The Dance Off (3 page)

Sketches done, she slumped back to the bed. She’d shower in the morning. And since she didn’t start work till two the next day, she’d have time to attend a couple of classes of her own—maybe a contemporary class in South Yarra, or trapeze in that converted warehouse in Notting Hill. Either way she’d kill it. Because look out, world, Nadia Kent was back, baby.

Despite the late hour, the last whispers of adrenalin still pulsed through her system, so she grabbed her TV remote and scrolled through the movies on her hard drive till she found what she was looking for.

The strains of
Be My Baby
buzzed from the dodgy speakers in her second-hand TV, and grainy black and white dancers writhed on the screen. When Patrick Swayze’s name loomed in that sexy pink font, Nadia tucked herself under her covers and sighed.

Yep, things were still on track. So long as she didn’t do anything stupid.
Again.

Sliding into sleep, she couldn’t be sure if it was her mother’s voice she’d heard at the last, or her own.

TWO

“So how was
it? Was it amazing? Aren’t you glad I made you go?”

Ryder pressed the phone harder to one ear to better hear Sam, and plugged a finger in his other ear to ward off the sounds of the construction site. “It was...”
Excruciating. Hot. A lesson in extreme—patience
. He tugged his hard hat lower over his forehead, and growled, “It was fine.”

“Told you. And how cool is the studio? And the ceilings. I knew you’d love the ceilings.”

No need to fudge the truth there. The beams were stunning. Old school. The exact kind of feature he’d once upon a time have sold his soul to study. He glanced about the modern web of metal spikes and cold concrete slabs around him, the foundations of what would in many months be a sleek, silver, skyscraping tower—as far from the slumped thick red-brick building as architecturally possible.

His foreman waved a torch in his direction, letting him know the group he was there to meet—and who were about to make his day go from long to interminable—had arrived. Ryder tilted his chin in acknowledgement, holding up his finger to say he’d be a minute.

“She was a dancer,” Sam was saying. “A real one. A Sky High one.”

Struggling to picture sultry Nadia Kent in a pink tutu and a bun, Ryder asked, “Nadia’s a ballerina?”

A pause, then, “No-o-o. I told you.
Sky High
.”

“Sam, just for a moment, treat me as if I am an Australian human male and speak plain English.”

“Man, you need to get out more. Sky High is huge. A dance extravaganza. A kind of burlesque meets Burn the Floor meets Cirque du Soleil; all superb special effects and crazy-talented dancers. In Vegas!”

Ryder’s focus converged until it was entirely on his sister’s voice. “Sam, do you have a
showgirl
teaching your wedding party how to dance?”

“Oh, calm down. She wasn’t working some dive bar off the strip.”

And yet, picturing Nadia in fishnets, towering high heels and cleverly positioned peacock feathers wasn’t difficult at all. Her pale skin glowing in the dim light, dishevelled waves trailing down her bare back, those lean calves kicking, twirling, hooking... Ryder closed his eyes and pressed his thumb into his temple.

“She’s so graceful. And flexible,” Sam continued, clearly oblivious to his internal struggle. “She was warming up the other night when we came in and she can pull her leg up so far behind her she can touch her nose!”

Ryder’s eyes snapped open to search for a speedy exit from the conversation at hand. He had every intention of shrugging off the spark between them for Sam’s sake, but the kid sure wasn’t helping any.

Sam sighed down the line. “If I had half her talent, half her confidence, half her sex appeal—”

“Okay then,” Ryder said, loud enough to turn heads. A few of his tradies laughed before getting back to nailing, laying pipe, measuring, chatting about the previous night’s TV. “You like her. That’s great. I’m taking lessons, as you wanted. Let’s leave it there.”

Sam might have missed his earlier silence, but he read Sam’s loud and clear. He swore beneath his breath as the hairs on the back of his neck sprang up in self-defence.

Sam’s voice was an octave lower as she said, “She’s single, you know.”

“Got to go,” Ryder growled. “My foreman’s jabbing a finger at his watch so vigorously he’s going to pull a muscle.”

With that he rang off. And stared at his phone as if he couldn’t for the life of him remember which pocket he kept it in.

There was no misreading what had just happened there. The kid was trying to set him up. That wasn’t the way things were meant to go.

He was Sam’s rock. Her cornerstone. Which was why he’d been so careful to keep his private life separate from his life with her; so she didn’t go through life thinking all men were self-centred brutes like the father who’d failed them both.

