by Traci Hall
“Well, since this seems to be a group discussion, let’s have a vote. All in favor of giving Diego a chance?”
Lila raised her hand. “I’d love to dance the whole time.”
Christine nodded and brought up hers too. “I don’t mind switching partners—no offense, Lance.”
Lance bowed his head, embarrassed.
Sophie raised her hand, in support of her friend.
Zamira risked a glance at Armand, who, of course, had regained his composure. The only sign of his fury was a tiny tic at the corner of his eye. His shoulders were relaxed, his arms at his side.
“Noted,” Armand said. “The rest of you?”
“I say we give him a chance.” Oscar eyed Diego. “If he screws up, he’s out. We’ve got a great team without a bunch of ego. I’d like to keep it that way.”
Diego’s jaw clenched but he nodded his head. That had to be hard, because her ex-dancing partner was all about being number one. Led by ego, he racked up wins and wasn’t kidding about the room full of trophies. She’d left ego behind to be with Armand.
Winning for the love of the dance instead of being numero uno.
“I can help you win.” Diego shrugged as if just one of the guys.
The rest of the company’s hands climbed into the air. Armand’s cold voice dropped the temperature in the studio by twenty degrees.
“Fine. Diego, pick a locker and take a seat. Christine, it will be up to you to make sure your dancing partner is up to speed with the rest of us.” He dismissed Zamira with a cutting look. “Oscar, run the practice. There can be no more changes to the roster once I pay this fee for the competition.” He speared Diego with his gaze. “Are you certain?”
“You can count on me.”
“Doubtful.” Armand left the studio and headed upstairs for his office.
Zamira blinked away tears but knew that now was not the time to push the issue, and if she wanted the next two weeks to go smoothly, then she had to act like there was nothing between her and Diego, and more importantly, nothing between her and Armand.
Why had Diego come? To ruin everything?
*****
Armand refrained from slamming his office door.
Gritted his back teeth to keep from shouting obscenities.
Gave in, and kicked the metal mesh wastebasket before plunking down in his office chair and propping his elbows on the desk.
What the hell was Diego doing here? Right after he and Zamira had connected again? She’d tried to talk to him about Diego and he’d put her off. Was she trying to tell him about Diego’s arrival?
Although she’d looked just as stunned seeing her ex walk in. Demanding a chance to dance for Armand? It felt like a sick joke, and just what he deserved for letting her get close to him.
Zamira was not to be trusted.
Why didn’t that feel right? If anybody hadn’t been honest, that would be him. Chantal had called last night during the performance and he’d taken it, yes, because Alex wanted to hear his dad sing him good-night. He wouldn’t change a thing.
Chapter Seventeen
Armand drove separately to the convention center, the weight of being a new instructor at this South Beach competition heavy on his shoulders. Juggling his feelings for Zamira, hiding Alex from the spotlight, and his distrust of Diego—combined with the knowledge that everybody expected him and his company to fall flat on their faces today, had kept him up all night.
The last two weeks, he and Zamira, in between making love at her hotel, had choreographed each dance move, each possible pitfall. Lance was stronger with Lila, and Christine danced with Diego without error. Last week, he and Zamira had driven to the convention center to get the lay of the land. Zamira understood his nerves, his need to be prepared. The ballroom had high ceilings and parquet floors. Mirrors in the ceiling reflected the light from the brass chandeliers, which would catch on the brass buttons in their costumes.
They’d decided on a Built to Spill song that had a ¾ beat. Velvet Waltz was not a traditional waltz, but they weren’t breaking any rules with the unconventional song choice. The costumes were crazy—brown and red clockwork patterns with black jagged lines. Even if DanceFusion didn’t win, they wouldn’t be forgotten.
He’d competed plenty—as a dancer. Armand missed the artistic expression given through his body to the music, but he poured that passion into ensuring his routine, his company, would shine. He knew better than most that there were no guarantees in life. His grandparents had filled the absence of his parents through dance. He wanted to give Alex something tangible, too. Just in case.
Zamira had asked when he was going to dance again and he didn’t have an answer. Could he ever be both teacher and performer? Armand felt like he had something to prove to Miami’s old-school code. That he had the dancing chops, but could run a successful business to—for Alex’s sake, the business mattered most.
He parked in the lot across from the convention center. His phone rang and he answered it before getting out of the car.
“Hey, Chantal. How are you? How’s Alex?”
“We are fine,” she said. He heard Alex’s laughter in the background. “Your son has a new fondness for scrubbing his food in his hair.”
He smiled. “I noticed that last weekend. Thanks again for switching nights with me.”
“We are a family. An odd family, but a family. Even Scott is coming around to realizing that you are not his opponent when it comes to my heart.”
He sighed and sat back in the leather seat of his BMW. “That would be you?”
“I make no apologies.”
“Are you two fighting again?”
It was her turn to sigh. “He wants to explain things to me over dinner tonight. My mother is coming to put Alex to bed. I just wanted to tell you to break a leg. I know how important today is for you.”
“Thanks, Chantal.”
“No, no, Alex, no carrots up your nose.” She laughed softly. “I have to go and put our cherub in the bathtub. Remember, Armand, you belong there. You’ve earned it. Don’t let Lucas get under your skin.”
