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“No problem,” he’d said.
And he’d meant it. Julian had known Chance long enough to lose any romantic notions he might have had about the ballet world. In the ten years they’d been friends, Julian could count on one hand the number of times Chance hadn’t been a foul, sweaty mess. Ballet wasn’t art. It was work. Messy, fanatic work.
Besides, Julian had no interest in a roomful of underfed women who considered him invisible. He had no interest in being here at all, frankly.
He should have saved his money. He should have planned or invested. Something. Anything. He’d had a good run. A stellar run, actually. How could he have possibly known it wouldn’t last?
He wasn’t even a piano player, for crying out loud. He’d told Chance as much. What was it that Chance had said in response? We don’t need Mozart. We need a body. You’re good enough.
Good enough.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
He sighed, crossed his arms and waited for Madame Daria to finish her big speech. She’d actually asked him to call her that. Madame. Like they were in nineteenth-century France or something. Not happening.
She droned on about the new choreographer, some Russian hotshot. Julian glanced at his watch. He’d been on the job for less than an hour, and already he was bored out of his mind. This whole thing had been a mistake. If he managed to get through the day without falling asleep and knocking his head on the piano keys, it would be a miracle.
Five more hours. That’s all.
He could last five hours. Then when it was over, he’d quit. Chance would understand. Probably. If he didn’t, too damn bad.
Julian sighed. Then he looked up and found one of the dancers staring at him. The only one who’d managed to capture his attention in the entire hour and a half he’d been banging away on the Steinway. The dancer who’d made the mistake.
The girl from the train.
Truth be told, he’d noticed her even before she’d wobbled out of her turn. Before he’d even recognized her. He couldn’t help it. Until his hands had touched the keys, she’d been just another whisper-thin girl in a wraparound leotard and tights.
But then he’d begun to play, and she’d transformed right before his eyes. One note. That’s all it had taken. Her eyes had grown wide, and she’d flung herself into the dance. If Julian hadn’t known better, he would have thought she’d never heard music before. Maybe because there was something different about the way she moved. Desperate. Like she was running from a demon.
Madame had been right, though. The girl had been dancing off beat, which should have annoyed him. It didn’t. Much to his irritation, he found her intriguing. Probably because Julian was no stranger to demons himself.
The ballerina’s gaze lingered on his lips. Or more probably, his scar.
Of course.
Every muscle in Julian’s body tensed as his fascination with her morphed into something closer to disdain. Not that he was surprised. Or even disappointed. He was grateful, actually. He’d learned a long time ago not to mix business with pleasure.
Of course he had no intention of sticking to this gig, but still. Knowing Chance, he’d probably already bedded the ballerina since he seemed to make it his mission to sleep his way through every ballet school and company in Manhattan. Which made his advice all the more ridiculous.
Don’t ogle the dancers.
Right.
Julian wasn’t ogling. He absolutely wasn’t. If anything, the pretty ballerina was ogling him.
Her gaze drifted upward, and their eyes locked. When she realized she’d been caught staring at his scar, her cheeks went pinker than her ballet shoes.
Julian lifted a brow. Go ahead, sweetheart. Look your fill.
She looked away, her deepening flush the only evidence of their nonverbal exchange.
Julian sank onto the piano bench and flipped through the sheet music Madame had thrust at him upon his arrival. The score for the audition was Debussy. He was to open with Rêverie, which he rather liked. It was a vast improvement over the repetitive chords he’d had to play for the morning barre exercises. Debussy’s Rêverie had also been the inspiration for the melody of “My Reverie,” a favorite of Julian’s. He owned recordings of both Sarah Vaughan’s and Ella Fitzgerald’s renditions. On vinyl.
He let his hands hover over the keys and played the melody silently, in his head, if only to keep from seeking out the interesting ballerina at the back of the room again. Even so, he found himself watching her more often than he cared to admit. It came as a relief when Daria rapped her hand on the piano and ordered him to play. Not asked, ordered.
Julian banged out the opening melody over and over again, in half time, as the dancers learned their parts. After the first fifteen rounds, he could have played the score in his sleep, so he let his gaze wander to the action in the center of the room, while his hands moved by rote. The Russian demonstrated the steps, and the dancers mimicked him. Sometimes he grabbed a foot or an arm and physically moved it where he wanted it to go. He did this a lot, actually. There was only one dancer he never touched. Her.
