Dance of Dreams

by Nora Roberts

  “No, Donald,” she answered just as mildly. She watched him frown.

  “Ruth, I was upset and angry. I know I said some hard things, but—”

  “It isn’t that, Donald.”

  He studied her, then let out a long breath. “I see. I should’ve expected there’d be someone else.”

  “You and I were never more than friends, Donald.” There was no apology in her voice, nor anger. “I don’t see why that has to change.”

  “Davidov?” He gave a quick laugh at her surprised expression.

  “Yes, Davidov. How did you know?”

  “I’ve eyes in my head,” he said shortly. “I’ve seen the way he looked at you.” Donald took another swallow of Scotch. “I suppose you’re well-suited.”

  Ruth had to smile. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

  Donald shook his head and rose. “I’m not sure.” For a moment he looked at her intensely. She met his gaze without faltering. “Good-bye, Ruth.”

  Ruth remained where she was. “Good-bye, Donald.” She watched him cross the room and shut the door behind him.

  After a few moments she took his half-filled glass into the kitchen. Pouring the Scotch down the sink, Ruth thought of the time they had spent together. Donald had made her happy, nothing more, nothing less. Was it true that some women were made for one man? Was she one of them?

  Another knock scattered her thoughts. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. The last thing she wanted was another showdown with Donald. Resolutely, Ruth went to the door and fixed a smile on her face.

  “Nick!”

  He carried two boxes, one flat, one larger, and a bottle of wine. “Privet, milenkaya.” He stepped over the threshold and managed to kiss her over the boxes.

  “But you’re supposed to be in meetings tonight.” Ruth closed the door as he dropped the boxes on her dinette table.

  “I cancelled them.” He gave her a grin and pulled her against him. “I told you artists are entitled to be temperamental.” He made up for his brief first kiss with a lingering one. “You have plans for tonight?” he murmured against her ear.

  “Well . . .” Ruth let the word hang. “I suppose I could alter them—with the right incentive.” It felt so good to be held by him, to feel his lips on her skin. “What’s in the boxes?”

  “Mmm. This and that.” Nick drew her away. “That is for later,” he said, pointing to the large box. “This is for now.” With a flourish, he tossed open the lid of the flat one.

  “Pizza!”

  Nick leaned over, breathing in its aroma with closed eyes. “It is to die over! Go, get plates before it’s cold.”

  Ruth turned to obey.

  “I’ll sweat it off you in rehearsal tomorrow.” He picked up the wine. “I need a corkscrew.”

  “What’s in the other box?” Ruth called out as she clattered dishes.

  “Later. I’m hungry.” When she came back, hands filled with plates and glasses, he was still holding the wine while stooping over to greet Nijinsky. “You’ll have your share.” Watching him, Ruth felt her heart expand.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Nick straightened and smiled. “Why?” He took the corkscrew from her fingers.

  “I love pizza,” Ruth told him blandly.

  “So, I win your heart through your stomach, yes? It’s an old Russian custom.” The cork came out with a muffled pop.

  “Absolutely.” Ruth began busily to transfer pizza from box to plates.

  “Then you’ll bounce on stage like a little round meatball.” Nick sat across from her and poured the wine. “It seems time permits for Carnival as well. You do Columbine.”

  “Oh, Nick!” Ruth, her mouth full of pizza, struggled to swallow and say more.

  “The extra rehearsals will help to keep you from getting chubby.”

  “Chubby!”

  “I don’t want to strain my back in the lifts.” He gave her a wicked smile.

  “And what about you?” she asked sweetly. “Who wants to watch Harlequin with a paunch?”

  “My metabolism,” he told her smugly, “would never permit it.” He wolfed down the pizza and reached for his wine. “I’ve been watching movies,” he told her suddenly. “Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly. Such movement. With the right camera work we see all a dancer is. Angles are the key.”

  “Did you see An American in Paris?” Ruth finished off her slice and reached for the wine. “I’d love to do a time step.”

