by Nora Roberts
“Of course,” Nadine agreed, expecting nothing else.
Very erect, face composed, Ruth walked out of the wings. While her makeup was being repaired, she had forced everything out of her mind but the dance she was to perform. Until it was completed and on tape, she would allow herself no emotion but that which her character would feel. She crossed to Nick.
“I’m ready.”
He looked down at her. He wanted to ask if there was still pain, wanted to tell her that he loved her. Instead, he said, “Good, then we start again.”
Nearly two hours later Ruth stood under the shower. Her body was too numbed for pain. Her thoughts were fuzzy with fatigue. Only two things were clear: She detested dancing for the camera; and when she had needed Nick, he had stepped away. He had spoken to her as though she had been lazy and weak. That she had lost control in public had humiliated her enough. His cold words had added to it.
Her strength and stamina had always been a source of pride for her. It had been an enormous blow to have fallen to the stage, beaten and hurting. She had wanted comfort, and he had given her disdain.
Ruth stepped from the shower and wrapped herself in a towel just as Leah walked in. Still in street clothes, the blond leaned against a sink and smiled.
“Hi.” She studied Ruth’s pale, exhausted face. “Rough day?”
“Rough enough.” Ruth walked to her bag to pull out a sweater.
“I heard you had some trouble with your number this afternoon.”
Ruth had a moment, as she pulled the sweater over her head, to compose her features. “Nothing major,” she said calmly, though the easy words cost her. “Le Corsaire’s taping is finished.”
“I can’t wait to see it.” Leah smiled, taking out a brush and pulling it lazily through her baby fine hair. “You’re looking pale,” she observed as Ruth tugged on her jeans. “Lucky you have a couple of days to rest before they start taping The Red Rose.”
Ruth pulled up her zipper with a jerk. “You keep up with the schedules.”
“I make it my business to know what’s going on with everybody in the company.”
Ruth sat down and took her sneakers from her bag. She put one on, then threw Leah a long, thoughtful look. “What is it you want?”
“Nick,” she answered instantly. Her smile deepened as Ruth’s eyes glistened. “Not that way, darling, though it’s tempting.” She smiled. “It appears that being his lover has its advantages.”
Ruth struggled with the desire to hurl her other shoe at the smile. Seething, she slipped it on her foot. “What’s between Nick and me is personal and has nothing to do with anyone.” Blood pounding, Ruth got to her feet.
“Oh, but there’s a connection.” Leah reached out to touch Ruth’s arm as she would have swung from the room.
The violent urge surprised Ruth. Her temper had never been so close to being completely, blindly lost. She let her bag drop noisily to the floor.
“What?”
Leah sat on the edge of the sink and crossed her ankles. “I intend to be prima ballerina assoluta.”
“Is that supposed to be news?” Ruth countered with an arched brow.
“I’m fully aware,” Leah continued smoothly, “that to do that and remain with this company, I need Nick for my partner.”
“Then you have a problem.” Ruth faced her squarely. “Nick is my partner.”
“For now,” Leah agreed easily. “He’ll certainly drop you when he gets tired of sleeping with you.”
“That’s my concern,” Ruth said softly.
“Nick’s lovers never last long. We’ve all witnessed the ebb and flow over the years. Remember that lawyer six or eight months ago? Very elegant. And there was a model before that. He usually avoids picking from the company. Very fastidious, our Nikolai.”
“My Nikolai.” Ruth picked up her bag again. “You’d better satisfy yourself with the partners you’re given.”
“He won’t be dancing much longer than a couple more years. He’s already choreographing most of the time. Two years is all I need,” Leah returned flatly.
“Two years.” Ruth laughed and swung the bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be prima ballerina assoluta in six months.” She let her own fury guide her words. “After the show is aired, everyone in the country will know who I am. If the competition worries you, try another company.”
“Competition!” Leah’s eyes narrowed. “You barely made it through your first piece.” She gave Ruth one of her glittery smiles. “Nick might be persuaded to cut your other two or give them to someone with a bit more stamina.”
“Such as you.”
“Naturally.”
“In a pig’s eye,” Ruth said mildly, then, shoving Leah aside, she walked out.
Though the small gesture had helped, her nerves were still stretched to the breaking point. The emotional onslaught had taken her mind off her body, and she moved down the steps oblivious to the ache in her calves. She headed for the street, seething with indignation.
“Ruth.” Nick took her arm when she failed to respond the first time he called. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” she said shortly.
“Fine.” He studied her heated face. “I’ll take you.”
“I know where it is.” She turned toward the door again, but his hand remained firm.
“I said I would take you.”
“Very well.” She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“I usually do,” he answered coolly and drew her outside and into a cab. Ruth sat in her corner with her bag held primly in her lap. Nick sat back against the seat, making no attempt at conversation. His mind was apparently occupied with his own thoughts. Stubbornness prevented Ruth from speaking.
Her scene with Nick on stage replayed in her head, followed by the scene with Leah. Ruth’s anger took the form of stony silence.
When the cab pulled up in front of her apartment, she slid out her side, prepared to bid Nick a cool goodbye. He alighted from the street side, however, and rounding the rear of the cab, took her arm again. His grip was light but unarguable. Making no comment, Ruth walked with him into the building.