Damn. Things were changing. Faster than he was keeping up. Faster than he liked.

For if he was Sam’s cornerstone, she was his touchstone. His earth. As the raw ingenuity he’d inherited from his mother had been progressively engulfed by his own well-honed single-mindedness, and the crushing need to succeed that his father had roused in him, being there for Sam, no matter what, had been his saving grace. It had proven he was different from the old man in the way that mattered most.

Without Sam to look out for what would his measuring stick be?

To ground himself, he glanced up at the twenty-feet-high rock-and-dirt walls surrounding him, and imagined what would one day be a soaring tower; a work of art with clean lines, perfect symmetry, and a hint to the fantastical that pierced the Melbourne sky. It was the exact kind of project he’d spent more than a decade aiming towards.

Not that it had always been his aim to draw buildings that split the clouds. His first internship had been a fantastical summer spent in beachside Sorrento with a renovation specialist by the name of Tom Campbell, bringing the grand homes of the Peninsula back to their former glories. The gig had been hard, back-breaking labour, but the heady scents of reclaimed materials had also made him dream more of his mother, and her sculpting of lost things, than he had since he’d been a kid.

Until the day his father sauntered in with the owner of the home Campbell was working on at the time. Fitz couldn’t even pretend it was accidental; the sneer was already on his face before he’d spied the hammer in Ryder’s hand.

No ambition
, he’d muttered to his friend, not bothering to say hello to the son he hadn’t seen in two years.
Kid’s always been a soft touch. Idealistic. Artistic mother, so what chance did I have?

Damn those bloody beams for stirring this all up again. Because no matter how he’d come to it, the very different work Ryder did now was vital and important. And as for the woman who’d stirred other parts of him, hooking into his darker nature, begging it be allowed out to play? All elements of the same slippery path.

No. No matter how his life might be changing, his crusade had not. So he’d have to be more vigilant in harnessing his baser nature than ever.

With that firmly fixed at the front of his mind, he went off in search of the project manager, foreman, head engineer, the council rep, union rep, and the jolly band of clients, perversely hoping for a problem he could really sink his teeth into.

* * *

It was nearing the end of a long day—Tiny Tots lessons all morning, Seniors Acrobatics after lunch, Intermediate Salsa in the evening, so Nadia happily took the chance for a break.

She sat in the window seat of the dance studio, absent-mindedly running a heavy-duty hula hoop through her fingers. Rain sluiced down the window making the dark street below look prettier than usual, like something out of an old French film.

Unfortunately, the day’s constant downpour hadn’t taken the edge off the lingering heat. Nadia’s clothes stuck to her skin, perspiration dripped down her back, and she could feel her hair curling at her neck.

And it wasn’t doing much for her joints either. She stretched out her ankle, which had started giving her problems during her earlier weights training at the gym. It got the aches at times—when it was too hot, or too cold, or sometimes just because. As did her knees, her wrists, her hips. Not that it had ever stopped her. Her mother had famously been quoted as saying, “If a dancer doesn’t go home limping she hasn’t worked hard enough.”

But it wasn’t her body that had spun her out of the dance world. That would have been way more impressive, tragic even—a sparkling young dancer cut down before her time by a body pushed to the edge...

Looking back, she wished she’d handled things differently. That, after discovering her dance partner boyfriend had dumped her, hooked up with another dancer in the show and moved the girl into his apartment—leaving Nadia without an act, without a guy, and without a home all in one rough hit—she’d acted with grace and aplomb and simply gone on. Perhaps after kicking him where it hurt most. But whether it was embarrassment, or shock, or just plain mental and physical exhaustion, she’d fled.

The only
right
decision she’d made was in going straight to her mother. Oh, Claudia’s gratification at finding her only kid tearful and dejected on her doorstep had been its usual version of total rubbish, but when her mother had told her to get over it and get back to work, it was
exactly
what Nadia had needed to hear.

Nadia went to work on the other ankle with a groan that was half pleasure, half pain. It meant she was dancing again. Meant she was getting closer to rekindling her life’s dream.

But for now, she had one more class to go before she could ice up—her duet with Ryder Fitzgerald. She figured it was about fifty-fifty he’d show up at all.

And then, with a minute to spare, his curvaceous black car eased around the corner and into her rain-soaked view to pull to a neat stop a tidy foot from the gutter. Ryder stepped from the car, decked out once again in a debonair suit.
Nice
, she thought. He’d ignored her advice completely.

And then he looked up.

