Five minutes later, with Lizzie’s blood as fizzy as the bubbles in her drink, they settled down to dinner.
“Damn, this is good,” Paul said as he tucked into the chicken. “My sister and I can’t cook for shit.”
“What does she do?” Lizzie asked.
“She’s a graphic designer, does a lot of work for publishing companies on book covers and the like. She moved up here about, what, five years ago? I followed last year after my divorce.” He shrugged—that same male version of fake casual Dima had down pat. “Needed a change.”
“Change can be good,” Dima said quietly.
Lizzie shot him a not now look, which Paul seemed to miss. He didn’t need their bickering sessions, not when she wanted entirely more carnal forms of communication.
“Hey, this ain’t bad.” Paul set his glass down and eyed the bottle. “What is it?”
Dima poured another round, but not for himself. “Sovetskoye Shampanskoye.”
Paul grinned. “Say it again.”
After complying, Dima’s smile was slow and full of calm ego. His knee pressed against Lizzie’s bare thigh. “Soviet champagne,” he translated.
“It’s nearly drinkable,” she said.
Dima made a face. “Don’t be mean. It’s gorgeous stuff.”
“It’s like carbonated saltwater, but I’ll admit I’ve acquired a liking for it. Our coach imported a case from Russia when Dima turned twenty-one. Said it was the taste of victory.”
Her grin faltered as she realized what that could imply. That their dinner together was victory. That Paul was the prize. Dima rolled his eyes, as if seeking patience and strength from a higher power.
Paul only smiled. His hand found her other knee beneath the table. These two were going to pick her brain apart and flail her with her own desires.
“So how’d you two get to be dancers?” he asked.
Lizzie took a sip. “Oh, the usual.” It was lame, but it was also the best she could do. She was pinned between two strong men, each a study in temptation. Their attention was tentative when appraising each other, but it was wickedly intense when aimed at her. What woman wouldn’t be flustered by such a situation?
“I’m a construction worker from Texas. I have no idea what usual would mean.”
Dima seemed to sense her inability to form coherent sentences because he answered on her behalf—when he never answered questions. That was her job. Speaking for them as a pair. Part of it had started because of his teenage struggle to learn English. The other was, well, Lizzie liked it. Dima didn’t. They’d always dovetailed. Since lying on the living room floor in a similarly interlocking sexual position, and since dancing together, finally, they could again.
“My parents were both professional ballet dancers,” Dima said. “Like Lizzie’s were. I was eight when the Soviet union collapsed. The arts community collapsed too. We left five years later, came to New York. When my parents passed their prime, they didn’t adjust well to so much change at once. So it was my turn. I’d already been dancing in Moscow, but it became an obsession once we settled here. They signed me up for more hours in lessons than I spent in school.”
Lizzie nearly gaped. Dima didn’t simply…open up like that. She couldn’t help but give his thigh a little squeeze. A little reassurance. He ducked his head and shrugged.
Men. Shrugging. It was an incurable disease.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “But don’t forget, I’ve seen you move. You’re no ballet dancer.”
He flashed a curt grin. “Couldn’t help it. I never had the patience for the classical styles. Needed more passion.”
Another switch. From openness to outright innuendo. Lizzie found it so difficult to keep up that she nearly choked on a potato. She swallowed quickly, gulping another taste of champagne. “God, you are such a flirt tonight.”
“As if it was any different for you,” he said. “What did your mother claim about your hips?”
“That they’d been possessed by the devil.”
Paul chuckled. “I can attest to that.”
The mood around the table had taken a sexier turn, but also a more playful one. She could breathe again—at least until Paul’s pinkie finger brushed the satin of her panties.
She shivered. “So after five years of ballet that drove us all crazy, they enrolled me in Latin ballroom classes instead.”
“Because the pro dance community’s pretty tight, our parents knew each other,” Dima finished. “Ta-da. Doomed to a decade of victories.”
Paul looked at them both in turn before settling against the back of his chair, hands folded over his stomach. Lizzie didn’t know whether his expression was because he was amused by them or with them.