Prima

by Alta Hensley

  Prima

  Alta Hensley

  Maggie Ryan

  Copyright

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission email request to Maggie.Ryan.Writes@gmail.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales outside of the references to biographical or historical figures, or historical events, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Raven Designs

  Contents

  1. Clara

  2. Clara

  3. Alek

  4. Alek

  5. Clara

  6. Alek

  7. Alek

  8. Alek

  9. Clara

  10. Alek

  11. Clara

  12. Alek

  13. Alek

  14. Alek

  15. Alek

  16. Clara

  17. Clara

  18. Alek

  19. Clara

  20. Clara

  21. Clara

  22. Clara

  23. Clara

  24. Alek

  25. Clara

  26. Clara

  27. Clara

  28. Alek

  29. Alek

  30. Clara

  31. Alek

  32. Clara

  Epilogue

  About Alta Hensley

  About Maggie Ryan

  Also by Alta Hensley

  Also By Maggie Ryan

  1

  Clara

  Ballet is like dreaming on your feet.

  But when the dancing stops, the nightmare begins.

  I knew this better than anyone.

  Marilyn Monroe once said if you give a girl the right shoes, then she can take over the world. But what happens when those shoes are stripped away from you? What are you left with then?

  Stepping outside, I swayed a bit, my gait a little unsteady as I headed toward my mailbox. The sunlight was so bright it stung my eyes, which were already aching from not sleeping through the night yet again. Insomnia had kept me up until dawn and the few hours I’d managed were definitely not enough.

  I slanted my hand against my forehead to provide a modicum of shadow while I moved my aching body across the lawn. If I were being honest, this gesture wasn’t because of that. It was to block out the rest of the world from seeing me too. It had been four years, and yet it was as if I feared some photographer who didn’t give a shit about anything but snapping “that picture” in order to sell it to some sleazy tabloid would jump out from the bushes at any moment.

  I thought back to the person I once was. The renowned, beautiful, and very much sought-after prima ballerina whom everyone wanted.

  Wanted to feature a photo of me in midair, arms arced gracefully over my head, legs extended, toes pointed in a perfect grande jeté on the cover of their glossy magazines.

  Wanted to be able to name drop me as an attendee for their A-list parties.

  Wanted to escort me on their arm like the ballet’s version of a trophy wife.

  Wanted. I was wanted.

  But now, ever since I’d stepped out of that spotlight focused on center stage — for which I only had myself to blame — I didn’t want anyone to even glance my way.

  I used to love all eyes on me, the thunderous applause, the long-lasting standing ovations, the dozens of roses heaped into my arms after every performance, the male attention. I no longer desired any of that. I wanted to lock myself away, to hide from the rest of the world, and to not be seen by anyone.

  As the mailbox swung open, I moaned, and my heart sank as I spotted the thick pile of unpaid bills. I used to have money to burn. Now — after years of teaching students who would never be stars in anyone’s but their parents’ eyes no matter how hard they practiced — the balance in my account was dangerously close to zero. With the current economy, people were tightening their belts regardless of how much they doted on their precious babies, and dance lessons were often the first extracurricular activity to be struck from their budget. Perhaps if I’d opened a real school, or if I’d capitalized on my reputation, I would still live like a princess.

  But I’d not had that choice. The few classes I taught out of my garage-slash-studio were barely enough to keep me going.

  It was a shame my lavish lifestyle had been reduced to such a mediocre one, but this was exactly what I deserved for allowing myself to get into such a fucked-up mess to begin with.

  Becoming aware of the sound of a car’s engine growing louder, getting closer — too close to be going anywhere else other than my house, which was situated at the end of a cul-de-sac — I spun around and crossed my arms in annoyance. Everyone who knew me well was more than aware they needed to contact me in advance before showing up. Even with my finances in the toilet, the first thing I’d impressed on my clients was never to show up unannounced. I couldn’t imagine who had dared to breach that hard and steadfast rule.

  As the car pulled to a stop, I leaned in a little to take in the dark hair of the driver who was effectively blocking my driveway. Two things instantly caught my attention and caused my heart to skip a beat.

  One — he was most definitely not a client.

  Two — he was incredibly attractive.

  A weird frisson of electricity coursed through my veins as I observed the way he filled out his suit as he climbed from the car and moved around its hood to approach me.

  When I lost everything, I also lost a part of myself. I’d actively gone out to screw around as much as possible. I’d wanted to forget all the angst, push away all the bad things I’d been through, to keep living the high life, and I figured fucking any man who caught my fancy would help me to do so.

