by Traci Hall
His body language closed against her as he slipped out of the booth and stood. Armand started to offer his hand, but then stuck it behind his back instead. “You’d better be prepared to work harder than anybody else. One mistake and you’re gone. Understand this, Zamira.” He tapped the table in front of her. “I want you to fail. I can’t afford the drama of you in my life.”
Each hard word came like a hammer against a nail. She watched him leave, speechless. Try as she might, there was no love to be found in the stiff line of his back.
He’d taken a risk, opening DanceFusion away from the hub in Miami. But if anybody could make it work, it would be Armand. She was the perfect partner to help him succeed—she’d prove that he could rely on her.
The cab ride home was long and miserable and she spent the forty-five minutes going over every nuance of their early morning breakfast.
Sleeping with Armand would have felt so good, but it would have ruined everything.
*****
Armand led Chantal by the elbow from the club. It was three a.m. and for once he was the one wired. Not on alcohol but adrenalin.
Chantal, fiery locks damp from hours of dancing in a hot, enclosed space, cranked the air conditioning as they got into his sleek BMW.
He’d refused to talk inside Kola’s and danced with Chantal or sat with Sophie and JoJo to take in the high energy of the room. Lucas and his crew left around two without any other altercations. Sent snarky looks but didn’t say a word. Coward probably realized that tonight, Armand was in the mood for a fight.
Lucas was a jack-ass and he’d pay for how he’d put his hands all over Zamira. Not sure how just yet, but he’d think of something. He wanted to be the one dancing with Zamira. Breakfast had brought back good memories, things he’d forgotten—or rather, not let himself think about. Her funny way of shredding bacon before she ate it. How she wouldn’t combine her food—everything had to be eaten separately. Eggs first. Then bacon. Then toast. How she dabbed her mouth with a cheap paper napkin as daintily as if it were fine linen.
Quiet, he got onto the interstate toward home. About fifteen minutes in, Chantal sighed. “Are you glad you came out tonight? Even though there was drama?”
He’d been re-thinking every damn move he’d made. Sleeping with Zamira would have been a mistake—he had to keep his distance. Be a professional, so that when she screwed up, he wouldn’t be surprised. “Not sure. And hey, I’m sorry about that scene...”
She shifted on the leather seat, waving her hand in dismissal. “No worries. It was good to finally see the woman who tied you up in knots and left you for dead.”
“Hey!”
“Sorry.” But she didn’t sound sorry.
Armand exited the freeway, driving toward Las Olas. “I had no idea Zamira was coming to the states. And then all of a sudden she shows up at my studio. I didn’t handle that well, either.” But he’d apologized. She’d apologized. That did not equal friendship.
“She still has a hold on you.”
He wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. If Zamira had asked him up to her hotel room? His jaw tightened. She had to go back to South America so that he wasn’t tempted to make a colossal mistake.
“She’s beautiful. From what I saw? She can dance. You need experienced dancers in order for DanceFusion to succeed.”
He nodded stiffly. “Zamira is incredibly talented, but she chose her ex, Diego, over me.”
“Yes.” Chantal opened her purse for her key as they neared the mango-colored fourteen-story building. “You said that, before.”
He stiffened, sensing that Chantal was not taking his side. “She was dancing with Lucas.” Not that she’d enjoyed herself—as mad as he’d been, he’d seen that.
“I saw. I also saw you, my friend.” Chantal crossed her long legs and the short mini dress rode up her sleek thighs. “It’s possible she didn’t know about the bad blood between you and Lucas. I mean, I’m sure she gets it now. Where did you go?”
“I took her for coffee at the diner across the street.”
“That dive? I wondered what was taking so long. Wasn’t a typical bathroom break. What did you talk about?”
Everything. Nothing. “She thought you and I were dating.”
“No surprise, considering the show you put on for her.” She fanned her face. “Hot, hot, hot.”
“It wasn’t my finest moment.”
