The Ballerina's Secret

Maybe.

Probably.

He had no interest in actually putting that theory to the test. Why he cared at all what the willowy creature who’d practically mowed him down thought of him was a mystery.

Except they’d had something of a moment, hadn’t they? A moment when she’d held on to him a little too long, when his heart had beaten a little too hard. It had happened so fast, he would have thought he’d imagined it, if not for the memory of his shirt gathered in her clenched fists. For a second, he’d nearly remembered what it had felt like to belong to someone.

Then he’d come to his senses. He knew nothing about this girl, other than that she was a beautiful dancer. More important, she didn’t know the first thing about him.

Now her head was bowed, and Julian couldn’t help noticing the lovely curve of her shoulders, the grace of her willowy neck and how very pale and delicate her complexion looked set off by her jet-black leotard.

God, she was gorgeous. Too gorgeous to waste away in the corner of the room, with a number pinned to her back, while Chance preened like a peacock less than three feet away from the mirrored walls. Not that Julian harbored any ill will toward his friend. Chance had gotten him this gig after all. Of course, it wasn’t exactly the best gig in the world. Far from it.

But coming here had gotten him off the sofa and out of the house. As pathetic as that sounded, it was progress.

Somewhere in the very near vicinity, a throat cleared. Julian glanced over his shoulder to find Madame Daria looming over him. Honestly, lady. Give it a rest.

He rose to his feet as slowly as humanly possible and shot her a lazy grin. “Daria.”

Her face grew red. Julian had anticipated an angry reaction, and Madame didn’t disappoint. “Mr. Shine, our rehearsal time started three minutes ago. You’re holding up the entire audition.”

Julian clutched his heart in mock regret. “My sincerest apologies.”

She rolled her eyes and waved toward the grand piano with a flourish. “Shall we begin?”

“Absolutely.”

She turned on her pink-slippered heel and joined the Russian at the front of the room. Julian’s gaze snagged briefly on Chance, who just shook his head in obvious disgust. Julian’s only response was a slight shrug of his shoulders before Chance turned away and launched into a grand tour en l’air.

Message received. Madame wasn’t the object of Chance’s derision. Julian himself was.

Don’t ogle the dancers.

Right.

He looked down at Tessa, still sitting at his feet, tying satin ribbons around her ankles with trembling fingers.

“Allow me,” he murmured and reached for Tessa’s elbow to help her up.

She promptly ignored him. Yet again.

He stood there, feeling like an idiot, while she rose gracefully to her feet—unassisted—and walked away from him without so much as a backward glance. He’d been agitated at being ignored the first time but was willing to overlook it. The second time, not so much. He’d basically put his job on the line to buy her a little time. Granted, it was a job he didn’t particularly care for. A crap job, really. But Tessa didn’t know that, did she?

He stalked toward the piano, all the while reminding himself he had no interest in romantic liaisons. He was a mess. Messed up enough to know better than to become involved with someone. Anyone, much less a woman who looked right through him.

He’d forgotten himself for a moment—that was all. He wasn’t the man he’d been two years ago. Inside or out. A glance in any direction in this mirrored room was all the reminder he needed.

Madame Daria clapped her hands, and Julian dutifully pounded out some Debussy. Row by row, the dancers spun around him until the studio was little more than a dizzying blur of lithe, lean bodies and spinning pink satin. Despite every effort to the contrary, Julian’s gaze found Tessa. Time and again. He told himself it was only because Madame kept screaming corrections at her, sometimes quite literally in her face.

He almost believed it.

He wasn’t coming back. This time, he meant it. At the end of rehearsal, he took painstaking care to make sure he left the sheet music in the exact right order. Anyone should be able to pick up right where he’d left off. He thought idly for a moment about who that person might be, and then decided he didn’t care. What difference did it make?

We don’t need Mozart. We need a body.

Right. Well, that body would no longer be his.

“What are you doing?” Chance leaned against the piano and crossed his arms. If Julian had any sentimental attachment to the baby grand, he would have chastised Chance for getting his sweat all over it. Maybe wiped the Steinway down with a towel.

But he didn’t. “Packing up. What does it look like I’m doing?”

If Chance realized he’d meant permanently, he didn’t bring it up. He grabbed a T-shirt out of the dance bag at his feet and pulled it on, as the last remaining dancers slipped out of the room. “I saw you looking at her, you know. We all did.”

A pain shot through Julian’s temple. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. The girl. Number twenty-eight.” Chance’s tone was altogether too dismissive for Julian’s taste. She had a name after all.

“Am I to assume you’re talking about Tessa?”

Chance raised a brow. “Ah, so you admit it.”

“I admit nothing. Can we not do this?” It was a moot point, anyway. This time tomorrow, he wouldn’t be here to stare at Tessa. Or anyone.

“Listen, I know I said not to ogle the dancers. It grates on Madame’s nerves. Just try and be a tad more subtle next time, would you?” He shook his head. “Besides, you can do better than a dancer who isn’t even part of the company. Two of the soloists asked about you yesterday. I think they know who you are.”

Who I am.

Who am I?

It was a question he’d been asking himself on a daily basis since he’d put down his trumpet for the final time. “What have you got against auditioning dancers? You were one yourself a while back.”

“Nothing.” Chance shrugged. “But if you’re going to pick one, at least pick a good one.”

Julian tossed the sheet music in a pile on top of the Steinway. “What are you talking about? Are you blind? She’s nothing like the other ballerinas.”

“Exactly. That’s the problem. She’s not supposed to stand out. You’re not supposed to notice her at all. She’s auditioning for the corps. The corps dancers all have one job. The same job. They move in perfect unison. They’re background.”

“That’s a rather harsh description, don’t you think?” Julian slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and headed toward the door. He’d spent long enough on this conversation. Too long, actually.

Chance fell in step beside him. “Not harsh. Accurate. She’s going to get cut. Mark my words. When your little Tessa stands out, it’s because she’s screwing up.”

His little Tessa. Hardly. He didn’t even know why he was having this conversation.

He stalked wordlessly down the hall, hoping against hope Chance would just drop it.

“There she is now,” Chance said and pointed at a slender window in one of the smaller studio’s doors.

Don’t do it. Don’t look.