by Traci Hall
Groaning, he pressed against her, letting her know that he had forgotten nothing.
*****
Zamira’s body was so ready for Armand that it would have taken a stroke or two of him inside her to bring her to release. Was it right?
The last two weeks had been prolonged foreplay.
Stolen glances, accidental touches. She’d gone back to her hotel alone. Watched movies, stretched. Practiced. Dreamed of earning Armand’s trust.
At night, when her defenses were down, she dreamed of his kiss. Somehow, his mouth against hers was even better than she’d remembered. Impossible, but true.
The reality of his warmth, his scent, his strength intoxicated her.
She ran her hands up his back and along his shoulders, kneading the taut muscles. “I’ve missed you so much, Armando.”
He stiffened.
She waited for him to tell her not to call him that, but he didn’t. Instead, he nipped her earlobe and she arched her breasts into his chest. The contact shot pleasure through her and she exhaled, wanting his mouth again.
He shut his eyes, leaning into her before he stepped back with a pained expression. “We have to talk, Zamira.”
She realized he wasn’t going to take her home.
It would be another cold shower and frustrated dreams. How did he do it? She knew in her heart, her bones, her soul that he wanted her too.
“About?” Zamira calmed her lustful thoughts by pinching the inside of her palm.
“The dance troupe.”
Her body tensed with a different form of apprehension. Was he going to send her away, after everything she’d done?
“Especially your part in the company.”
She knew better than to relax.
“You are a terrific dancer.”
Zamira tilted her head. “And?”
“I need to know that I can count on you to stick around.”
It felt like the floor cracked beneath her feet, ready to open and suck her down into the void. “I told you I would.”
“I know.”
He didn’t believe her. She’d done everything she could to prove herself, but he didn’t trust that she would keep her word.
That hurt—a lot. “Give me a chance!”
“I have.”
“And have I let you down?”
“No.” He shoved his hair back from his face. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
She crossed her arms in front of her stomach. “That’s not fair.”
“I get that.” Armand rubbed his chest. “But I can’t forget.”
“I am not asking you to forget. I want your forgiveness so that we can move on. Into something else.”
Something stronger.
She would never let him down again.
“If you stay...”
“I am going to stay.”
“The show will feature your skills. If you pull out, then the routine will be ruined. I traded my “fame” for a foot in the door at the Breakers.”
Zamira touched his wrist. “I will do whatever you want. Extra practice. Anything.”
“Thank you.” He brushed his thumb across her lower lip, igniting the fire in her blood once more.
“I wish you would dance with me.” She didn’t understand how he could give up something that had been an integral part. “Then we would win everything.”
“I can’t.” His voice lowered and his eyes met hers. “I want you so much.”
Want? She needed him.
He pulled back a few inches so they could breathe.
He caught her off guard, asking, “What do your parents think about you leaving Argentina?”
“It’s not that far.” She accepted the subject change. “They have these crazy things called airplanes. Nine hours and I can be home, or they can be here.”
Now that she knew she could stay, it was time to tell Diego the truth. That she wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. They’d been lovers for five months of guilt-ridden pressure. She’d broken off their dancing partnership months prior to coming to America—refusing to tell him of her new plans. She hadn’t known if they would come to fruition, and honestly, she hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings.
He knew how she felt about Armand.
She’d risked her entire dancing career for Armand to give her a shot. To dance with Armand again—only to learn he wouldn’t dance.
He shoved his hair back from his broad forehead, but the dark wave fell forward again. “We can’t have the same relationship we used to have.”
Nodding, Zamira agreed. Living in the past served nobody. “You can’t go back to what was. I understand.”
“Let’s work on our friendship, all right?” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with a longing that brought tears to her eyes.
They might start out as friends, but Zamira wanted it all. She could tell from his kiss, he did too.
Chapter Eight
“How was work today, dear?” Chantal asked in a sing-song voice when Armand arrived at her condo. They’d switched nights so that she could go out Saturday with the girls instead. Armand didn’t mind. The Friday night dinner invitation was a win-win, as far as he was concerned. He still got to hang out with Alex, and didn’t have to eat microwave chicken parmesan.
Alex, light brown curls damp from a bath, sat in his highchair, a tray of finger foods in front of him. Sliced banana, dry cereal and cheese cubes. His blue eyes brightened when he saw Armand, and Armand’s worries faded as he kissed Alex’s chubby fingers.
“Well?” Chantal nudged after he pecked her cheek. Her strapless sundress showed tan shoulders and long, slender arms. “Are you happy with your dancers?”
He plopped down at the small dining table. “Zamira is staying in the states.”
Chantal poured him a glass of burgundy wine, topping hers off in the process. “And how do you feel about that?”
He shook his head, taking a deep sniff of something delicious coming from the oven. “Don’t know. The troupe was excited about the prospect of dancing at the Breakers—thank you again. What are you making? Is that turkey?”
“Turkey breast with herbs I got at the Farmer’s Market. I made a goat cheese dip, too.”