She knew she was primed for a fight. It would take only the smallest provocation. Anger was bubbling hot just beneath the surface. She unlocked the door to her apartment. Breezing through, she left Nick to go or come in as he chose.
From his seat on the sofa, Nijinsky rose, arched his back, then leaped soundlessly down. Dutifully, he circled around Ruth’s ankles before he moved to Nick. She heard him give the cat a murmured greeting. Staying behind her wall of silence, she went into the bedroom to unpack her bag.
She lingered over the task purposefully. There was no sound from the other room as she carefully placed her toe shoes on her dresser. Meticulously, she took the pins from her hair and let it fall free. A small part of her headache fled with the lack of confinement. She brushed her hair out, letting one long stroke follow the next. The apartment remained absolutely silent.
For a full ten minutes Ruth busied herself around the bedroom, finding a dozen small, meaningless tasks that required her attention. Her nerves began to pound again. Deciding that what she needed was food, Ruth tied her hair back with a ribbon and left the room.
Nick was sound asleep on the couch. He lay on his back with a purring Nijinsky curled in a comfortable ball on his chest. His breathing was slow and even. All her resentment fled.
He’s exhausted, she realized. The signs were clear on his face. Why hadn’t she noticed them before? Because she had been too involved with her own feelings, she thought guiltily.
The creases were deep in his cheeks. She could see the faint mauve shadows under his eyes. Ruth sighed. She could have wept. No tears, she ordered herself firmly.
Taking a mohair afghan from the back of a chair, she spread it up to Nick’s waist. He never moved. Nijinsky
opened one eye, sent her an accusing glance and settled back to sleep. Ruth sat in a chair and curled her legs under her. She watched her lover sleep.
***
It was dark when Nick woke. Disoriented, he pressed his fingers to his eyes. There was a weight on his chest. Moving his hand to it, he discovered a warm ball of fur. He let out a long sigh as Nijinsky experimentally dug his claws in. With a halfhearted oath, Nick pushed the cat aside and sat up. A stream of light fell from the kitchen doorway. He sat for some moments longer before rising and walking to it.
Ruth stood at the stove. With her hair pulled back, Nick could study her profile: delicate bones, lifted jaw, the slight slant of her eyes. Her lips were parted in concentration—soft, generous lips he could taste just by looking. She had the slender, arching neck of a classical ballerina. He knew the precise spot where the skin was most sensitive.
She looked very young in the harsh kitchen light, much as she had looked the first time he had seen her—in the glare of sun on snow in the parking lot of Lindsay’s school. Ruth turned suddenly, sensing him. Their eyes locked.
She moistened her lips. “You were stirring. I thought you’d be hungry. Are omelets all right?”
“Yes. Good.”
He leaned on the door jamb as she went back to her preparation. A glance at his watch told him it was barely nine o’clock. He had slept for just under two hours. He was as refreshed as if it had been a full night.
“Can I help?”
Ruth kept her eyes on the eggs growing firm in the pan. “You could get out the plates. I’m almost done.” Beside her on the counter the percolator began to pop. Nick got out plates and cups. “Do you want anything else?” she asked, hating the strained politeness of her voice.
“No. This is fine.”
Expertly, Ruth flipped the first omelet from pan to plate. “Go ahead and get started. I’ll just be another minute.” Beaten eggs sizzled as she poured them into the pan. “I’ll bring the coffee.”
Nick took his plate into the dining room. Ruth continued to work, focusing all her concentration on her cooking. The percolator became more lively. She slid the eggs from the pan. Unplugging the coffee, she took it into the dining room.
Nick glanced up as she came in.
“Is it all right?” She set down her plate, then poured coffee into the waiting cups.
“It’s good.” He forked another mouthful. Ruth avoided his eyes and set the percolator on a trivet. Taking the seat across from him, she began to eat.
“I have to thank you for letting me sleep.” Nick watched her push the eggs around on her plate. “I needed it. And this.”
“You looked so tired,” she murmured. “It never occurred to me that it’s difficult for you.”
“Ah,” he said with light amusement. “Davidov the indestructible.”
Ruth lifted her eyes at that. “I suppose that’s how I’ve always seen you. How all of us see you.”
His glance was steady. “But then, you are not all of us.” He saw the tears spring to her eyes. Something tightened inside his stomach. “You should eat,” he said briskly. “It’s been a long day.”
Ruth picked up her coffee cup, struggling for composure. She’d had enough scenes for one day. “I’m not really hungry.”
Nick shrugged and went back to his meal. “Something’s burning,” he commented. With a cry, Ruth leaped up and dashed into the kitchen.
The omelet pan smoked in a steady column, its surface crackling from the heat. Swearing, she flicked off the flame she had left burning under it and gave the stove an angry kick.
“Careful,” Nick said from the doorway. “I can’t use a partner with broken toes.”
She rounded on him, wanting to vent her anger somewhere. But he smiled. It was as though he had pulled his finger from the dam.
“Oh, Nick!” Ruth threw herself into his arms and clung. “I was so horrible today. I danced so badly.”
