Declan passed a hand over his head. Fit and lean, he wasn’t as old as his closely cut silver hair indicated. Lizzie balked at the realization that she might be nearer to Declan’s age than she was to the tart he’d banished from his lap.
“My offer still stands if you want to join him.” His Dublin accent had been almost entirely erased after ten years in the States. “I could sell out the club for months with Maynes and Turgenev reunited on my stage.”
“Thanks, Declan, really. But we have plans.”
“Ah.” He took a sip of scotch. “The circuit awaits.”
He didn’t say anything else, but Lizzie sensed his disapproval. She knew its weight and shape and texture because she was constantly on the receiving end of the same reaction from Dima. Different reasons. Different ambitions for her future. Same sick, liquid feeling that made her want to slam a Jäger and do something stupid.
One injury from one fall and everything had shattered. She’d thought her life built on a firmer foundation than that.
The lights dimmed. A gold-tinted spotlight hit center stage, where the lush red curtains hung ceiling to floor. The club boasted a modest stage with a slight catwalk that bisected two groups of tables. Everywhere was red and black and gold, as if Declan had transplanted a bit of Vegas kitsch to the West Side. The critics called it tacky. The applauding patrons, dolled up and craving novelty, didn’t seem to care.
Rihanna’s latest single drew to an end. Fabian, the club’s MC, stood to one side of the stage. He wore military-inspired boots, black leather hot pants and a frilly pink lace shirt which actually suited his dark coloring. He did a little shimmy before tucking the mic close to his lips.
“Welcome to Club Devant, you dirty bitches!”
Lizzie had to smile. She held no aspiration to dance on that sleek black parquet stage, but she enjoyed the people who worked there. Anymore, finding Dima meant heading to the club. She’d gotten to know Fabian, Declan and the rest out of pure necessity. A little lonely, a little lost, she hadn’t needed more than a few minutes to learn names and share stories. Still, getting along with the staff wasn’t the same as spending the rest of her career in a Chelsea burlesque club.
“Show some kinky love for tonight’s headline performer. Three-time international Latin ballroom champion Dmitri Turgenev and his partner, Jeanne Copeland.”
Partner? Shit.
He hadn’t won the world title three consecutive years with some stand-in named Jeanne.
Fear became a nasty creature digging into the base of Lizzie’s skull. She dug deep for an even brighter smile, knowing the expression would’ve been joyful and honest had she been ready to join Dima on stage. They hadn’t danced together since the accident. Might as well be a hundred years ago. She missed their closeness like she missed rhythm and power and applause.
Oh yes, Lizzie needed a drink.
However, she’d gathered guts enough to show up and didn’t want to miss the performance. The bar area was unusually crowded, which meant a wait she wasn’t willing to endure. She wondered if that had anything to do with Paul Reeves, the hot new bartender. Rarely did she catalog bartenders’ names, but Paul was well worth remembering.
Fabian sauntered stage right with a wave and a few air kisses. The applause kicked up a notch, followed by an Indian-inspired hip-hop track. Curtains parting, the spotlight found a man standing alone in the middle of the stage, his back to the audience.
Shirtless.
Lizzie sucked in a quick breath of air. What the hell was he doing without a shirt on?
Dmitri Turgenev was one of the best Latin dancers in the world, not some sideshow sex attraction. She’d known Devant was a burlesque club, but she’d convinced herself that Dima would rise above it. He always brought years of training and undeniable class to any venture.
Not there. Not then. Despite the up-tempo beat, he turned at half time and strode forward as if he were opening a paso doble, not a playful cha-cha. The play of shadow and light over his bare skin made him beautiful. The way he moved made him a god.
Deities deserved applause as loud as a locomotive.
If even Lizzie was momentarily struck dumb by the wide, gleaming spread of his shoulders and the lithe, sculpted muscles of his lean chest and arms, she couldn’t imagine what spell was weaving over the rest of the club. After all, she’d been dancing with him since before his voice changed. Only she knew how shy he was, how reluctant he was to open up about anything personal—a constant point of frustration in their long partnership. A point of frustration that was breaking them in two.
None of that showed when he hit the stage and set it on fire.