Chantal chuckled, looking out the passenger window as they waited for a stoplight. “Did you explain about me?”
The light turned green and he pressed gently on the gas. “I told her we were friends.”
With her hand on the console between them, Chantal asked, “Did you tell her about Alex?”
Armand pulled up in front of the condo, his stomach a block of ice. “I absolutely did not. She will never know. We keep Alex out of the light for a reason, and I want to keep it that way.”
“If she stays…”
“She won’t. Zamira doesn’t have what it takes to stick it out. I will make it very difficult for her—she will quit and run back to Diego.”
“What if she really is sorry, Armand?”
She had been; he’d seen it in her eyes at the diner. It’s why he’d lowered his guard—when he shouldn’t have. “It is too late for us.”
“You are a hard man.”
“When it comes to her, I’ve had to be.”
Chantal opened the door and got out, blowing him a kiss. “I will keep our secret, Armand. For now. Alex is a baby, but he won’t always be so easy to hide.”
“I am not hiding my son.” Armand hated the way those words sounded—especially because Alex meant everything.
“No?” Chantal leaned in, maintaining eye contact. “I understand that it was for his own good, after Dance, Dance USA—and I got some amazing press from being a lady of mystery when it came to keeping Alex’s dad’s name under lock and key. But it has to change pretty soon.” She closed the car door and went toward the building. A uniformed doorman greeted her and Armand pulled away as she disappeared from view.
Was he hiding Alex? He told himself that it was difficult to explain his son, so he didn’t. Besides, who would he introduce Alex to? His grandparents were gone, and his parents had died before he was three—he had no recollection of them, beyond pictures his Nana and Poppa shared.
He immediately thought of what Lucas would do with the information—news of Armand’s love child would be broadcast over the Internet within seconds. If there was a way to slander Armand, Lucas would find it.
It didn’t matter.
By the time he pulled into his driveway, he acknowledged that Chantal was right, about a couple of things, damn her.
Yes, he still had feelings for Zamira, which made her dangerous.
It was time to bring Alex to DanceFusion—he’d introduce Alex to the dance company next year, once they were a cohesive unit.
After Zamira was back in Argentina.
Because he knew she wouldn’t stick around and no way was he going to tell her about the one thing that had saved him after she’d broken his heart.
.Chapter Eight
Armand held the audio remote in his hand, his thumb on the switch as he watched his team complete the salsa set. In the two weeks since he’d opened DanceFusion for auditions he’d gained fourteen solid dancers—nine of the original ten—the girl with the pink hair had returned to Lucas. Five others. Zamira. He looked up at the black and white photo of his grandparents on the wall and hoped they’d be proud.
He turned the music off. “That’s it for today, guys. I’ve got some news!” Armand tossed dry hand towels to each of the perspiring dancers. “Get a bottle of water and then come join me on the floor.”
Zamira, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, brought him a water bottle before dropping to sit cross-legged in front of him on the mat. “Thanks.” He avoided resting his gaze rest on her sleek body, showcased in a fitted black tank top and leggings, though it was hard to do. If given a choi
ce, his eyes searched for her in a room.
That first week, the ‘trial’ period, he’d looked for the slightest infraction so he could, with a clear conscience, send her packing. Out of his life.
Zamira had been spectacularly brilliant. On time. Professional. She’d listened, followed directions, helped the others when they needed it. She’d been the perfect asset. .
Since then they’d been circling each other like two wary opponents. Embers of desire begged to be resurrected but he refused to go there. Touches were unavoidable. Correcting stances, dancing, sharing space. Innocent touches with anybody else in the damn studio—but hers made him rock hard.
The past few days had been especially brutal.
“Oscar? Turn on the fan, will you?”
Oscar gave him a thumbs up and hit the switch. Air circulated through the closed room, cooling him down. Oscar joined Zamira and Sophie on the floor, tossing a flirtatious look toward JoJo, who blushed in return.
That’s how it worked. Close contact meant relationships with the wrong people. Armand had learned that the hard way.
