He stood and dropped the phone on the couch. All thoughts of Svetlana and a fresh start just…disappeared.
“Holy mother of God,” he whispered.
The dress emphasized her lush femininity. Yet her strength shone from the straight planes of her stomach, solid arms, and the lines that created long ridges up her calves. And of course, red heels for dancing. He’d never known anyone so bold.
If she had wanted him, she’d have made it known. His Lizzie barreled after what she craved.
She held her hands out to the side. “Right on time and a work of art.”
She’d said that before every competition.
Dima couldn’t help it. He grabbed her hands. Three steps of a salsa later, a spin and a four count.
She laughed, her face turned up. “It’s us, isn’t it? We’re back. We could take it back. Dima, we could still own it all.”
The spot where his heart should have been slowly filled with lead. After letting go of her hands, he gathered the bags he’d set by the door. “Come on.”
The town car downstairs was elegant and well upholstered—and quiet. No music played. Dima let Lizzie slide in first, looking out over the roof of the car. He felt her eyes on him, assessing.
He needed to slide in next to her. There was nowhere else to go. Even so, he was perfectly aware of the exact distance between them. Less than an arm’s length, and yet enough space to fit another person.
Hell, maybe this would be better with Paul. He balanced them. His easygoing nature kept them from spinning too far out of control.
“Have you thought about it?” Her voice was so quiet. Not usual at all. “Going back?”
“I have.”
He simply wasn’t going back. The dances at Club Devant might be demanding, but performing there wasn’t the same sort of life. Not on the road. Not pushing through even when he thought his shoulder was shot, fearing that anything less would mean missing out on the best floor placement the next day. Not practicing through exhaustion, or constantly adding new tricks just to keep up with the competition.
Tricks that ended with Lizzie sitting on the ground, clutching her leg, sobbing.
He could keep her safer at Devant. When his gaze dropped, it went right to the faintly pink line at the side of her knee. Her scar. He’d already failed her enough.
“And?” she prompted. Her fingers tangled in a bit of wayward beadwork. When her hips shook, the beads would emphasize the movement and make her look even more amazing. “Maybe just one more year. We’ll take one more championship. You know we could.”
“Certainly we could.” He finally turned to look at her. She’d fluffed and feathered her hair. Her eyes were ringed with dark, dramatic shadow, absolutely amping up her desirability. “What the hell would we do with another championship? And why? Because four is a more magical number than three?”
“Because we can. Because how many other four-time world championship ballroom dancers have there been? The best of the best, Dima.”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. At least for this demonstration he hadn’t needed to resume the fake-tanning thing. He’d been so awfully sick of that. “Let’s not do this.”
“Do what? Have an honest discussion?”
He wrapped his fingers around her jaw and tipped up her chin. “Honest discussion,” he echoed, incredulous. “This is not honesty unless we include the fact that you were riding my cock not three days ago.”
Her hands flinched toward her body. “I wasn’t talking about that.”
“Weren’t you? Because what I’m hearing—what I’m always hearing—is that you’d like to go back to the way things used to be.” He sighed, letting go of her smooth skin. He contained himself on his side of the car and looked out the window. “God, we can’t do this now.”
“No.” Her sigh filled the car. “I’m starting to fear we never will.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
On Dima’s arm was the safest way to enter any dance arena, especially when faced with so many people who knew her parents. A prima ballerina from the age of twenty-two, Georgina Maynes was more than just a dancer. She was an icon who still fielded questions as to why Lizzie had chosen something else over “real” dancing. For some, world championships wouldn’t change the fact that Lizzie had never performed with a company, let alone as the lead.
To her credit, her mother possessed a fantastically waspish tongue and cut any doubters down to size. She had always been supportive of Lizzie’s decisions. When Dima’s mother and father had started the spiraling nosedive that eventually led them to Boca Raton, alcoholism and obscurity, he had not been left alone. Lizzie’s parents had taken him in as a son of their own.