None of that eased her nerves. This would be her first public dance since her injury. Everyone there would know it.
Sometimes, when her confidence before a competition was at a low ebb, she held Dima’s hand. He would smile down at her—a so-soft smile that told her everything she needed to know. That he was right there. That the choices she’d made in her life were not only valid, but worth celebrating. That she would never feel like a disappointment because he would lend her strength.
She didn’t dare look at him. The stifling tension in the hired car had been like acid to dissolve her outer shell. Plans she wasn’t used to making seemed less certain when he gave her nothing but… No, nothing. Even blankness might be a small step closer to genuine emotion.
The Lionel Woodruff School of Dance occupied the entire second floor of a multi-use high rise in Battery Park, the monthly rent for which probably outstripped Lizzie’s annual take-home. Up the elevator, out into the corridor, which was as sunny as the rest of the studio. Mirrors and one-way glass where there weren’t windows. The bright midday light was strong enough to start a headache along her forehead.
Hot fear churned in her gut. She’d let this go too long. She would lose Dima, maybe even lose dancing. Facing the world without either would be a nightmare made true.
They came to stand before two golden pine doors—the entrance to the main studio room.
“Dima, Lizzie, so good to see you again,” said the school’s headmistress, Janet Peel. Sixty-something, excruciatingly thin and with a neck that seemed to go on forever, she had been a prima donna in her own right before taking up guidance of the school. “How’s the knee?”
“Good as new.” The smile was forced, naturally, but she was nearly in full performance mode. It wouldn’t be difficult for much longer. “When are we on? Enough time to warm up?”
Janet consulted a clipboard and checked them off the list. “About twenty-five minutes. There’s an afro-jazz troupe in there right now, then a pair of Lindy Hoppers.”
Lizzie nodded and followed Dima to wait in the hallway with another half dozen dancers, all stretching, all wearing different styles of costumes. The foundation’s annual event showcased dancers of radically varied styles, from classical ballet to krump. Donations funded a trust that helped underprivileged kids in Manhattan find a home in the world of dance.
She clutched Dima’s arm a little tighter, probably giving away more than she wanted to. He flicked her a warning look.
A deep, sturdy, pissed-off part of her bubbled up. No tears this time. Not even close. Those had been burned out of her after days of hard work with Remy. All that remained was the resilience that had made her a champion. He was not going to pull his moody shit in front of an audience, and certainly not one that was so influential in their community.
Back painfully straight, she met his gaze. She could give herself to him forever, if they got this damn thing right.
“You say you don’t want to hurt me,” she said, voice businesslike.
A flinch. His brows narrowed, just a little quizzical.
“Isn’t that what you’ve always said?”
“Lizzie…”
“Otvechaj, Dmitri.”
Answer me. Damn you.
His curt nod followed a slow inhale, as if he’d needed to consider his reply. A shiver of hurt slid down to her stomach, but she kept it hidden. No way could she be dressed in that outfit and not own the moment.
“Good. Then don’t show any of this to those people in there.”
“This?”
“Us. This crap we can’t talk about.”
“And if I do?”
“You’ll get your wish from down in the car. We won’t need to talk about anything because there won’t be anything left to discuss.”
She let go of his arm and looked through the window with a stunning view of the bay. Standing in that much sunshine, she should’ve been warm. Hell, she should be warming up altogether.
Fifteen minutes later, after stretching muscles thick with tension that had nothing to do with her injury, Lizzie heard their names called. Out of habit alone, she found Dima with her eyes. He was dressed in a pair of snugly fitted trousers that molded to every lean, toned inch of his thighs and ass. A cummerbund hugged his flat stomach. The heavily beaded red, black and gold chaquetilla accentuated his shoulders. Sleeveless and open, it left his chest and arms bare.
Out of the need to hold her own, she lifted her chin and didn’t look away. If what they had was well and truly broken, she’d know it soon enough. They couldn’t hide anything from one another when they performed.
She held out her hand.
He took it.