Lead and Follow(23)

But to tour without Dima? That thought sent shivers up her back. She took a quick gulp of water.

She stayed, though. As Remy put Dima and Jeanne through their paces for another hour, Lizzie sat back and nursed disquieting thoughts. Although she was tempted to join in again, she’d made her point—and got herself worked up in the process. The sex vibe angling between her and Dima since the evening before was crossing her mental wires.

He and Remy started into a good-natured shouting match. Lizzie had studied Russian since her fourteenth birthday, when she realized that Dima and their Kiev-born coach were talking about her. A smattering of French and German had come later—the languages of the international dance community. She was busy laughing along with their insults when Jeanne threw up her hands.

“I’ve had it!” She grabbed her bag and stomped out of the room.

Remy shook his head. “She ain’t gonna last.”

“I wouldn’t either with you two sniping at me,” Lizzie said.

“I doubt that, chère. Enough for today though, non? Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. My mama would be heartily displeased if she learned I spent the morning grinding with you folks rather than making confession.”

That made Lizzie laugh, easing some of her anxiety. She waved goodbye to the Cajun and caught Dima’s arm on the way out. He didn’t break stride as they walked down the central corridor. Declan’s apartment took up the west side of the second floor, with the practice rooms just opposite.

“When do you perform this one?” she asked.

“Two weeks. Friday night opening.” His eyebrows pinched into a frown. His concentration face. “I don’t think she’ll be ready. Too much ground to make up.”

“Of course she will. She’s got you.”

“Sarcasm?”

Teaching a Russian teenager about sarcasm had taken a long time, and even still, he tended to miss more subtle jabs. “Not at all.”

They were just coming to the steps when the exit door opened to reveal Paul.

Dima pulled up short. Lizzie didn’t hesitate. She gathered the bartender up for a hug that stopped short of the bump and grind she’d practiced that afternoon. Paul caught her with a hand low on her back. With boots, jeans and cowboy hat, he was a Texan wet dream—and an absolute relief after the last twelve confusing hours she’d spent rewriting rules with Dima. He was also another way to keep her frustrating partner’s attention. If she had to grasp at straws, she’d do it with Paul.

“Hey, you,” she said.

“I’m only here to get my paycheck.” He kissed her full on the mouth. Oh, she liked that. Up front and still interested and apparently oblivious to whatever Dima thought. His straightforward attitude was such a relief. “Didn’t realize I’d earned a bonus so soon.”

“I’m sure you do great work behind the bar.” She turned in Paul’s arms and threw her partner a sultry look. “You remember Dima, of course.”

Wow.

She’d seen lightning storms with less crackle. Maybe some of it was competition, but she didn’t get the same sullen hands off vibe Dima threw around when she’d danced with Remy. This was deeper. Like marrow and sinew and the salty taste of skin. Paul and Dima sized each other up with a mixture of heat and cool reserve, as if waiting for a move, a sign, a word.

It made her inexplicably proud that Dima took the lead. Relieved, even. Maybe she wouldn’t have to attempt impossible mind-reading when it came to his attitude toward Paul.

He extended his hand. “Dmitri Turgenev.”

“Paul Reeves.”

They shook hands, both solid grips revealed in the hard bunch of forearm tendons. Lizzie shivered. Heat that had barely subsided burst through her body like a volcano blowing its top.

Depraved. So wrong.

She wanted them both.

Her connection with Dima was deeper and more complicated, which was probably why flirting with Paul was so much fun. A beautiful, sunny counterpoint to all her confusion. Could having two men actually help her understand one better? Damn, that was screwed up.

“Paul,” she said. “Do you have plans for dinner?”

“Not that I know of. You offering?”

She locked gazes with Dima. Her ripped-open feeling was reflected in eyes the color of hot cocoa. About their job, they’d been communicating without words for more than a decade. Disguising a busted lift. Recovering a missed step. Silently slagging off a harsh judge. This had nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with the weird place their relationship had slipped into.

“Podelishsja?”

“Zavisit ot nego.”

Christ, they weren’t having this discussion. Couldn’t be.