Only the Brave Try Ballet

‘Did you ever think about going pro with your dancing?’ His voice caught her off guard and she stiffened.

Busying herself with the MP3 player, she grappled for a response. She tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry.

‘I’m not sure if any ballerinas would refer to it as “going pro.”’

‘Picking on my slang is an excellent way to avoid the question,’ he said. ‘But I’ll rephrase. Did you ever think about dancing professionally?’

‘Yes.’ Not a lie, but not an invitation either.

‘And?’

She bit her lip and sighed. The last thing she needed was for him to pity her...or, worse, want to help in some way. She always dealt with problems by herself; she preferred it that way. Dealing with things on her own meant there was no one pushing their ideas on her, no one convincing her to do something outside her comfort zone and no one controlling her.

But how could she get around this topic for the rest of their time together? At some point it would come up again and she’d have the same dilemma: lie or expose herself.

‘I was a soloist with the Australian Ballet.’ She kept her voice even, unemotional. ‘I trained in ballet my whole life and have wanted to be a professional ballerina ever since I was eight years old.’

‘Then why did you quit?’

‘I didn’t quit.’ The word tasted dirty in her mouth. She would never have stopped dancing if her hand hadn’t been forced. ‘I was injured in a car accident and now I don’t have full movement in my foot and ankle. I can’t dance en pointe anymore.’

She opened her mouth to continue but the words died in her throat. Her lips were parched and her tongue was heavy, as if physically resisting the truth. She couldn’t mention the constant pain. The mental torment. The shame of how it had happened.

She couldn’t talk to anyone about that—not even her best friend.

Grant was silent, lines forming at the centre of his forehead. His thick brows were knitted together. Out of nowhere his left hand reached out and clasped hers. Jasmine jumped at the unexpected touch. Her hand was tiny in his grip. Fragile.

THREE (#ulink_56ec261e-9b9a-5336-a1af-c6c33ef1ae76)

He clasped the fragility of her hand between his fingers, her bones feeling tiny and delicate and perfect. She gasped, her lips opening and closing, before she clenched her jaw. She’d been hurt before, and she wore it like a warning sign that read Stay the Hell Away.

She frowned, her rich brown eyes narrowing at him as she withdrew her hand from his grip. He wasn’t even sure why he’d touched her, but something stirred deep within him. Everything about her was restrained, from her not-a-hair-out-of-place bun to her neatly filed pink fingernails. She had a carefully constructed veneer that held him at arm’s length, and while he had no interest in getting closer she looked as though she could use the comfort. Yeah, he was comforting her...it had nothing to do with the strange ache in his chest.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Not as sorry as I was.... You’re here to work on your flexibility, remember?’ Her voice wobbled slightly but she retained control. ‘You’re here to work.’

The way her eyes glittered and her cheeks were stained pink told him he’d unintentionally hit a nerve. How interesting. A woman with a mystery was his personal weakness, and there was a hell of a lot more to her story than she was letting on. He was drawn in by the opportunity to uncover her secrets, to peel away the layers of complexity that shrouded her. He would pick his moment, when she wasn’t so raw, so exposed. He would find out what had hurt her more than a shattered dream.

‘I mean it.’ She walked towards him and stopped barely inches from where he stood. ‘Back to work.’

The air between them sizzled. Grant’s heart thudded an erratic beat in his chest. Her power seemed to come from nowhere. She’d frozen him on the spot with a single look. Her eyes blackened, pupils engulfing the ring of warm brown around it. She stood in front of him, close enough to touch. He could feel every damn millimetre between them and he wanted desperately to close the gap, to draw her to him with force.

But she was playing the same game he was. Testing the boundaries. Pushing to see how far they could go.

She returned to the barre, seemingly unperturbed. ‘Let’s keep working on your tendu for now.’

Jasmine settled her body into the starting position and waited while Grant did the same. She demonstrated where the turn-out should be coming from by touching the tops of her thighs where they connected to her hips, her hands inches from the place he wished his own hands were...or maybe his mouth.

Grant swallowed. She looked at him through her thick curly lashes as though she was completely aware of how difficult he was finding it not to stare. Damn her, she was doing it on purpose.

‘Extend forwards.’ She completed the move facing him, so that their feet met in the centre.

Her words counted out the beats of the music and he trained his eyes on her legs, making a poor imitation of her movements. He should leave her well alone, but something kept pulling him in. Something in the way she held him at arm’s length made his blood pulse harder and hotter in his veins.

‘Try again.’

She started the music—the same strains he’d listened to over and over that lesson. His feet moved in time, the steps less foreign to him now.

Neither of them spoke while he completed the exercise. She stood stock-still, observing him. There was something strangely sensual about the complete silence except for the whisper of their feet against the floor. The air crackled between them.

Her eyes flicked over his body. Was she assessing or admiring?

‘You need to rotate your turn-out more,’ she said, walking to him. She placed her hands on his upper thighs, smoothing the muscles outwards. ‘Otherwise you’re putting a lot of strain on the knees.’

Her hands lingered on his thighs, all too close to where his body cried out for her touch. He stirred and bit down on his lip. There was no way he’d be able to hide an erection in these damn tights.

At this distance he could see that her eyes were not merely brown but a medley of chocolate shades: milk, caramel and dark cocoa. Her skin was porcelain-white. She lacked the flaws—freckles and scars—that years on the field had given him. Her lips were rosebud-pink, parted and moistened by the gentle swipe of her tongue.

‘If you leave your hands there I take no responsibility for what happens.’ He leant in, closing the gap between them.

Her eyes flickered up to him, her lips pursing. God, he wanted to taste her. Was she game?

‘Lucky for you I have no problem with taking responsibility,’ she said, withdrawing her hands. ‘You should try it some time.’

Damn.

As they cooled down and stretched out she kept her distance, eyeing him as one might a large dog that wasn’t on a lead. He was momentarily distracted by the sharp pull in his hamstring. Stifling a groan, he leant into the stretch but couldn’t get enough from it. This damn injury was affecting his game and it was pissing him off.

‘Do you want a hand with that?’ She pushed up onto her feet and came closer.

He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I want a hand—’

‘Finish that sentence and you’ll get nothing,’ she warned.

Jasmine Bell wore the prissy schoolteacher look better than he’d thought possible.

He kept his mouth shut and she knelt down in front of him. ‘Lie flat on your back and put your right leg up. I’ll give you a little push.’

Was it his imagination or did a subtle flush of pink rise up her neck as she instructed him? She leant her shoulder into the back of his thigh and eased forwards. With her body too close to his, he should have been revelling in the fantasy.

Unfortunately the muscle was so resistant he had to blow out a long breath and focus his energy on allowing it to lengthen. For once he couldn’t even voice the innuendo.

Cold fear trickled down the length of his spine. What if his injury couldn’t be fixed? What if he couldn’t lead the Jaguars to victory? He’d bet everything on his career, and if he lost he’d have nothing at all.

* * *

At the time of her next lesson with Grant, Jasmine was in the studio, choreographing a routine for the teachers of the EJ Ballet School. Looking sexy as hell in a leather jacket over his hoodie and jeans, he stood about in the waiting room, watching her through the viewing mirror. He was early...for once.