  Unfortunately, that had resulted in making me even unhappier. So I took a sabbatical, swearing off all men until I found someone I really liked. Which was where I currently still was. Because of that, I felt extremely out of practice. I was as close to a nun as a woman could be without pledging her life to the church. So, despite my vow of celibacy, the unexpected sight of someone as incredibly hot as my visitor caused a clear uptick in my pulse.

  When he got closer, my eyes locked on one of the broadest chests I’d ever seen. It tapered into the flat plane of an abdomen. My fingers actually itched with a desire to lift that designer shirt to run over the rippled ridges of the six-pack I’d bet my life on lay beneath the expensive fabric. He brushed a wayward strand of hair away from his face to look at me, showing me a pair of gorgeous sparkling blue eyes, and the slow curling of his lips into a smile that threatened to stop my heart. Blue eyes, black hair, chiseled jaw — a combination that created a blend of perfection possessing the power to corrupt even the staunchest of saints.

  Without a doubt, he was the most flawless male specimen I’d seen in a very long time.

  Curiosity had me slamming the door of my mailbox shut and walking toward him, closing the distance between us. “If you’re here for any classes, I’m afraid I don’t accept walk-ins.”

  Actually, he looked far too young to be the father of the next wannabe ballerina. Or perhaps far too, I don’t know — delicious — to be married.

  “Hello,” he said in a professional tone of voice, which was when my eyes flicked up from where they’d been cataloging his firm, muscular thighs and the bulge residing between them to take in the fact he was not only wearing a jacket, he ha
d a tie hanging down his pristine white shirt. This man was here for business, which meant trouble for me. Despite the fact his suit appeared to be perfectly tailored rather than one off a rack, there was always a chance he could be a reporter for some gossip rag.

  Damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have done that interview with that cute Aussie a few months back. I blamed it on an accent that could easily curl a girl’s toes, but now it was obvious the guy had been a shark. I hadn’t been the “opportunity of his lifetime.” I’d just been chum in the waters and now feared there was about to be a feeding frenzy. When would I ever learn men and I were so not a good mix?

  “I don’t require any services at the moment. My name’s Alexei Volkov. I’d like a minute of your time.”

  “What for?” I snapped back in a frustrated tone I didn’t mean to sound as harsh as it did, but I so didn’t need this right now. My headache was coming back with a vengeance, and I was in a seriously bad mood, which, unfortunately, wasn’t really a new thing for me.

  The man didn’t seem frazzled, however. Instead, he was scanning my body from head to toe with eyes that suddenly seemed as though they were not only the most mouth-watering shade of indigo, but were capable of seeing right through me. I fought not to let the fact the oversized T-shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants as well as hair I was sure looked like a rat’s nest made me feel woefully inadequate. Forcing myself to relax my death grip on the pile of bills, I waited for him to answer my question.

  “I’m the owner of the Volkov Ballet, and I’d like to discuss having you come dance at our theater. See if we can get you back on the stage.”

  If he’d announced I not only won the lottery but had the right digits in the Powerball circle as well, I wouldn’t have been more shocked.

  “Are you here to screw with me, Mr. Volkov?” I asked in disbelief. “Is this some sort of sick practical joke?”

  “It’s Alek, and I’m not known to be a joker,” he replied, appearing not the least bit nonplussed by my accusation. Meeting my glare with a stare that made me feel even smaller, he continued, “Though I can understand your hesitancy in believing me, I assure you this is a serious offer. I want to discuss a possible contract with you. See if we can work toward having you return to where you belong.”

  “And where is it you think I belong?”

  “Center stage,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.

  The nails of the hand not clutching mail bit into my palm in my effort to appear unaffected by the way he’d nonchalantly referred to the one place I’d ever truly felt at home.

  The stage.

  Before I could formulate a reply, he tilted his head to the side. “If underneath all that”—his hand lifted to gesture at me from my tangled hair to my bare feet—“you still have what it takes, that is.”

  Fuck unaffected. I might have walked away from that life, but I’d be damned if I was going to let him judge me in my own freaking driveway. Quite capable of giving my own smirk, I raised my eyebrow and canted my head, allowing what I considered the appropriate pregnant pause before taking the faker down a much needed peg or two.

  “You’re not only rude, you’re a liar. Volkov Ballet is owned by Nadia Volkova.” I remembered the beautiful Russian woman known for her incredible precision during her reign as the featured prima ballerina of her generation. She’d taken that dedication to perfection with her when she opened her own company. She had an unshakeable level of expectation in any dancer she accepted into her ballet. Nadia wasn’t only a legend, she had been my role model. I would have cut off the big toe on my right foot to have her notice me. Of course, doing so would have made dancing on pointe virtually impossible, but it was the thought that counted.

