He’d just…given up.
A sizzle of anger replaced the hard ache of hurt. She welcomed it, if only to momentarily numb the pain and sort through her confusion. She’d taken him for granted for too long. That much was true. The feelings she had been questioning and the indecision—all coalesced around the knowledge that losing Dima, as both her partner and her lover, would be the end of her happiness.
Yet she wasn’t wrong in wanting him to open up. How long had he been motivated by the hope of becoming a couple? What was so damn hard about opening up about his plans, fears, dreams? She needed that. A true partner. It wasn’t too much to ask. That he’d bailed without talking this morning was more than insulting. It was downright cowardly. She knew because she’d given in to just that sort of fear. Hearing him admit that he’d passed up Broadway to stay with her… Pretty terrifying.
Time to stop relying on Dima to make the plans. She couldn’t trust them, not when his goals remained so stubbornly hidden. All she could trust was what she wanted and what she could get by working hard. That was the story of her career.
Then and now, she would have Dima when the hard work was over.
Lizzie stood, shaky and cradling her middle, and turned on the shower. Club Devant was the obvious place to start.
Two hours later, she entered through the rear door of the club and traded her jogging shoes for Latin dance heels. Hair tied back. Extra-large water bottle. Two protein bars that she hoped she could keep down. Eventually.
Time to get started.
She found Remy in one of the upstairs practice rooms. His hands were all over the new guy, Jack, whose head was tipped back against the bank of mirrors. The kiss Remy claimed along the other man’s neck reminded Lizzie of the marks she must have left on Dima. She had yet to see them, although hers had been pretty obvious in the bathroom mirror. Proof that the previous night had not been some attention-starved hallucination.
She coughed into her fist.
Jack pushed away, while Remy only smiled. His hand was still firmly planted on the young man’s ass as he made introductions.
“You’re dressed for business, chère.” His gaze traveled up and down Lizzie’s body—not with any particular hunger. Instead he seemed to assess…and approve. He nodded once. “We’ll finish this later, non?”
“If I let you.” Jack slid Remy a rather undecided look, as if he really hadn’t made up his mind.
Lizzie wondered how frequently the Cajun was rejected. Dressed in a formfitting black T-shirt and a ragged pair of jeans that still managed to cling to his ass, he was sexy as hell. She couldn’t imagine it happened often.
The new dancer seemed to have other ideas. He cocked a hip and his head at the same time. “Frankly, sweetie, I don’t think you’re my type.”
“Oh, I know that. But there’s nothin’ wrong with neckin’.”
Jack had a huge smile, which beamed at Lizzie as he exited, gym bag slung over his shoulder. A pale purple workout shirt was strategically cut to drape over one shoulder. The muscle it showed off was defined and lean. “Have fun, Lizzie.”
“Not the sort of session I’m after.”
That got a laugh from him, big and melodic. Lizzie, however, was in no mood for levity. She shut the practice room door and sloughed her bag along the wall.
“So?” Remy said.
“I want to learn Jeanne’s choreo. I’m taking her place.”
“You talk to Declan about that, have you?”
“Not yet.” She glanced at the camera in the corner. “He’ll know soon enough. Let’s go.”
Remy unwrapped a slinky, lopsided grin and held out his hand. She took it. A quick pair of spins later, he held her with her back to his chest. He touched her neck. “He give you these, chère? Very pretty.”
Lizzie’s face flamed. Heart racing, she remembered Dima’s hands there, cutting off her air, taking her to a place she’d never even imagined—one where he could hurl her into the stratosphere and keep her grounded at the same time. All the while fucking her absolutely mindless.
Hell if she was going to talk about that with Remy Lomand.
“Just teach me.”
“Whatever you say, Lizzie.” Another spin and she faced him. He framed her perfectly, his expression oddly serious. “Three dances: the bachata you already learned. There’s also a cha-cha and a really slinky samba. You think you can do three before next Friday?”
“I can do all three before the end of the day.”
His grin returned and he pulled her near. “If you hadn’t noticed—but I’m sure you have—your boy Dima’s a stern motherfucker. I don’t want him ripping my balls off and hanging me from the nearest tree. If you push too hard, I won’t teach you. Comprenez-vous?”