Julian wondered if this was good or bad. Then he wondered why he cared.
On and on, he played, until the sunshine streaming through the windows grew dim and blue shadows stretched across the studio floor. The dancers peeled away leg warmers and layers of clothing, and the air in the room felt heavy and damp. The combination they’d been working on began to take shape. Chance and a few others had long since gone home, but the remaining ballerinas with numbers pinned to their black leotards moved in perfect sync, arms slanted at elegant angles, heads tilted just so.
Except her. Number twenty-eight.
Tessa.
He’d learned her name after all the corrections Daria had barked at her over the course of the day. She wasn’t off beat anymore, but she couldn’t seem to rein herself in. That was the difference. She danced bigger than everyone else. Bigger than was acceptable, if the dour expression on Daria’s face was any indication. But when the Russian watched her, he smiled.
Again, why Julian noticed any of this was a mystery. At any rate, he wasn’t ogling. He was simply observing. What was he supposed to do all day? Stare at the black-and-white keys?
He reached the end of the piece, and Daria clapped her hands. “That will be all for today. Tomorrow morning we’ll have barre exercises and run through the combination a final time. Then we’ll begin the selection process. Good work, everyone.” She glanced up and down the row of dancers and nodded, never once letting her gaze rest on Tessa. “You’re dismissed.”
Julian rearranged the sheet music for whoever took his place tomorrow and situated it on the rack of the Steinway. His hands ached. His back ached. He cursed under his breath, remembering a time when he could play his trumpet for hours, days, weeks at a time without so much as a sore pinky finger. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’d felt loose then. Liquid. Smooth. Like Coltrane.
And now here he was. Broken down after a few hours on a piano bench.
At least he felt something, though. He’d been numb for a while. A long while. He wasn’t altogether sure which was worse—the numbness or this new dull ache.
“Mr. Shine.” He looked up and found Daria staring down at him, hands planted on her slim hips. Behind her, he could see Tessa sitting alone beneath the barre, untying the ribbons of her pointe shoes. She’d loosened her hair from its ballerina bun, and it fell about her shoulders in lush copper waves. The ache in his hands intensified, and he had the sudden urge to find out what that beautiful hair would feel like sliding through his fingers.
He cleared his throat and damned the reawakening of his senses. “Daria.”
She stared daggers at him. “It’s Madame.”
He smiled and said nothing. He was only half paying attention, anyway. Tessa had removed her shoes, revealing her gracefully arched feet. They were flushed. Cherry red. She looked as though she’d been walking barefoot through a field of poppies.
“You were satisfactory today,” Daria said primly.
Satisfactory.
Julian suppressed an eyeroll. Other than his short audition the day before, today marked the first time he’d played any sort of music in two years. Two years, one month and sixteen days, to be exact. Not that he was counting. The days somehow counted themselves, no matter how hard he tried to stop keeping track.
Two years. He supposed satisfactory wasn’t the worst assessment in the world. What had he expected?
He didn’t even know, other than he’d thought it would be somewhere besides a ballet studio, where the only people who knew his name were Chance and a taskmistress who barely cleared five feet tall. A taskmistress who clearly expected him to show up again tomorrow.
“I’ll expect you at nine o’clock in the morning,” she said. “Sharp.”
Thanks, but no, thanks.
“Fine.” He turned on his heel, telling himself it wasn’t too late. He could still get out of this.
Say it. Just say it. I’m not coming back.
But the words stuck in this throat as his footsteps echoed past the empty space where Tessa had been.
Chapter Three (#u4521553f-a801-56bb-9676-e3e5fdc19c0a)
“New pointe shoes?” Tessa’s mother, Emily Wilde, eyed the Freed of London bag sticking out of her dance bag.
Ugh, why hadn’t she zipped it properly? Never mind, though. She’d done nothing wrong. She didn’t have anything to hide.
Other than the weird sounds she’d heard yesterday, obviously. That was a different story, and much more serious than an audition for a part she probably wouldn’t even get.
“I’m auditioning for the Manhattan Ballet.” Tessa unclipped Mr. B’s leash and let him loose in the dance school. He trotted to the dog bed in the corner of the main classroom, spun three circles and then collapsed in a furry little heap.
When Tessa looked up, her mother had already begun signing. Her hands moved through the air in an alphabetic flurry. “Again? Oh, Tessa.”
“Yes, again.” She wondered what her mother’s voice sounded like now. Emily never talked when she signed, so Tessa couldn’t tell if she sounded the same.