  “A new set of muscles,” Nick mused, looking through her. “It would be interesting.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  His eyes came back to hers and focused. “A new ballet with some of your typically American moves. It’s for later.” He shook his head as if filing the idea away. “So, have some more.” He slid another piece onto Ruth’s plate. “When one sins, one should sin magnificently.”

  “Another old Russian custom?” Ruth asked with a grin.

  “But of course.” He poured more wine into her glass.

  They finished the pizza, giving the cat a whole piece for himself. Nick filled her in on the progress of rehearsals, dropping little bits of company gossip here and there to amuse her. When he began to question her about dance sequences in movies he hadn’t seen, Ruth did her best to describe them.

  “Are you thinking of writing this new ballet with television in mind?” she asked as they cleared the dishes. “For one of the other two projects you’ve agreed to do?”

  “Perhaps.” He was vague. “Nadine would like also a documentary on the company. It’s being considered. I learned some when they taped Ariel and other ballets, but the cameras were always apart. Ah . . .” He groped for the word closer to his meaning. “Remote?” Satisfied, he continued. “This time they’ll be everywhere, and this director has more knowledge of the dance than others I’ve worked with. It makes a difference,” he concluded and smiled as Ruth handed him a dish to dry. “I’ve missed you.”

  Ruth looked up at him. They had been together for hours every day, but she knew what he meant. There was something steadying about standing together in the kitchen. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  “We can make a little time when this is over, before new rehearsals begin. A few days.” Nick set down the dish and touched her hair. “Will you come with me to California?”

  His house in Malibu, she thought and smiled. “Yes.” Forgetting the dishes, she slipped her arms around his waist and held him. They were silent a moment, then Nick bent and kissed the top of her head.

  “Don’t you want to know what’s in the other box?”

  Ruth groaned. “I can’t eat another thing.”

  “More wine?” he murmured, moving his lips down her temple.

  “No.” She sighed. “Just you.”

  “Come, then.” Nick drew her away, then offered his hand. “It’s been too long.”

  They walked from the kitchen, but Ruth’s eyes fell on the unopened box. “What is in there?”

  “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  Unable to restrain her curiosity, Ruth lifted the lid. She stared and made no sound.

  There, where she had expected some elaborate pastries or a huge cake, was the soft, thick pelt of the blue fox she had modeled in Saks. Touching it with her fingertips, she looked up at Nick.

  “It’s not fattening,” he told her.

  “Nick.” Ruth made a helpless gesture and shook her head.

  “It suited you best. The color is good with your hair.” He caught a generous handful of Ruth’s hair and let it fall through his fingers. “It’s soft. Like you.”

  “Nick.” Ruth took his hand in hers. “I can’t.”

  He lifted a brow. “I’m not allowed to give you presents?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” She let out a little breath. “I hadn’t though
t of it.” He was smiling at her, making it difficult to explain logically. “But not a present like this.”

  “I bought you a pizza,” he pointed out and brought her hand to his lips. “You didn’t object.”

  “That’s not the same thing.” She made a small, exasperated sound as his lips brushed her wrist. “And you ate half of it.”

  “It gave me pleasure,” he said simply, “as it will give me pleasure to see you in the fur.”

  “It’s too expensive.”

  “Ah, I can only buy you cheap presents.” He pushed up her sleeve and kissed the inside of her elbow.

  Her brows lowered. “Stop making me sound foolish.”

  “You don’t need my help for that.” Before she could retort, he pulled her close and silenced her. “Do you find the fur ugly?” he asked.

  “No, of course not. It’s gorgeous.” With a sigh, Ruth rested her head on his shoulder. “But you don’t have to buy me anything.”

  “Have to? No.” He ran a hand down her back to the curve of her hip. “The things I have to do, I know. This is what I choose to do.” He drew her away, smiling again. “Come, try it on for me.”

