Chapter One
Lizzie Maynes couldn’t help her little strut as she passed through the brass double doors of Club Devant. As always, the music did obscene things to her sense of self-control. Hips. Ass. The tips of her toes. She simply had to move. To dance was to breathe. She winked at Mr. George, the head bouncer, and headed straight in. A few obvious tourists and bored Chelsea boys milled about the red-and-black entryway, hoping to score tickets.
Yeah, good luck with that.
Dima was headlining. He wouldn’t know how to perform without a sold-out crowd.
That night, he would perform with Lizzie in the audience.
Keeping the beat with her steps, but with a nervous twist in her gut, Lizzie navigated through the packed nightclub. Her aching knee reminded her why she wouldn’t take to the stage with her dance partner of fifteen years. Six months on from the misstep that had shredded her ACL, pain still tweaked her nerves. She had healed, yet performing remained out of the question.
Instead she would watch Dima work the Devant stage—the first time she’d found the nerve to check him out. He’d hold another woman close, guide her, move with her, meet her eyes as if no one else existed. Meanwhile, Lizzie would sip something icy and pretend she didn’t hate the hell out of her life.
She pasted on a performance-worthy smile and approached the table occupied by Club Devant owner Declan Shaw, where he held court with patrons, celebrities and his flavor-of-the-week dancers. The girl on his lap was new. She might not work at the club, but she certainly seemed eager to test-drive the ownership.
“Lizzie.” Declan’s face lit with an amiable smile. “Glad you could finally make it.”
“Better late than never?” she asked, taking a seat.
“I figure you’re, what, six weeks late? He’s been waiting for you.”
She cringed and cupped her elbows. “Don’t you start too. Watching him move on hasn’t been my idea of a great night out.”
He only shrugged. His insouciance was the hallmark of a man who’d survived three decades in show business and had the armor to prove it. Lizzie had thought herself that strong too.
Declan lifted the young woman off his lap. After one pat on her gold-lamé-wrapped ass, he said, “Off you go, love. Have Tony buy you a drink.”
Her petulant pout turned to a glare when she met eyes with Lizzie. Lizzie glared right back because she was already damn tense. Dismissively, she faced the stage. She’d spent too many frantic hours in competition changing rooms for one girl’s fit of pique to wedge under her skin. Catfights over a bottle of fake tanner—that was hardcore.
Hell, she missed it. So badly.
She wondered if Dima did. He certainly didn’t seem to, not when he talked on and on about the freedom of dancing at Devant. Just how long was he going to hold out on the obvious, that they would return to the professional ballroom circuit? Resenting him…she wasn’t used to that.
How could she not, when he continued on, dancing without her?
Because he’s paying the bills. Because, without him, I’d be back at home with Mom and Dad.
Four months of tender loving care had regressed her to a twelve-year-old girl. Escaping had been as necessary as her physical therapy sessions. The two months since her return to the Hell’s Kitchen brownstone she shared with Dima…that hadn’t been much better. Their goals were changing. He was changing—and he’d never been the easiest guy to understand even when they prized the same ambitions.
Her best friend was shutting her out.
Lizzie cupped her elbows. She needed a drink.
“You haven’t missed him,” Declan said.
Her mental response was that yes, she’d missed Dima more than she could say. For so many years, they’d kept nearly identical hours—whether at home or on tour. Now they spent most of the day divided by different commitments. He danced. She slowly went mad.
Realizing Declan had been referring to the performance, she withheld her initial reaction. “Good.”
“Sold-out crowd for the third week in a row,” Declan said. “I assume he showed you the review from Kendall Poplinski? High praise.”
“Yeah, he was stoked about that.”
Whereas Lizzie had been heartsick. The first time in her entire life that the bitchy dance critic found an ounce of good taste, all she did was feed Dima’s excitement about this new venture. The worst part had been the flash of disappointment in his soulful brown eyes when he’d looked at Lizzie. The Notorious Poplinski had seen him dance at Devant.
But Lizzie? Nope. Not yet.
She hadn’t needed a magic Dima interpreter to figure that one out. Her own guilt, plus knowing she’d be equally disappointed had their roles been reversed, had prompted her to attend.