Chantal controlled her health by cooking for herself, using fresh and organic ingredients. Alex benefited from her expertise. When Armand was lucky enough to get an invite to a meal, he did too.
“It smells like Thanksgiving.”
“That’s the rosemary,” she said, leaning her hip against the counter, wine glass in hand.
Alex smacked his little palm against the tray, demanding Armand’s attention as food flew across the kitchen.
“Don’t laugh, Armand!” Chantal instructed. “Alex thinks that throwing his food is hysterical.”
“He looks like he’s having fun,” he said in defense of his comedic progeny.
“We need to teach him manners, or we’ll never be able to take him to nicer restaurants.”
“Don’t kids like McDonalds?”
She took plates out of the cupboard. “I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Armand laughed and got up to gather the silverware from the drawer. “I’m teasing.”
Chantal put their plates on the table. “Dinner is in ten minutes. Plenty of time for you to finish telling me about Zamira.”
Just when he’d been about to forget the heat of their kiss. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She gripped his hand and squeezed his fingers. “I care about you, Armand. You still have feelings for this woman. I was hoping you’d send her running back to her ex, but since you haven’t, you need a game plan to protect your heart.”
That sounded very practical. Zamira made him want to throw the rules out the window. Drive sixty in a twenty-five. Have an affair. “My heart is fine.”
“You are not like me.” Chantal sipped her wine, studying him while absently handing banana pieces to Alex. He either put them in his mouth or smeared them on
the Cheerios. “You aren’t the kind to sleep around. When was the last time you had sex?” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Please God it wasn’t me. That was a very long time ago.”
“That is none of your business.”
“We are friends. Your happiness is my business.”
“I have women in my life.” He and a lady across the park sometimes met for a drink and a few hours together.
Chantal’s gaze sharpened. “Good. Call one of them instead of your Zamira. So long as you don’t kiss her,” she paused then groaned as she watched his face. “You kissed her.”
He felt his throat get hot. “It won’t happen again.”
“But it will happen again! You want her. Kissing won’t be enough. You will end up in bed.” She waved a white napkin as if in surrender. “Face it. You’re doomed.”
He snatched the napkin. “Knock it off.”
“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that the kiss was awful and you realized it would be a mistake to think of her in any way other than platonic.”
He couldn’t.
Chantal got up from her seat to take the turkey breast from the oven. “You are going to get hurt.” She put the savory dish between them, her eyes sad. “Want me to kick her ass back to Argentina before or after you end up in the sack?”
“Alex, baby, why don’t you give Mama some of that banana?”
Alex, giggling, tossed a chunk that landed right in Chantal’s wine glass.
Undeterred, Chantal handed Armand the carving knife. “I’m not getting pregnant again to cure you of your heartbreak, either.”
His hand shook as he made the first cut into the tender white meat. “Don’t be silly.” When he imagined being a father again, it was a passionate woman with red lipstick and fiery dark eyes that came to mind.
“Good.”
“I can’t sleep with her.”
“Excellent decision. Why?”
“I can’t trust her.”
“With your heart?”
He ignored that. “What if she leaves again? She’s the best dancer in the studio. She’s graceful, has rhythm and balance and she’s intuitive. I asked her point-blank if she would leave. She promised no.”
“But you don’t believe her.” Chantal cut into a piece of melon.
Taking a bite of the moist turkey, he asked, “Can Alex have some? This is delicious.”
“I’m not giving him meat. The green beans are soft enough, though.”
Armand trusted Chantal’s choices and followed her direction by handing his son the soft vegetable. Alex took the small piece of green bean, put it in his mouth with a look of expectation, then spit it back out with his eyes squeezed shut.
“I guess he doesn’t like green beans,” Chantal observed with a laugh. “I love him so much.” She gave him a sliver of cooked carrot. “Try this, baby.”
This time the look was cautious, but Alex gave it a chance. A smile blossomed as Alex enjoyed the taste and Armand’s heart warmed. “That’s better. You had me give him the crappy veggies. I see how you are.”
“Not true! It’s cooked with nutmeg, so I wasn’t sure he’d like it.”
He touched his wine glass to hers. “You are a wonderful mother, Chantal. A terrific friend. Thank you.”
They put Alex to bed, and Armand went home. He drove by the studio, and then, by chance, of course, he drove by the hotel Zamira was staying in. Two blocks from downtown, and easy walking distance to a small grocery store, restaurants and the studio, he wondered if she would look for an apartment now that he’d offered her a spot in the company.
Two years ago he’d never imagined being in this place. Of wanting Zamira in his life again. Could they be friends?
Or would his passion for her make that impossible?
She desired him, too. Knowing that made denying their mutual pleasure even harder.
Would she answer the door if he knocked?
He drove around the block a few times, considering his options. What his mind and body wanted were at odds. And he ignored his heart completely.
He’d never stopped loving Zamira.
He would love her for the rest of his life. Chantal was right, he was doomed.