  Ruth studied him carefully. The gesture was generous, impulsive and typically Nick. How could she refuse? “Thank you,” she said so seriously that he laughed and hugged her.

  “You look at me like an owl again, very sober and wise. Now, please, let me see you wear it.”

  If Ruth had any doubts, the please brushed them aside. She was certain she could count on the fingers of one hand the times he had used the word to her personally. With no more hesitation, she dove into the box. Her fingers sank into fur.

  “It is gorgeous, Nick. Really gorgeous.”

  “Not over your robe, milaya.” He shook his head as Ruth started to put the coat on. “They don’t wear fox with blue terry cloth.”

  Ruth shot him a look, then undid the knot in her belt. She slipped out of the robe and quickly into the fur. Nick felt his stomach tighten at the brief flashes of her nakedness. Her dark hair fell over the blue-toned white; her eyes shone with excitement.

  “I have to see how it looks!” Ruth turned, thinking to dash to the bedroom mirror.

  “I love you.”

  The words stopped her dead. She felt completely winded, as though she had taken a bad fall on stage. Her breath would simply not force its way through her lungs. She closed her eyes. Her fingers were gripping the fur so tightly they hurt. She couldn’t relax them. Very slowly, she turned to face him. Her throat was closing, so that when the words came, they were thick. “What did you say?”

  “I love you. In English. I’ve told you in Russian before. Ya tebya lyublyu.”

  Ruth remembered the words murmured in her ear—words that had jumbled in her brain when he had made love to her, when he had held her close before sleep. Her knees were beginning to shake. “I didn’t know what they meant.”

  “Now you do.”

  She stared at him, feeling the trembling spread. “I’m afraid,” Ruth whispered. “I’ve waited to hear you say that for so long, and now I’m terrified. Nick.” She swallowed as her eyes filled. “I don’t think my legs will move.”

  “Do you want to walk to me or away?”

  The question steadied her. Perhaps he was afraid, too. She moved forward. When she stood in front of him, she waited until she thought her voice would be level. “How do I say it in Russian?” she asked him. “I want to say it in Russian first.”

  “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

  “Ya tebya lyublyu, Nikolai.” She fumbled over the pronunciation. Ruth saw the flash of emotion in his eyes before she was crushed against him. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” She said again, “I love you.”

  His mouth was on her hair, her cheeks and eyelids, then bruisingly, possessively on hers. “Ona-moya,” he said once, almost savagely. “She is mine.”

  The fur slipped to the floor.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ruth knew she had never worked so hard in her life. Performing a full-length ballet was never easy, but dancing for four cameras was very exasperating. Short sequences of step combinations had to be repeated over and over, so that she found it nearly impossible to keep the mood. She was accustomed to the lights, but the technicians’ cables and the cameras intruding on the stage were another matter. She felt surrounded by them.

  Her muscles cramped from the starting and stopping. Her face had to be remade-up for the closeups and tight shots. The television audience wouldn’t care to see beads of perspiration on an elegant ballerina. It was possible, with the distance of a stage performance, to maintain ballet’s illusion of effortless fluidity. But the camera was merciless.

  Again and again they repeated the same difficult set of soubresauts and pirouettes. Nick seemed inexhaustible. The camera work appeared to fascinate him. He showed no sign of annoyance with minor technical breakdowns but simply stopped, talking with the director as the television crew made ready again. Then he would repeat the steps with renewed energy.

  They had been taping what would be no more than a three-minute segment for over two hours. It was an athletic piece, full of passion and spirit—the type of dance that was Nick’s trademark. Again Ruth turned in a triple pirouette, felt a flash of pain and went down hard. Nick was crouched beside her in an instant.

  “Just a cramp,” she managed, trying to get her breath.

  “Here?” Taking her calf, he felt the knotted muscle and began to work it.

  Ruth nodded, though the pain was acute. She put her forehead on her knees and closed her eyes.

