“Got it.”
“Good. Now we samba.”
“But this is close hold. It’s for something like tango, not samba.”
“You here to learn or backtalk? This is Remy’s samba. And truth be told, it’s got Dima’s fingerprints all over it. Like your neck,” he said with a chuckle. She tried to duck her gaze, but he grabbed her jaw. “You wanna show him what you can do. I know you do. So shut up and follow my lead. No more of this competition bullshit. I wanna know how filthy you can be—on stage, that is. Girl, you remember your bachacadas?”
Lizzie jerked free of his grip and lifted her chin, a scant inch away from Remy’s. “I practically invented them.”
“There’s a girl. Hit it.”
Two hours later, Lizzie was a dripping pile of goo. She hadn’t worked so hard outside of a physical therapy room since…well, since the last time she’d danced with Remy—and with Dima. That had been something flirty and dangerous. This was sheer determination. Every impulse to correct her form and hold a clean, proper line was shot down. She fought for hot, gritty, full-on sexy. Basically, she danced with Remy the way she had fucked Dima. The promise of performing that way with her favorite partner was the reward she kept firmly in mind.
He’d wanted her passion. He would get every last thumping beat of it.
Remy propelled her into a cartwheel lift, then back down again with relative ease. She liked being able to trust him so quickly, even if she didn’t readily catch his cues and body languages. Wrong man. Plain and simple.
Feet back on the floor, she prepared to go into the next sequence of body rolls.
Remy released her without explanation and stopped the music. “Goddamn, that’s it.”
She shook her head, wiped a glaze of sweat from her forehead. “What?”
“What’s been missing from those two.”
“Dima and Jeanne?”
“Sure as shit. C’mon. I’ll show you.”
Lizzie stood in the middle of the floor, her heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with two steady hours of dance.
“I meant it. Get your fine ass over here.”
Rolling her eyes about as hard as she rolled her neck, she grabbed her water bottle and followed Remy down the hall. Her knee felt…all right. A little tender, but so was the rest of her. It actually blended in with the overall body shock of being back in positions that should feel natural. They weren’t just yet.
Remy knocked on the door to Declan’s private apartment. Once inside, Lizzie realized exactly why she’d been brought there. A huge bank of televisions, six screens by six, lined one entire wall of what appeared to be Declan’s living room.
The man himself was sitting on his couch, feet up, with a cellphone and a half-eaten sandwich on the table next to him. A laptop was open on his stomach, which belied his casual clothing: sweats and a Club Devant Henley.
“Nice work so far, Miss Maynes,” he said. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your groove. In fact, it looks stronger than ever.”
Lizzie flicked her attention back to the televisions, which displayed news channels, an old black-and-white movie, recordings of previous Club Devant dances, and a live-cam shot of each room in the building. Rumors circled that Declan was a bit of a voyeur and kept his business under close watch, but this was just overwhelming.
“Why are we here again?”
Remy nodded to a series of remote controls. “You mind, boss? I need footage of Maynes and Turgenev in Montreal last spring—their samba—and practice footage of him and Jeanne from yesterday.”
With boggling speed, Declan was able to bring up the requested videos. He closed down the rest of the screens, which still faintly glowed a luminescent charcoal gray. Lizzie spun down the rabbit hole.
“Here,” Remy said. His accent was thicker. Funny how he revealed more of himself when he was deeply submerged into his work. “Watch this, chère.”
The competition at Montreal had been a disappointment. Coming off their third world title, they may as well have had targets on their backs. Every couple had been gunning for them. The judges, too, had apparently decided on novelty rather than quality, giving their love to a Czech pair who played everything too by the book for even Lizzie’s tastes.
Seeing a younger version of herself on film was like watching a ghost. Some other Lizzie Maynes. Deep tan. Stage makeup. Raven-black hair in a half up-do that still let her fling it and shake it. Dima was resplendent in form-fitting tuxedo-style trousers and a white dress shirt open at the throat. Through the catty politics of the circuit, they’d been shoved to the center spot on the floor. The cameras, and often the judges’ attention, rarely strayed past the flash and sparkle easily found along the perimeter.