The moment was ruined, however, when a skinny blonde with only a little more grace than fashion sense strutted out to meet him. She swished her lime-green spangles for all they were worth, but her feet sloshed around the parquet.
Lizzie squeezed sharp fingernails into her palms. All wrong. Just…wrong. Dima was shirtless and bathed in gold and reaching out to a stranger. Only one word thundered through Lizzie’s head.
Mine.
They were partners. She belonged up there with him, even when that chorus of mine, mine, mine didn’t feel professional. It was scary as hell.
She couldn’t change the situation, but she could find some means of staying sane. The last six months had proved that.
“Hey, Declan?”
“Hmm?” The man was a flirt and a kinkster, but he was also an amazing artist. Outside of hedonism, the only thing he seemed to take seriously was assessing dancers. The play faded, and he judged them with an astute eye.
He was studying Jeanne that way.
“Tell her she shouldn’t wear black shoes anymore,” Lizzie said over the thumping music. “Her feet look like lumps of coal on the end of her legs.”
“That’s what it is. Was bugging me. Well, at least she didn’t wear red.”
Lizzie grinned past a grimace. She hadn’t worn her trademark red dance heels since her injury. If she didn’t get back on the circuit—tugging Dima away from this low-rent distraction—she never would.
The performance slid from straight-up Latin ballroom to something…other. Lizzie’s stomach fell and her heartbeat sped. The blonde slinked rather than stepped. Even Dima shed his exacting posture for a bit of bump and grind that dragged hoots and catcalls from the audience.
“What the hell is this?”
Declan laughed. “Remy got hold of them, I’m afraid.”
“Your choreographer? But we’ve always done our own choreo.”
“Wasn’t my idea,” he said. “Dmitri asked to work with him. He’s been all about exploring new avenues. Surely he’s mentioned as much.”
“Of course.” The words sounded wooden, but spoken so softly, she doubted Declan heard them.
She’d known it would be difficult to watch Dima dance with another woman. That wasn’t the surprise. Instead it was some combination of envy, resentment and even arousal. She blamed the imposed distance. She literally couldn’t be up there with him, forced instead to admire his hard-earned skill and sweat-sleek body. And her frustrations? Months’ worth of frustrations? They had nowhere to go. She could tap her toes and watch the lanky blonde trail her hands over Dima’s bare chest.
Mine.
What little enthusiasm she’d mustered on that evening dried up like a slice of apple left in the sun.
“I’m gonna get a drink. You need anything?”
With an indulgent smile, Declan seemed to watch her with far too much understanding. “It’s my club, love. If I want something, I don’t need to ask a guest.”
Standing, Lizzie shook her head with a rueful grin. It was a rare man in their line of work who told the truth so bluntly.
She looked up to the stage one last time, just as the song ended. Dima was on his knees. He breathed heavily, with his hands wrapped around the blonde’s skinny thigh and his forehead on her hip. A tremor of hot unexpected need shot down to Lizzie’s belly.
Bar. Now.
The crowd waiting for drinks had thinned during the performance. She wove through, trying to ignore the weakness in her knees that had nothing to do with her healing injury. She needed a distraction before she threw up or cried or smashed a bottle across the nearest table.
“Hey, Paul,” she called to the cute bartender. “Got a G&T for me?”
“Anything for you, Lizzie.”
He grinned. He had the best grin on the planet, swear to God. Tan and built, he wore a tight white T-shirt and ragged jeans. His cowboy hat hung on a hook above the computerized cash register. On impulse, she leaned over the bar to check out his feet. Cowboy boots. Excellent.
Paul caught her looking. His gaze darted down to where her cleavage probably made offers she hadn’t intended. His grin widened, if that were possible. Hard-boiled sex and a coy sense of humor.
Maybe she’d intended after all. Maybe watching what was left of her old life do a strip club cha-cha with a graceless blonde had forced her to it.
He brought the gin and tonic and placed it dead center on a cocktail napkin before sliding it over. The tips of his fingers came within an inch of her breasts. Damn, he was tall. In the land of dancers, any guy over five foot eight was considered a giant. Paul was well over six foot. The possibilities spun her already dizzy brain.
He licked his lower lip. They’d flirted on occasion since he’d hired on a few weeks earlier, but he flew well past flirting with that deliberate lick.