“I’ve signed us up for our first regional,” he told them, leaning against the high-top table as he faced them. All were talented and took direction, which was the reason he’d been so specific in his advertising. Lucas accused him of taking short cuts, but Armand viewed the decision as smart business.
“We aren’t ready!” Christine protested with a nervous laugh as she glanced around the room.
“You might not be ready,” Marciana declared, “but I am.”
“We’ve only been together for two weeks.” Trevor looked at Zach before taking in the other dancers. “But I feel like we’re forming a tight unit.”
Armand held up his hand. “Trust me—we will be even tighter by next month. I’ll create a new routine.” He enjoyed the choreography, which had come as a surprise. “We’ll have a month to get it down.”
“Where?” Oscar asked.
He owed Chantal for the in on this one. “The Breakers. In West Palm Beach.”
Armand watched Zamira look at the others to see if this was a good thing and bit back a laugh.
Marciana clapped and Sophie and Oscar gave each other a high-five.
Zamira returned her dark brown eyes his way and smiled with pride. “Is this a nice place to dance?”
“Gorgeous,” Sophie said in a rush. “And old money. The venue is usually packed a year in advance.”
“You have to know people, who know people,” Oscar added.
Chantal, after a photo shoot, had introduced Armand to the manager of public events at the Breakers, who had recognized him from Dance, Dance USA. Made him a celebrity, in her eyes, so that upped his cache from new dance company owner to popular draw for the jet-set crowd.
Armand drank some water and shrugged. “It took some convincing for them to give our new troupe a try, but we’ve got the opportunity. What we do with it is up to us.” He paused, looking at each of them with encouragement. “I wouldn’t put us out there if I didn’t think you could do it—it’s my reputation on the line, too.” He lifted his hand. “Swear.”
Zamira had become, against his will, an integral part of the dance company. In the past two weeks she’d shown up early, gone home late and practiced so that the moves appeared effortless.
She didn’t flirt or cause drama. Joking with Joshua, her partner for the couple dances, just as she teased Oscar or Sophie. Solid. He’d never dreamed that his passionate Zamira would be as steady as a true professional.
He’d watched, looking for the slightest misstep to call her out on, but she left him nothing. Besides battling his own attraction for her.
“I know we can do it, Armand. You are an awesome instructor. And leader.” Marciana had taken his suggestion on how to emote and now when she waltzed, love flowed from her bodylines to the viewer.
Zamira nodded, meeting his gaze as she sipped from her bottle. She tended to be quiet, allowing the others to speak. As if she didn’t want to draw attention to herself and risk expulsion from the troupe. She had no idea that Armand was aware of her, always.
“Thank you.” Armand hitched his foot up on the lower rung of the stool. He’d kept to wearing jeans and polos, maintaining his status as non-dancer. It kept the line clear as a reminder for himself, too. “As you know, I tout mixing modern dance with the classics. My grandparents danced professionally in New York, as did my parents. I am not new to the dancing scene, and I appreciate your trust in joining DanceFusion.”
“Will you dance with us, Armand?” Sophie asked. “We’ve all seen your video clips from Dance, Dance USA. You are awesome.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Despite his love for the movement to music, getting lost in the notes as he matched his body to the tempo, he’d made the choice to teach. “Maybe once DanceFusion has a name for itself. Until then, my dancing in the competition might give Lucas, and the judges in our region, a reason to mark us down.”
“Lucas is jealous of your success,” Zamira said, her eyes flashing from dark brown to black.
“We have some work to do before we can be deemed a success.” Armand smiled to soften his words. “I realize that you’ve all taken a risk, dancing with me. Away from Miami.” He calmed his chaotic thoughts, pushing Lucas’s smug face to the back of his mind.
“This dance studio is way nicer than what’s available in Miami.” Trevor stretched his legs out in front of him, massaging his calf muscle. “Free parking. The drive is all right, too. Me and Zach are learning to speak Spanish during the ride.”