  “She’s dead,” he said evenly. “I’m her oldest son. My brother Yuri and I are now co-owners of the company.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. She was an incredible woman,” I said sincerely, momentarily forgetting I was pissed off. How could I not have known she’d passed away at far too young an age? Then again, considering my life had not only gone to hell, but I’d purposely kept my involvement with anything having to do with that past life restricted to giving classes to children who didn’t know how to plié without looking like awkward frogs, it really wasn’t all that surprising.

  “She was,” he said, not revealing any further information, but the tone in which he said those two words let me know he was sincere.

  Suddenly remembering that I wasn’t interested but was anxious to get this guy out of my driveway, I quickly shot back, “Do you not know my history? Do you not know what I did?”

  He didn’t flinch at the anger in my voice. “I’m aware you walked right off the stage in the middle of a production, leaving a company already reeling from the loss of one prima ballerina without their second. That your actions practically destroyed the entire company all because you were a jealous bitch,” he said without so much as a blink of an eye. While I fought not to reach out and scratch that asinine look right off his face, he shrugged. “Or at least that’s what people have accused you of.”

  Okay, so this smug bastard had no fucking clue. Volkov or not, it was obvious he hadn’t been in the ballet scene for long, and he didn’t know shit about the world of dance. Maybe his mother had shielded him from everything. Because to me, anybody who knew anything about ballet, especially people who were privy to the exclusive bubble prima ballerinas were kept in, knew every sordid detail.

  “That’s the tip of the iceberg,” I said. I wasn’t proud of what I’d done, but I didn’t have the energy to explain why I’d made those choices. He didn’t press for details, as if it didn’t bother him in the least, which had me wondering what in the hell was going on with the company he’d inherited. If he was coming to me, he was either desperate or far too inept to run a successful ballet company. But I didn’t care either way as I was far too jaded and way too exhausted to waste another moment on his problems. “Look, if you don’t know the rest, then you really shouldn’t be coming to me with talks of contracts.” I moved to step around him but was stopped when he shifted to block my exit.

  “Then tell me,” he said. “Make me understand why a career as promising as my mother’s came to a screeching halt.”

  At the mention of my idol, I hung my head in shame for a second, allowing my hair to fall over my eyes. Did this man really want to know everything? Should I tell him about the ambition of a girl barely out of her teens? The shallowness of one wanting desperately to fit in? How I’d not only dated a man old enough to be my father but all the terrible things I’d done from the moment I’d met the bastard? How he’d cost me my pride and almost my life? Should I mention the sex, the drugs I’d swallowed like candy, or the alcohol chasers I’d downed? I figured it would simply take one look online to reveal it all anyway, so if he really needed to know that badly, he could find out for himself. But at the same time, I did need him to go away, so I decided it more expedient to tell him anything to get his Audi sedan out of my driveway.

  “Look,” I said in the firmest tone I was capable of using, “I am not the sort of woman you want representing your theater, I can assure you. I left that world behind a long time ago. And even if I hadn’t, I’m not in a position to dance anyway.”

  “Your past—” he began, but I refused to let him get a word in edgewise.

  “I need to look after my grandmother. She needs me here.” I shook my head, wanting him to understand this wasn’t going to happen no matter how hard he tried. “I look after her twenty-four seven. I can’t take on any other responsibilities. Not now. So, hop back in your car, and go find yourself another ballerina.”

  I turned my back to him and started to walk around the trunk of his car, but he wasn’t about to be deterred. He called out behind me regardless, “If you change your mind, you should come over to dance with the others at the theater in your free time. One free month as my treat. You might actually find Volkov Ballet to be a cool place. Welcoming. And, starting the day after t
omorrow, we are holding auditions to fill some holes. I would really like to see what you still have. I have a feeling even though you may be a bit rusty, that dancer is still in you.” That little smirk of his returned. “I could be wrong though. Maybe you are too out of shape to bother. One of the younger women may dance rings around you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? But it’s up to you if you want to prove you are still the prima ballerina you were destined to be before you threw it all away.”

  Not wanting to fall for his trap of goading me, I stalked back inside. Resisting the urge to look back and be hypnotized by his mesmerizing good looks, I slammed the door behind me, making my feelings on the subject very clear.

  2

  Clara

  Of course I wanted to get back on stage. I’d been born to dance. That was why I allowed that little tidbit of information to slip into my interview recently. But that didn’t mean it could actually happen. I’d changed too much, and I really did need to take care of the woman who’d raised me after my mother died and my father had no desire to take on the baby of a woman he hadn’t even seen fit to wed. I owed this woman everything. It had been she who’d put the love of ballet into my very soul. The answer was no… but I remained by the door, with my back pressed against it, struggling to breathe without pain until I heard the sound of the engine of Alexei’s car fade as he pulled away.