Dance of Dreams

by Nora Roberts

  Her hand rested on the barre as Madame Maximova put them through their paces. Ruth was aware that Nick stood directly behind her.

  They had been together all day yesterday—and this morning. He had never said a word. Would she dance? Her working leg came up and back in attitude. Will what’s happened between us interfere?

  As she moved out with the class for center practice, Ruth tried to think logically. It had been hardly a week since he had told her things were still unsettled. She struggled to remember what else he had said, what exactly his mood had been. He had been annoyed because her dancing had been below par—concern that she had been upset. He had been furious when she wouldn’t divulge the name of the person who had leaked the information.

  What had he done? Snapped his fingers and told her that was how much he cared for what she said. He played the tune, and she danced. It was as simple as that. Ruth frowned as she did the combination. But why did everyone seem to know about things before her? she wondered. One minute Nick would tell her she was the finest ballerina in the company, and the next, he didn’t even bother to fill her in on what could be the most important company project of the year.

  How do you figure out such a man? You don’t, she reminded herself. Turning her head, she looked him straight in the eye. He’s Davidov.

  Nick met the look a bit quizzically, but the tempo suddenly increased from adagio to allegro and required their attention.

  “Thank you,” Madame Maximova said to the troupe of dripping bodies thirty minutes later. Her voice, Ruth thought fleetingly, was much more thickly Russian than Nick’s, though she had been forty years in America.

  “I’d like to see the entire company on stage in fifteen minutes.”

  Ruth lifted her eyes and caught Nick’s in the glass as he made the announcement. The speculative buzzing began immediately. Dancers began to file out in excited groups. Davidov had spoken. Ruth hefted her bag over her shoulder and prepared to join them.

  “One moment, Ruth.” She stopped obediently at his words. Her training was too ingrained for anything else. He said something to the ballet mistress in quiet Russian which made her chuckle—a formidable achievement. With a brisk nod, she strode from the room as if her bones were a quarter of a century younger than Ruth knew them to be.

  Nick crossed to Ruth, absently pulling his towel through his hands. “Your mind was not on class.”

  “No?”

  He recognized her searching look. As usual, it disconcerted him. “Your body moved, but your eyes were very far away. Where?”

  Ruth studied him for another moment as she turned over in her mind the best way to broach the subject. She settled on directness. “Why didn’t you tell me about the television plans?”

  Nick’s brow lifted. It was a haughty gesture. “Why should I have?”

  “I’m a principal dancer with the company.”

  “Yes.” He waited a beat. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Everyone else seems to know the details.” Exasperated, she flared at him. “I’m sure they’re avidly discussing it in the corps.”

  “Very likely,” he agreed, slinging the towel over his shoulders. “It’s hardly a secret, and secrets are always avidly discussed in the corps.”

  “You might have told me yourself,” she fumed, pricked by his hauteur. “I asked you about it last week.”

  “Last week it was not finalized.”

  “It was certainly finalized yesterday, and you never said a word.”

  She saw his lids lower—a danger signal. When he spoke, his cool tone was another. “Yesterday we were just a man and a woman.” He lifted his hands to the ends of the towel, holding them lightly. “Do you think because we are lovers I should give you special treatment as a ballerina?”

  “Of course not!” Ruth’s eyes widened in genuine surprise at the question. The thought had simply never occurred to her. “How could you think so?”

  “Ah.” He gave a small nod. “I see. I’m to trust and respect your integrity, while mine is suspect.”

  “I never meant—” she began, but he cut her off with that imperious flick of the wrist.

  “Get your shower. You’ve only ten minutes now.” He strode away, leaving her staring and open-mouthed.

  When Ruth dashed into the theater, members of the company were already sitting on the wide stage or pocketed together in corners. Breathless, she settled down next to Francie.

  “So.” Nick spared her a brief glance. “We seem to be all here now.”

  He was standing stage center with his hands tucked into the pockets of dull gray sweat pants. His hair was still damp from his shower. Every eye was on him. Nadine sat in a wooden chair slightly to his right in a superbly tailored ice blue suit.

  “Most of you seem to know at least the bare details of our plans to do a production for WNT-TV.” His eyes swept the group, passing briefly over Ruth, then on. “But Nadine and I will now go over the finer points.” He glanced at Nadine, who folded her hands and began.

  “The company will do a two-hour presentation of ballet, in vignette style. It will be taped here over a two-week period beginning in one month. Naturally, we plan to include many dances from the ballets in our repertoire. Nick and I, along with Mark and Marianne,” she glanced briefly at two choreographers, “have outlined a tentative program. We will, of course, work with the television director and staff on time allowances and so forth.” She paused a moment for emphasis. “I needn’t tell you how important this is to the company and that I expect the best from every one of you.”

  Nadine fell silent. Nick turned to pick up a clipboard he had left on a tree stump prop from a forest scene in Sleeping Beauty.

  “Rehearsals begin immediately,” he stated and began to read off the list of dances and roles and rehearsal halls.

  It was a diversified program, Ruth concluded, trying not to hold her breath. From Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker—Francie gave a muffled squeal when her name was called to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy—to de Mille’s Rodeo. Obviously, Nick wanted to show the variety and universality of ballet.