“Lucas’s studio is old. Smells like sweat.” Marciana scrunched her nose, her red hair in braids on either side of her face.
“Everything is the same there.” Oscar gestured toward the group. “This is exciting. New. I’m proud to be a part of it. Thanks, Armand. You’re the one who really has your neck on the line.”
Sophie clapped. “I want to win at the Breakers so I can tell Lucas to kiss my ass.” She leaned to one side and slapped her non-existent butt.
“What?” Armand studied his dancers sitting on the floor before him and some started to fidget. “Why?”
JoJo elbowed Sophie. “Way to go, Sophie.”
Cheeks red with embarrassment, Sophie explained, “Lucas has been hassling some of us, that’s all.”
Armand set his water bottle aside before he crushed it. “How?”
“Telling us we won’t dance again in Miami, ever, if we stay with you.” Christine dabbed at her face with the towel.
Marciana added, “That DanceFusion will fail once your two minutes of fame fades and people forget who you are.”
“That’s harassment.” Armand knew Lucas had been slandering him, but to attack the dancers now that they belonged under his roof, his dance company, was cause for concern.
“It doesn’t matter,” JoJo said. “We know he’s a jerk.”
The other dancers quickly agreed.
Zamira stood, tilting her head back to finish her water. “Winning is the best way to quiet the bastardo. Si?” She smiled at the rest of the dancers, somehow a hair apart from them. She was just that little bit better and though she didn’t act like she knew it, it was true.
He had to talk to her, seriously, about whether or not he could count on her to stay in the United States, or if she’d go back to Argentina. A solid core was needed for stability of the dance company to win. If she stays, I’ll make her the star.
The troupe cheered.
“On that note,” Armand cleared his throat. “Have a nice weekend. Enjoy it, because we go to a six day a week practice schedule starting on Monday.”
Some of them groaned, but Sophie and Zamira grinned.
Die-hards.
That’s what it took.
He’d never have believed that Zamira had the backbone, but so far, she’d taken everything he’d dished out. He remembered dancing with her and imagined doing it again, the feel of her in his arms as they flew across the dance floor
. Not yet.
The dancers dispersed to start their Friday night and Zamira lingered to help him clean up, as she’d done for the past two weeks. This time, it was just them.
She started the dishwasher in the little kitchen and he reached over her head to put a tray away. He brought his arm down, accidentally brushing her backside.
The air between them charged immediately.
All of the almost-touches, the partial glances, the forbidden looks exploded as he stared at her, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire. He recalled their days and nights of passion, in the hotel overlooking the bay, or the dance studio, or the park—it didn’t matter where they were, he’d wanted her.
They were alone. Nobody would see him if he dipped his head and…his breathing quickened and his pulse thundered in his ears. No. Yes.
His mouth dried. Her lower lip quivered in anticipation. The points of her breasts beaded beneath her tight leotard. All he’d have to do is cup that breast, squeeze the point of her nipple to make her moan.
Armand knew her body.
Just like she knew his.
An inch apart, she was trapped in his gaze, waiting. He stepped closer, putting his hand behind her head, tilting her chin as he backed her up against the counter.
She didn’t push away. Instead, she put her hand on his arm, lightly caressing his skin.
His control broke and he captured her mouth in a fierce kiss meant to drive all thought and reason from her mind. She had to want him as he wanted her.
She surrendered, meeting his mouth and opening hers, teasing his lower lip with her tongue. Hot, pink, moist.
“Zamira,” he said against her temple. He inhaled her perfume, her essence, cinnamon and lemon, wrapping his hand around her slender shoulder and holding her still as his body flooded with sensual memories. He was so hard with wanting it hurt.
He couldn’t take her against the counter.
He shouldn’t take her anywhere.
Zamira demanded another kiss, standing on tip-toe to hold his attention. She sucked his lower lip. “Dios,” she whispered. “I forgot how good you taste.”