her cane in
front of her.

“Are you going for a walk in the gardens? They smell
amazing with all of Sage’s herbs blooming.”

“I was just going to find someplace to sit and
listen to some music. The gardens sound nice actually. Which way do
I go?”

She followed Myron’s directions carefully, using her
cane to make sure she didn’t stray off the path. Myron was right,
the gardens did smell amazing. She could hear insect noises and the
herb smells were heavy in the air, a blanket of scent and sound.
She stopped for a moment just to breathe it in and enjoy it. She
wondered if she’d enjoy it so much if she could see.
You
wouldn’t be here if you could see.

“Are you Romy?”

She startled at the voice beside her. “How did you
know?”

“The cane. We don’t have blind guests all that
frequently. I’m Sage, one of the owners. Don’t worry; you don’t
need to shake my hand. Would you like to sit down? I can lead you
to the bench.”

“Please.” She let Sage take her elbow and guide her.
The bench was in the shade and was slightly cooler than the air out
on the path.

“If you don’t mind my asking, does that ointment
help at all?”

Romy felt a prickle of annoyance. As if she would
choose to put the foul-smelling stuff on her eyes if it didn’t
alleviate some of the burning she felt? Of course it helped. It
wouldn’t bring back her eyesight, but at least being blind wasn’t
as painful.

“Sure.” She ground out the word as she fumbled in
her pocket for her earbuds.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that I
like working with herbs, and I think I might be able to make
something that will help and might be more pleasant for you.”

A lump formed in her throat as the pricking
sensation started in her nose and swept over her skin, a thousand
needles piercing deep. Everyone wanted to
help,
and all she
wanted was time to learn how to take care of herself. But the
thought of not having to choose between burning eyes and that
smell? Too much temptation to resist.

“That’s very nice of you to offer, Sage,” she said
at last. “That would be wonderful.”

“I’ll have it sent up to your room.” Then she heard
the other woman’s footsteps as she moved away.

Earbuds in place, Romy let her feet start moving.
The music was an instrumental piece on classical guitar and she
could see it as a passionate
pas-de-deux
. She could almost
feel strong hands taking her waist, that moment when her feet would
leave the ground and she’d be flying. There was nothing quite as
exhilarating as putting your body in another dancer’s hands, that
daring intimacy and trust.

“You listen with your whole body.”

The observation, loud enough to be heard over her
music, startled her again. She yanked the earbuds out and let them
fall to her lap.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me—Stephen.”

A thrill raced through her. Why should this man
affect her so deeply? She remembered the way his hands had felt the
night before when he’d pulled her into his lap, the softness of his
lips and the roughness of his beard against her face. She mumbled
something in greeting and then felt him sit next to her on the
bench.

“Do you mind if I join you?” His voice rose up, deep
and woodsy like a contra bassoon, staking its claim over the
orchestra of sounds around her. His hand found hers on her lap,
took the earbuds from her. She felt him smoothing her hair behind
the ear closest to him, and then the earbud returned to its place.
It didn’t take much guesswork to know that he had put the other in
his own ear.

“Now, tell me what we’re listening to.”

Haltingly, she began to talk about the music: the
composer, the performers.

“But it’s more than that to you.”

She nodded. “I can see a dance, in my head, when I
listen.”

“Tell me about it.”

“A
pas-de-deux
, that’s a—”

“Dance for two. I speak French, go on.”

Encouraged, she told him about the dance she could
see as the music swelled between them. She painted the story in
words, but she saw it in movement. He asked questions and she
answered, and when the music changed…

“And this one is a dance for the
corps-de-ballet
, to relieve some of the tension after the
drama of the
pas-de-deux
.”

“You’re good at this.” His hand took hers, thumb
stroking over the soft-textured palm.

“At what?”

“Describing the dance. What ballet is this
from?”

“It’s not, I mean, it’s not a ballet, just a
classical guitar recording I like. I just listen and see the dance
as I would do it, if I were a choreographer.”

“It’s beautiful, Romy. Can we listen to more?”

She smiled then and laid her head on his shoulder,
breathing in his scent and letting her eyelids drift closed. He
felt so big and safe, and he liked the music. Maybe it had nothing
to do with healing her spirit or learning to do things on her own,
but it was nice to share the music with him.

She handed him the iPod. “Pick one.”

* * * *

Shortly before dinner time, a knock sounded at
Romy’s door. She counted the fourteen shuffling steps from the bed
to the door and opened it cautiously.

“Hi, it’s Myron.” The other woman didn’t intrude on
Romy’s space, didn’t try to push past her or reach to help her.
Once again, Romy was struck by how the staff at Wiccan Haus seemed
to offer kindness without pity—so naturally it was almost
effortless.

“Hi, Myron.”

“Sage sent this up for you.” Myron took Romy’s hand,
pressed a small jar into her palm. “She said it will help with the
discomfort in your eyes, and that you should put it on your eyelids
twice a day.”

“Thank you, Myron. And tell Sage thank you, from
me.”

“I will. She’s great with herbs, you’ll see.”

“Well, no, I won’t actually.” Romy chuckled. “But I
appreciate it nonetheless.”

“You’re funny, Romy.” Myron patted her hand. “I’ll
see you later.”

As the door shut behind Myron, Romy made her way to
the bed and from there to the bathroom. She set the jar down and
reached for the ointment the doctors had given her. She opened it
and a pungent odor assaulted her nose; heavy and ugly, it hung in
the air. She tightened the lid again and reached for the new
jar.

Sage’s concoction was more like a lotion than an
ointment, and it smelled completely different: light and flowery,
but with a hint of something dark and laden with night. Was that
jasmine? Romy inhaled deeply. Maybe just the memory of jasmine. She
took a tiny dab on the tip of her finger and smoothed it over her
right eyelid.