“Got it.”
“Have you told Zamira about Alex yet?”
“No.” He’d discussed the situation with Chantal. It was awkward, always being at Zamira’s hotel rather than his house. Zamira suspected something, but didn’t press. Diego had created yet another barrier between them that would have to be knocked down once this competition was over.
“We both know you still love her,” Chantal said. “You’ve got to tell her.”
“I will. Next weekend.” He had a plan. “I’ll take her to dinner on the beach. Romance her properly.” He did love Zamira and he owed her an explanation. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Give Alex a kiss for me?”
“Of course, Armand. Bye!”
She hung up and he stared at the phone. Would Zamira understand about Alex and Chantal? He’d have to find just the right way to explain.
He got out of the car, making sure he had his copies of the entry form, the roster and the dances. Armand caught a glance of himself in the mirrored windows on the side of the building. Black jeans, a rust-colored button-up shirt, open at the collar, and black dress shoes. Professional, stylish.
Ready or not. Armand entered the convention center and was immediately hit with pre-competition noise. This was an adults-only competition, so the layer of kids running around was taken out of the familiar equation, but the energy level remained high.
Thing didn’t supposedly open for another half hour, but there were folks warming up in the halls. The competition was an hour away. Should he have had his company here earlier?
No, the extra tension that would create wasn’t necessary.
He found the auditorium and watched somebody sweep the large open stage where the dances would take place. Armand wished Zamira was here with him. The next competition, things would be different. No more hiding in corners for a stolen kiss. He would bring her to the forefront of his life where she bel
onged.
If she would have him.
He left the auditorium, walking toward the west entrance and the sign-up desk, where Colin, red-haired with pale skin and freckles, was setting up folders. “You’re early, Armand.”
“Yeah.” Armand gestured to the halls. “I wanted to get a feel for the place.”
Colin nodded, his guarded expression loosening just a little bit. “How do you feel?”
“Nervous.” Armand pressed his hand to his stomach with a chuckle.
“Worse than dancing?”
He wouldn’t say worse, Armand thought. “Different. It’s like I’m dancing times a hundred.”
Colin grinned. “Exactly.” He held out his hand. “I’ll go ahead and take your paperwork.”
“I can come back.” Armand shrugged, not wanting to put Colin out.
“It’s no problem.”
Armand handed over the roster and routines, which Colin quickly scanned. “You’ve got some heavy hitters. Two from Argentina? Diego Santana and Zamira Caballera. I’m familiar with them.” His freckles popped with color across the bridge of his broad nose. “I hear Lucas was sorry to lose Oscar and Sophie to your company. You got Lance and Christine, too?”
“It was my gain, certainly.”
“Your dancers might carry your inexperience as an instructor.” Colin eyed him with new interest. “Is that why you put the call out for seasoned talent only?”
Armand chose not to answer.
Colin nodded as if Armand had and asked, “Why did you quit dancing?”
“I haven’t quit.” He didn’t want to quit. “I’m just focusing on the studio for a while. My grandparents had a very successful studio in New York. I’d like to recreate that here.”
“Starting a new business is tough. But it sounds like you’ve got the dancing gene in your blood. Good luck, Armand.” Colin stuffed the sheets back into the folder, setting them in the stack on the table. A woman joined them with a Miami Dance Competition button on, and sat at the table. “Morning, Marge. This is Armand Vargas.”
“I know!” The woman, about thirty, blushed. “I voted for you.”
Armand cleared his throat. “Uh, thank you. I appreciate it.”
“His new dance studio appreciates it too,” Colin said.
This was the prejudice he was up against, which was why he wasn’t dancing—yet. He had something to prove first.
“Nice to meet you, Marge.” Armand brought his attention back to the woman rather than answer Colin.
Marge giggled. “Are you checked in?”
Colin rolled his eyes but smiled and handed her Armand’s folder. “You may be popular, but you aren’t the one dancing. Your dancers better live up to your reputation.”
Armand’s reply was professional and to the point. “You won’t be disappointed.”
*****
Zamira fidgeted in the front seat of the bus. Diego tried to sit with her, but she regressed to high school and put her feet across the seat so he couldn’t.
“What? Your boyfriend’s not here.”
“Knock it off,” she said. Diego knew she loved Armand. Had known it when they’d had their brief affair, when she wasn’t sure she’d ever see Armand again. When she’d realized Armand held her heart even if he didn’t want it.
Diego took the bench seat behind hers and sat against the window, determined to talk to her. “You’ve avoided me.”
“You followed me across the world.”
“That’s a slight exaggeration,” Diego said. “I’ve been waiting, but this is ridiculous.”
“Waiting for what?” She took her phone from her pocket, untangling her ear buds.
“For your precious Armand to let you down,” Diego said in a stage whisper. “He doesn’t love you like I do.”
She couldn’t think about that. “He’s made no promises.” She put her ear buds in, determined to block Diego out.
“You are sleeping together.”
Her stomach clenched and she pulled the buds free, coiling them in her palm.
Diego shrugged. “It’s the worst kept secret in all of South Florida—most especially the company.”