  Choreographers were assigned, scenes listed. Ruth moistened her lips. Leah was Aurora and Giselle, two plum roles but fully expected. Keil Lowell was to partner Leah both as Prince Charming and as Albrecht. A young corps member began to weep softly as she was given her first solo.

  Nick continued to read without glancing up. “Ruth, the grand pas de deux from The Red Rose and the second act pas de deux from Le Corsaire. I will partner.”

  Ruth let out her breath slowly and felt the tension ease from her shoulders.

  “If time permits, we will also do a scene from Carnival.”

  He continued to read in his quiet, melodious voice, but Ruth heard little more. She could have wept like the young corps dancer. This was what she had worked for. This was the fruit of almost two decades of training. Yet even through the joy, she could feel Nick’s temper lick out at her.

  He doesn’t understand, she thought, frustrated by his quick, volatile moods. And he’s so pig-headed, I’ll have to fight my way through to explain. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she studied him carefully.

  Strange, she mused, for all his generosity of spirit, he doesn’t give his trust easily. She frowned. Neither do I, she realized abruptly. We have a problem. She rested her chin on her knees. And I’m not sure yet how to solve it.

  The next few weeks weren’t going to be easy, personally or professionally. Personally, Ruth knew she and Nick would have to decide what they wanted from each other and what each could give. She tucked the problem away, a little awed by it.

  Professionally, it would be a grueling time. Nick as a choreographer or director was difficult enough, but as a partner, he was the devil himself. He accepted no less than perfection and had never been gentle about showing his displeasure with anything short of it. Still, Ruth wou
ld have walked over hot coals to dance with him.

  Rehearsals would be exhausting for everyone. The time was short, the expectations high, and a good portion of the company were performing Sleeping Beauty every night for the next two weeks. Tempers and muscles would be strained. They would be limping home at night to soak their feet in ice or hot baths. They would pull each other’s toes and rub each other’s calves and live on coffee and nerves. But they would triumph; they were dancers.

  Ruth rose with the others when Nick finished. Seeing he was already involved with Nadine, she went to the small rehearsal hall he had assigned to her. She left the door open. Company members streamed down the corridor. There was talk and raised voices. Already the sound of music flowed out from another room down the hall. Stravinsky.

  Ruth walked to a bench to change to her toe shoes. She looked at them absently. They would last two or three more days, she decided. They were barely a week old. Idly, she wondered how many pairs she had been through already that year. And how many yards of satin? She crossed the ribbon over her ankle and looked up as Nick walked into the room. He closed the door behind him, and they were cut off from music and voices.

  “We do Le Corsaire first,” he stated, crossing the room to sit on the bench. “We work without an accompanist for now. They are at a premium, and I have still to block it out.” He pulled down his sweat pants so that he wore only tights and the unitard.

  “Nick, I’d like to talk to you.”

  “You have a complaint?” He slipped leg warmers over his ankles.

  “No. Nick—”

  “Then you are satisfied with your assignment? We begin.” He rose, and Ruth stood to face him.

  “Don’t pull your premier danseur pose on me,” she said dangerously.

  He lifted his brow, studying her with cool blue eyes. “I am premier danseur.”

  “You’re also a human being, but that isn’t the point.” She could feel the temper she had ordered herself to restrain running away with her.

  “And what,” he said in a tone entirely too mild, “is the point?”

  “What I said this morning had nothing to do with the casting.” She put her hands on her hips, prepared to plow her way through the wall he had thrown up between them.

  “No? Then perhaps you will tell me what it had to do with. I have a great deal to do.”

  Her eyes kindled. Her temper snapped. “Go do it then. I’ll rehearse alone.” She turned away, only to be spun back around.

  “I say when and with whom you rehearse.” His eyes were as hot as hers. “Now say what you will say so we can work.”

  “All right, then.” Ruth jerked her arm from his hold. “I didn’t like being kept in the dark about this. I think I should have heard it from you, straight out. Our being lovers has nothing to do with it. We’re dance partners, professional partners. If you can tell half the company, why not me?” She barely paused for breath. “I didn’t like the way I had to get tidbits, first from Leah, and then—”

  “So, it was Leah,” Nick interrupted her tirade with quiet words. Ruth let out a frustrated breath. Temper had betrayed her into telling him what she had promised herself she never would.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she began, but the flick of his wrist stopped her again.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said impatiently. “There is no excuse for a dancer deliberately disturbing another before a performance. You won’t tell me it was not intentional?” He waited, watching her face. Ruth opened her mouth and closed it again. She didn’t lie well, even in the best of circumstances. “So don’t pretend it doesn’t matter,” Nick concluded.

  “All right,” she conceded. “But it’s done. There’s no use stirring up trouble now.”

  Nick was thoughtful a moment. Ruth saw that his eyes were hard and distant. She knew very well he was capable of handing out punishment without compassion. “No,” he said at length, “I have a need for her at the moment. We have no one who does Aurora so well, but . . .” His words trailed off, and Ruth knew his mind was fast at work. He would find a way of disciplining Leah and keeping his Aurora dancing. A whip in a velvet glove, Ruth thought ruefully. That was Davidov.