“No,” he corrected, kissing her hair. “You danced beautifully, better when you were angry with me.”
Ruth drew her head back and looked at him. She knew with certainty that he would never lie about her dancing to comfort her. “I shouldn’t have been angry with you. I was so wrapped up in myself, in how I was feeling, that I never thought about how difficult it was for you, too. You always make it look so easy.”
“You don’t like the camera.”
“I hate it. It’s horrible.”
“But valuable.”
“I know that. I know it.” She drew back to stand away from him. “I hate the way I acted this afternoon, crying in front of all those people, raging at you.”
“You’re an artist. I’ve told you, it’s expected.”
“I don’t like public displays.” She took a long breath. “I particularly don’t like seeing myself as selfish and uncaring.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, Ruth. The woman I love is not selfish or uncaring.”
“I was today.” She shook her head. “I didn’t stop thinking of myself until I saw you sleeping, looking so utterly exhausted. I know how hard you’ve been working, not only on our dances but at all the other rehearsals you have to supervise and the meetings and the schedule for the rest of the season. But all I thought about was how I hated those cameras looming everywhere and about how my legs ached.” She gave a quiet, shuddering sigh. “I don’t like knowing I can be that one-dimensional, too much like what Donald once accused me of.”
“Oh, enough.” Nick took her shoulders in a firm grip. “We have to think of ourselves, of our own bodies. There’s no other way to survive. You’re a fool if you believe it makes you less of a person. We’re different from others, yes. It’s our way.”
“Selfish?”
“Must it have a name?” He gave her a little shake, then pulled her against him. “Selfish, if you like. Dedicated. Obsessed. What does it matter? Does it change you? Does it change me?” Suddenly his mouth was on hers.
Ruth moaned with the kiss. His lips were both tender and possessive, sparking small flames deep inside her. He drew her closer, and still closer, until they were molded together.
“This is how I wanted to kiss you when you sat on the stage angry and hurting.” His mouth moved over hers with the words. “Do you hate me because I didn’t?”
“No. No, but I wanted you to.” She held him tighter. “I wanted so badly for you to.”
“You would never have finished the dance if I had comforted you then.” Nick tilted her head back until their eyes met. “I knew that, because I know you. Does this make me cold and selfish?”
“It makes you Davidov.” Ruth sighed and smiled at him. “That’s all I want.”
“And you are Bannion.” He lowered his mouth to hers. “That’s all I want.”
“You make it sound so simple. Is it simple?”
“Tonight it is simple.” He lifted her into his arms.
Chapter Thirteen
Ruth sat six rows back and watched the taping. Her three segments were finished. What would be perhaps nine or ten minutes of air time had taken three grueling days to tape. She had learned to play for the camera, even to tolerate it. But she knew she would never feel the excitement with it that Nick did. He had challenged her to outdo him in their pas de deux from Carnival. He had been exuberant, incredibly agile in his Harlequin mask and costume, a teasing, free-spirited soul who infused more vitality into her Columbine than she had believed possible.
He simply glows with energy, she mused, watching him on stage. Even when he’s not dancing.
The corps was doing a scene from Rodeo. Amid the cowboy hats and gingham, Nick stood in a characteristically drab sweat suit and instructed the dancers. If he had worn gold or silver, he could not have been more of a focal point.
Ruth knew how little relaxation he had allowed himself over the past weeks. Yet as he coached his danc
ers a last time, he was as vital and alive as a young boy. How does he do it? she asked herself.
She thought of what Leah had said and wondered: Would he stop dancing in another two years? Ruth hated to think of it. He looked so young. In most other professions he would be considered young, she reflected. As art director, as choreographer, as composer, he could go on indefinitely. But as danseur noble, time was precious.
He knew it, of course. Ruth watched as Davidov stepped out of camera range. How did he feel about it? He’d never told her. There were so many things he’d never told her.
Ruth was aware of how smoothly he changed the subject whenever she probed too deeply about his life in Russia. It wasn’t a simple matter of curiosity that prompted her to ask. Yet she didn’t know how to explain her questions to him.
It frustrated her that he chose to block off a part of himself from her. Privacy was something Ruth valued deeply and respected in others, but loving Nick wholeheartedly, she had the need to know him completely. Yet he continued to draw back from questions or discussions of his early life or his professional career in his own country. Nor had he spoken with her of his feelings about perhaps coming to the end of his active dancing career.
Too often, she decided, he thought of her as a little girl. How would she convince him to share his problems with her as well as his joys?
Music filled the theater; the quick, raucously Western-American music that set the mood for the dance. Nick watched the corps from behind a cameraman, his hands lightly balled at his hips. Ruth drew in her breath.
Will I always feel like this? she wondered. Moved by him, dazed by him? It was frightening to be in love with a legend. Even in the short time they had been together, career demands had pressured them both. Ballet was both a bond and a strain. The time they spent alone in her apartment was another world. They could be any man and woman then. But the music and the lights called them back. And here, in the world that consumed most of their lives, he was Davidov the master.
“He seems to be handling things well, as usual.” Nadine slipped into the seat beside her, and Ruth snapped herself back.