*****
Zamira flicked off the television, wiping her eyes at the corny ending of yet another romantic comedy. She loved getting lost in the romance. Each on-screen kiss made her touch her lip as she recalled Armand’s kisses. Had he proclaimed undying love? No. He’d left her with a lecture that they would be just friends.
Being away from her hectic dance schedule and full life in Argentina had allowed her time to read and relax, despite all of the hours she put in at practice. Though Sophie had asked her to go dancing again in Miami tonight, Zamira had opted to stay home.
Home being the hotel room she’d rented for the month. Now that she knew she was staying, she looked forward to finding a long-term rental. She’d talk to the nice woman at the front desk in the morning. Debbie had hinted that she might be able to get a discount for Zamira.
Her phone dinged, signaling a text message. She checked the time, surprised to see that it was ten o’clock.
Diego? She’d called and left a message for him, telling him that they needed to talk, though she dreaded the conversation. Zamira had tried to make things work but she’d made a mess out of everything. She decided to be honest about her feelings and accept the consequences, which is why she’d cancelled solo dance projects as well as dissolved her dance partnership with Diego.
The text was from Armand! Oh no. She jumped off the bed, checking the mirror next to the television. No! Her hair was a mess, she had no make-up on, and she needed to brush her teeth.
It is just a text message, estupida.
Her heart calmed as she realized he couldn’t see her and she read the message.
Any chance you’d meet me for a drink by the beach?
Dios. If she met him, she’d want to kiss him again. Hope that he might kiss her back. Make her toes curl.
But she couldn’t tell him she was already in bed. Or, she thought with a smile, maybe she should. Then ask him to join her.
Definitely not.
She typed back. When?
Now. I’m at Aruba’s.
Closing her eyes, she knew she shouldn’t go. Her mother had warned her to take the friendship slow and maybe Armand would come to her. What would Aunt Tildy do?
All right. One drink. Give me fifteen minutes.
Zamira tossed on shorts and a t-shirt, put her hair in a ponytail and ran dark liner under each eye. Powdered her nose and slicked on her red lipstick after brushing her teeth. She eyed herself critically in the mirror. “If this doesn’t scare him off...”
She walked the two blocks to Aruba’s and saw Armand waiting outside the bar. He wore black jeans, leather sandals and a gray t-shirt. He looked edible and she said a quick prayer that she would make it through the evening with her pride intact.
“Hi,” she said.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for meeting me.”
She nodded.
“Glass of wine?”
She swallowed nervously. “Actually, I’d prefer a cup of hot tea.”
“What happened to the party girl I used to know?”
“You’ve got to be thinking of somebody else.”
He put his hand on her lower back and directed her to a coffee shop instead of the bar. “I was teasing. This will be better, anyway. I’ll be able to hear you.”
“Monday night. Who knew it would be so popular?”
“It’s prime tourist season, the best of South Florida weather before it gets too hot.”
They ordered teas and went outside to sit at a table on the sidewalk. “I love the smell of the ocean. It reminds me of home.”
“Are you homesick?”
She considered that. “No. It’s been nice having a break. Time to myself.”
He nodded and lifted the plastic lid off of his cup. Lemon zest wafted toward her. She’d picked
an orange spice.
“I can’t stop thinking about your mouth.” His tone was sultry.
Her eyes widened and her gaze dropped to his full lips. “Oh.”
“I knew that I shouldn’t have called you. But I did anyway.”
Reaching for his hand on the table, she nodded. “I told myself not to answer your text. Yet, here I am.”
“Shit.”
She laughed. “Well, I’d like to think that we can be mature adults about this.”
“Can we have an affair and keep it secret?”
She didn’t want to be a secret. She lowered her misty eyes. Don’t cry. “I said mature.”
“Right.” He ran his thumb over her palm. “I have to have you.”
Swallowing, ignoring the curl of heat in her belly, she gently pulled her hand free. “You are my boss. The other dancers know we have a history of some sort together, but we’ve been good about keeping that separate. Professional.”
He wrapped his hands around his paper cup and watched the people pass by. “It’s the right thing to do.” His tone made it sound like the worst solution.
“If we make love, it will change everything,” she said. “The dynamic at the studio. It won’t be a quick tumble. Si? What we feel for one another is more complicated than that.”
His jaw clenched. “What am I supposed to do?”
His banked passion called to her nature, his smoldering desire for her demanding that she take part. Do something to bring them each pleasure. Such pleasure.
“The truth is that I want to stay here. Dance with you. I know you don’t trust me.”
He flinched, confirming her words.
“I can’t be with you, in bed, until I know that you have forgiven me.”
“Zamira, that’s not going to happen overnight—you’ve only been here for two weeks.”
“Almost three,” she said. “But that is my point. You were right at the studio—we need more time to be friends before becoming lovers once more. You don’t trust me with your heart, which means I cannot trust you with mine.”
He got up and towered over her seat, a pained expression on his face. “It might never happen.” Then he tossed his cup into the trash and walked away.