  “Ten minutes, please,” she heard Nick call out. “Did you hurt anything when you fell?” he murmured, kneading the muscle. Ruth could only shake her head. “It’s a bad one,” he said, frowning. “It’s difficult without warmers.”

  “I can’t do it!” She suddenly banged a fist on the stage and raised her face. “I just can’t do it right!”

  Nick narrowed his eyes. “What nonsense is this?”

  “It’s not nonsense. I can’t,” Ruth continued wildly. “It’s impossible. Over and over, back and forth. How can I feel anything when there’s no flow to it? People everywhere, practically under my nose, when I’m supposed to be preparing for a leap.”

  “Ignore them and dance,” he said flatly. “It’s necessary.”

  “Necessary?” she tossed back. “I’ll tell you what’s necessary. It’s necessary to sweat. I’m not even allowed to do that. If that man dusts powder on my face once more, I’ll scream.” She caught her breath as a cramp shot into her other leg. Her feet were past pain. She lowered her head again. “Oh, Nick, I’m so tired.”

  “So what do you do? Quit?” His voice was rough as he began to work her other leg. “I need a partner, not a complaining baby.”

  “I’m not a baby.” Her head shot back up. “Nor a machine!”

  “You’re a dancer.” He felt the muscle relaxing under his hand. “So dance.”

  Her eyes flashed at the curt tone. “Thanks for the understanding.” She pushed his hand away and swung to her feet. Her legs nearly buckled under her, but she snapped them straight.

  “There’s a place for understanding.” He rose. “This isn’t it. You’ve work to do. Now, go have the man with the powder fix your face.”

  Ruth stared at him a moment, then turned and walked offstage without a word.

  When she had gone, Nick swore under his breath, then sat down again to work out the pain in his own legs.

  “You’re a tough man, Davidov.”

  Nick looked up to see Nadine rise from a chair in the audience. “Yes.” He turned his attention back to his leg. “You’ve told me before.”

  “It’s the way I like you.” She walked to the side of the stage and climbed the steps. “But she is still young.” Her heels set out an echo as she walked across the stage.

  Nadine kn
eeled beside him. She took his leg and began to competently massage the cramp. “Good feet, wonderful legs, very musical.” She gave him a quick smile. “She’s not yet as tough as we are.”

  “Better for her.”

  “More difficult for you because you love her.” Nick gave her an inquiring lift of a brow. “There’s nothing about my dancers I don’t know,” Nadine went on. “Often before they do. You’ve been in love with her for a long time.”

  “So?” Nick said.

  “Dancers often pair up with dancers. They speak the same language, have the same problems.” Nadine sat back on her haunches. “But when it’s my premier danseur and artistic director involved with my best ballerina, I’m concerned.”

  “There’s no need for it, Nadine.” His tone was mild, but there was no mistaking his annoyance.

  “Romances can go several ways,” she commented. “Believe me, I know very well.” Nadine smiled again, a bit ruefully. “Dancers are an emotional species, Nick. I don’t want to lose either of you if you have a falling out. This one is destined to be prima ballerina assoluta.”

  Nick’s voice was very cool. “Are you suggesting I stop seeing Ruth?” He rose carefully to his feet. His eyes were very direct and very blue.

  Nadine studied him thoughtfully. “How long have I known you, Davidov?”

  He smiled briefly. “It would only age both of us, Nadine.”

  She nodded in agreement, then held up her hand. Nick lifted her lightly to her feet. “A long time. Long enough to know better than to suggest to you.” Her look became wry. “I’ve watched your parade of women over the years.”

  “Spasibo.”

  “That wasn’t praise,” she countered. “It was an observation.” She paused again, briefly. “Bannion’s different.”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “Ruth’s different.”

  “Be careful, Davidov. Falls are dangerous to dancers.” She turned as technicians began to wander back toward the stage. “She’ll hate you for a while.”

  “I’ll have to deal with that.”