  “In any case,” she continued, bringing his attention back to her, “Leah isn’t the point, either.”

  Nick focused on her again. “No.” He nodded, agreeing to this. “You were telling me what was.”

  Calmer now, Ruth took a moment to curb her tongue. “I was upset when I heard this morning that things had been arranged. I suppose I felt shut out. We hadn’t talked reasonably about dancing since the night we rehearsed together for The Red Rose. I was angry then.”

  “I wanted you,” he said simply. “It was difficult.”

  “For both of us.” Ruth took a deep breath. “I had never considered you would treat me differently professionally because we’ve become lovers. I couldn’t stand to think you would. But I was nervous about the casting. I always am.”

  “That was perhaps an unwise thing for me to say.”

  Ruth smiled. Such an admission from Davidov was closer to an apology than she had hoped for.

  “Perhaps,” she agreed with her tongue in her cheek.

  His brow lifted. “You still have trouble with respect for your elders.”

  “How’s this?” she asked and stuck out her tongue.

  “Tempting.” Nick pulled her into his arms and kissed her, long and hard. “Now, I will tell you once so that it is understood.” He drew her away again but kept his hands on her shoulders. “I chose you for my partner because I chose to dance with the best. If you were less of a dancer, I would dance with someone else. But it would still be you I wanted at night.”

  A weight was lifted from her shoulders. She was satisfied that Davidov wanted her for herself and danced with her because he respected her talent.

  “Only at night?” she murmured, stepping closer.

  Nick gave her shoulders a caress. “We will have little else but the night for ourselves for some time.” He kissed her again, briefly, roughly, proprietarily. “Now we dance.”

  They went to the center of the room, faced the mirrors and began.

  Chapter Eleven

  Days passed; long, exhausting days filled with excitement and disappointments. Ruth worked with Nick as he blocked out and tightened their pas de deux from Le Corsaire. The choreography must suit the camera, he told her. If the dance was to be recorded by a lens, it had to be played to the lens. This was a different prospect altogether from dancing to an audience. Even during their first improvised rehearsal Ruth realized Nick had done his homework. He worked hand in glove with the television director on angles and sequence.

  Ruth’s days were filled between classes and rehearsals, but her nights were often empty. Nick’s duties as choreographer and artistic director kept him constantly busy. There were other rehearsals to oversee, more dances to be blocked out, budget meetings and late-night sessions with the television staff.

  There was little time for the two of them at rehearsals. There they worked as dancer to dancer or dancer to choreographer, fitting movement to music. They argued, they agreed. The Red Rose posed little problem, though Nick altered a few details to better suit the new medium. Le Corsaire took most of their time. The part suited him perfectly. It was the ideal outlet for his creativity. His verve aroused Ruth’s competitiveness. She worked hard.

  He criticized tiny details like the spread of her fingers, praised the angle of her head and drove her harder. His vitality seemed to constantly renew itself, and it forced her to keep up or be left behind. At times she wondered how he did it: the endless dancing, the back-to-back meetings.

  He had told her they would have the nights for each other, but so far that had not been the case. For the first time since she had moved into her apartment, Ruth was lonely. For as long as she could remember, she had been content with her own company
. She walked to the window and opened the blinds to gaze out at the darkness. She shivered.

  A knock at the door startled her, then she shook her head. No, it’s not Nick, Ruth reminded herself as she crossed the room. She knew he had two meetings that night. She glanced through the peephole, then stood for several seconds with her hand on the knob. Taking a breath, she opened the door.

  “Hello, Donald.”

  “Ruth.” He smiled at her. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” She stepped back to let him enter, then shut the door behind him.

  He was dressed casually and impeccably in a leather jacket and twill trousers. Ruth realized suddenly that it had been weeks since they had last seen each other.

  “How are you?” she asked, finding nothing else to say.

  “Fine. I’m fine.”

  She detected a layer of awkwardness under his poise. It put her at ease. “Come, sit down. Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, I would. Scotch, if you have it.” Donald moved to a chair and sat, watching Ruth pour the liquor. “Aren’t you having one?”

  “No.” She handed him the glass before taking a seat on the sofa. “I’ve just had some tea.” Absently, she passed her hand over Nijinsky’s head.

  “I heard your company’s doing something for television.” Donald swirled the Scotch in his glass, then drank.

  “News travels fast.”

  “You’re having some new costumes made,” he commented. “Word gets around.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” She curled her legs under her. “Is your business going well?”

  Lifting his eyes from the glass, Donald met hers. “Yes. I’m going to Paris at the end of the month.”

  “Really?” She gave him a friendly smile. “Will you be there long?”

  “A couple of weeks. Ruth . . .” He hesitated, then set down his glass. “I’d like to apologize for the things I said the last time I saw you.”

  Her eyes met his, calm, searching. Satisfied, Ruth nodded. “All right.”

  Donald let out a breath. He hadn’t expected such easy absolution. “I’ve missed seeing you. I’d hoped we could have dinner.”