Nadia sank into the shadows. Dammit. Had she been quick enough? Last thing she needed was for Mr Testosterone to think she’d been waiting for him, all bated breath and trembling anticipation. She nudged forward an inch, then another, till through the rain-slicked window she saw he’d already disappeared inside.

With a sigh she slid from the window seat and padded over to the door. She twirled the hoop away and back, caught it in one finger and tossed it in the air before turning a simple pirouette and catching the ring on the way down.

She tossed it lazily onto the pile on the floor, plucked dance heels and a long black skirt from the back of the pink velvet chaise, and stepped into it so as to make the slinky black leotard and fishnet tights with the feet chopped off more befitting of the job ahead. Wouldn’t want the guy to get the wrong idea.

Though if there was any man she’d met since coming home who she’d like to give the wrong idea... A week on and she could still remember exactly how good it had felt having the heavy weight of his hands on her hips. How lovely the strength in those arms, the hardness of his chest, the sure, slow, sardonic curl of his smile that made her lady parts wake up and sigh—

“Gak!” she said, shaking her head. Her hands. Stamping her feet. Anything to rid herself of the ominous cravings skittering through her veins. It didn’t matter that she was a worshipper of the brilliance of the human body and all it could achieve
en pointe
, upside down, and most definitely horizontal; she’d be playing with fire if she went down that path. Her entire career hinged on what she did the next couple of months and that was not a gamble she was willing to take.

The beat of another set of stomping shoes syncopated against her own as the sound of a man’s footsteps on the stairs echoed through the studio.

With a deep breath, she pulled herself upright, shoulders back, feet in first. She ran a quick hand over her ponytail, and then plastered an innocuous smile on her face as the door creaked open and the man of the hour stomped inside.

“Why if it isn’t Mr Fitzgerald. I’d made a bet with myself you’d not show. Seems I won.”

He glanced up, skin gleaming, wet hair the colour of night, the rain and heat having added a kink. A drop of rainwater slid from a dark curl on his forehead then slowly, sensuously down the length of his straight nose.

She swallowed before saying, “Get a tad wet, did we?”

He shook his hair like a wet dog, rainwater flying all over place. “This is Melbourne, for Pete’s sake. It’s tropical out there.”

When Nadia was hit with a splat she called out, “Whoa, there! Ever tried dancing on a wet floor? Doable, but chances are high you’ll come off second best.”

She moved a ways around him, doing her all to avoid the puddles littering the floor, to grab a towel from the cupboard by the front door. Then turned and draped it from the crook of her finger.

His smile was wry as he realised he had to come and get it. Only he didn’t look down as he took the three steps to take it, before rubbing the thing over his face and hair, all rough and random, in that way men did.

When he moved the towel to the back of his neck, eyes closed, muscles in his throat straining, Nadia gripped her hands together in front of her and pinched the soft skin at the base of her thumb to stop herself from moaning.

She must have made a noise anyway, as Ryder stopped rubbing and looked at her, hazel eyes dark over the white towel. Knowing eyes, hot and hard. Then he slowly, deliberately, held out the towel, meaning this time
she
had to go to him.

Eyebrow cocked, she barely got close enough to whip the thing out of his hand, only to be hit with a waft of his natural scent. Hot and spicy, it curled over Nadia’s tongue until her mouth actually began to water. She dropped the towel to the ground and used her shoe to vigorously wipe the floor.

As if he knew exactly what was going on inside her head, Ryder laughed softly.

Nadia blamed the rain. Rain made people crazy. The last of the Tiny Tots that morning had literally gone wild, hanging from the barre like monkeys.

She hooked the towel over the heel of her shoe and flicked it up into her hands. “Now that’s sorted, I think we need to take a step back.”

“Back from where exactly?” he asked, his deep voice tripping luxuriously over her bare skin.

“Learn to stand before we start to move. Tonight we’ll work on your posture.”

“What’s wrong with my posture?”

Not a single thing
. “It’s a process, Ryder. A journey we are going on together. A journey in which I impart my wisdom and you do as you’re told.”

“So what are you telling me to do, exactly?”

She looked at him—hands in pockets, legs locked, suit jacket as good as a straightjacket for all the movement it offered him—and then, before she could stop herself, she said, “Strip.”

Quick as a flash, he came back with “After you.”

She hid her reaction—instant, hot, chemical—and, with a flick of her hand, she spun on her toes till she was standing side on. “Unlike you, I came wearing appropriate attire. Can you not see my spine, the equilibrium in my hips, the tension in my belly?”