She nibbled on her thumbnail. Of course everybody knew. “What are people saying?”
Diego scowled. “They’ve been waiting since the first day of practice for you to make it official. Sparks, they say. I say, they’ve never seen you and I together.”
Technically speaking, she and Diego were right on. Their dance moves were exact but they lacked the zing. It was the emotional element that made what she shared with Armand amazing. She waited for the day Armand realized he had nothing to prove to Lucas or the old guard and dance again—with her.
They could lead DanceFusion to the next level and travel the world. There was no reason to stay in one place.
She brought out the passion in Armand Vargas. Which was why he’d come over almost every night for the last two weeks. She’d explained about Diego, and she knew he believed her, but she sensed that he was still holding back.
Zamira remembered quite well what Armand was like without holding back. Just maybe she’d broken that forever. And who did she have to blame but herself?
If what they had was scarred, then so be it—she would love him more for daring to try again.
The van pulled up in front of the convention center and she grabbed her duffle bag. “Are you going back home after this?” Zamira asked Diego.
Diego scoffed, lifting his chin in defiance. “I think I’ve proven myself. Your boyfriend should be pleased to have two dancers of our caliber in his company.”
He’d worked as hard as the others in preparation for the completion. She’d give credit where it was due. “Thank you.”
Diego searched her face to see if she was serious.
“But you don’t have to stay. Your legions of female fans are waiting in Argentina.” She stuck her tongue out at him and walked toward the front of the van.
He laughed at her back. “I haven’t made up my mind.”
“This isn’t all about you, Diego.” Zamira looked back over her shoulder.
“Other than that,” he teased, “it’s been fun. The dancers are great, and Christine is,” he brushed his knuckles against his shoulder. “Hot.”
So much for his whining about a broken heart. She’d actually suffered from one, and realized that she’d been right in her assessment: Diego loved Diego best.
Armand waited on the sidewalk, looking sophisticated and sexy in black. Professional, yes, but she knew him well enough to look for the tell-tale tightening of his jaw. Everything else about him was relaxed and cool.
The dance troupe gathered around him, dressed in matching light-weight summer sweat-suits. The convention center was freezing to help the dancers stay cool, but while you weren’t dancing, you risked frostbite unless you had some layers on. Zamira stayed to Armand’s left, close enough to accidentally brush hands.
They went inside the two-story concrete building painted coral and surrounded by assorted palm trees. Oaks provided shade in the large grassy area where dancers had already staked out tables for their teams. There was a fountain in the front, where people lounged to cool off from the hot morning.
Armand brought them inside. “I’ve checked us in. You’re on in forty-five minutes. I want you dressed and ready in ten. Restrooms are to the left. I’ll be waiting here.”
They split off but Armand grabbed her hand. “We need to talk, Zamira.”
“Now?”
“No. Next weekend. I am asking you on a date. Dinner. Drinks. I don’t care who knows, all right?”
Her heart soared and her body tingled—her smile so wide it hurt. “I accept.”
Sophie, who’d overheard, clapped Zamira on the back. “Awesome!”
Armand nodded, put his hands behind his back, and winked before walking down the hall.
Trailing the ladies into the restroom, Zamira couldn’t stop grinning. Sophie announced, “Well, Armand is officially dating our
Zamira.”
“About time!” Marciana said, giving her two thumbs up. “Now you both can concentrate on making DanceFusion as good as when you used to dance together, instead of sneaking kisses in the kitchen.”
Zamira’s cheeks heated. “Let’s just get through today, okay?”
They heard shouting come from the guys’ bathroom and the ladies rushed out. Oscar met them, his face pale as he wiped at the front of his sweat suit with a brown paper towel.
“Lance and Joshua are hurling.”
“Nerves?” Zamira asked, her hand to her stomach, which felt fine.
“I don’t know,” Oscar said, his mouth pinched as the smell traveled from the bathroom. “I hope it’s not the flu.”
JoJo clamped her lips together.
A pale Zach came out with Diego. Diego shook his head. “Fast food in this country,” he said. “It’s enough to make you sick. Even without eating it.”
“Who else had breakfast on the bus with them?” Zamira thought back to where they were sitting. Lance and Joshua, Felicity and Christine. Christine had brought a bag of food and the four of them had their own party in the back.
Zamira rushed into the ladies room, knocking on the closed stalls. “Christine? Felicity? Are you okay?”
“I don’t feel so good,” came a voice from behind the metal door.
Felicity. “Christine?”
“Here.” She stepped next to Sophie, her mouth trembling.
“Are you going to be sick, too?” Zamira put her hand on Christine’s arm. This can’t be happening, not now.
“I didn’t eat my sandwich,” Christine said, putting her hand over her stomach. “Too nervous.”
Zamira closed her eyes and sent a prayer to the dance gods. Had they been too sure of themselves? Too prideful? Armand wanted this—they all did—so badly.
She’d like to blame Lucas, but the three that were sick had all eaten breakfast that Christine had gotten from a drive-thru before getting on the bus.
JoJo looked at Zamira with wide eyes, her jagged bangs perfect for their costumes. “Zamira, what now? You have to tell Armand.”