Probably not. Nothing sounded like it should. She felt as though she’d woken up a day ago at the bottom of the ocean. Everything sounded muffled. Distorted. Not at all like she remembered.
“I need you to look after Mr. B today, okay?” He’d expressed his displeasure about being left behind the day before by disemboweling a throw pillow. There’d been more feathers on her living room floor than in the first three acts of Swan Lake. “And possibly tomorrow.”
Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Tomorrow, too?”
If I last that long. “The cast list goes up tomorrow afternoon.”
“I see.” Her mom nodded. “And will you be back today in time for the preschool tap class?”
Preschool tap. What on earth would that sound like? Tessa didn’t want to know. God help her. “Sorry, I have a doctor’s appointment late today. Can we get Chloe to cover it?”
Her sister, Chloe, should be the one teaching tap, anyway. She was a Rockette. She lived in tap shoes. But she always had something more pressing to do. More important. It was getting kind of old, truth be told.
“I’ll check.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t realize you’d scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Is everything okay?”
Tessa had no idea how to answer that question. Things were not okay, which was why she’d made the appointment to begin with.
But if she was truly getting her hearing back, wouldn’t it get better? It had to. She couldn’t live like this. She’d rather be deaf.
“Everything’s fine.” She pasted on a smile.
She’d tell her mom what was going on once she had a handle on things. She couldn’t deal with any additional drama. Not when she still had two more days of auditions to get through.
“Good. I’ll see you later, then. Don’t worry about Mr. B. He loves it here.”
As should you.
Emily didn’t say so. She didn’t have to. Tessa got the message loud and clear.
She wanted too much. She should be happy teaching dance. Which was probably why her mom hadn’t even wished her good luck at her audition. She probably hadn’t thought to wish her well. She’d just assumed Tessa wouldn’t make it. Just like all the other times she’d auditioned in the past year.
Tessa glanced at the clock on the wall above the record player that had been a fixture at the studio since she’d been too little to reach the barre. It was late. She wouldn’t have to worry about her audition if she didn’t hurry to make the train. She waved goodbye to Mr. B, and left.
While she sat in the subway car, she mentally reviewed the combination Ivanov had taught them the day before. The train made a terrible noise, though. Much louder than the music from Heathcliff’s piano.
Heathcliff. She really should stop calling him that, even to herself. Surely the man had a name.
Don’t you have more important things to be concerned about?
She did. Namely, the time.
She flew into the Manhattan Ballet studio with only ten minutes to spare. Through the tiny window at the end of the hall, she saw Chance Gabel standing just a little too close to Sabrina Cox, one of the other principal dancers. Neither of them was dancing, or paying the least bit of attention to anyone or anything, other than each other. Which meant rehearsal hadn’t started.
Good. She wasn’t late.
Yet.
She pushed the door open, intent on getting to her spot and slipping her shoes on as quickly as possible. But instead of darting inside, she crashed into something. Someone, technically. The shoes she carried in her arms tumbled to the floor, and she found herself face-to-face with the angry piano player.
Face to chest, actually, as he was a good six or seven inches taller than she was. But unlike the permanent scowl on his face, his chest was rather nice. Firm. Solid beneath her fingertips, which for some ridiculous reason, had lingered there. His T-shirt was even balled in her fists, which she could only assume was a result of her recent mental breakdown.
“I’m sorry.” She swallowed. “So sorry.”
He looked at her as though she’d materialized out of thin air, which she sort of had, since she’d flown right into the room. He started to say something, but she didn’t catch it because her gaze dropped to her hands, still gripping his shirt like he was her own personal, perfectly muscular security blanket.
She ordered her balled fists to let go, and they flagrantly disobeyed. Then, to her even greater mortification, the piano man’s musical fingers wrapped around hers and unfastened them for her. As per usual, there was a scowl on his face. Tessa didn’t know if it was due to the fact that she’d plowed straight into him, or because it seemed to be his default expression. Resting Heathcliff face.
Oh, God.
She scrambled to the floor to gather her shoes together. Rehearsal was mere seconds away, and she wasn’t anywhere near her spot. She felt altogether vulnerable. Exposed. As if every pair of eyes in the room was bearing down on her, but when she glanced up, no one was watching.
Only him.
* * *
The dancer, Tessa, was in a panic, and Julian only seemed to be making things worse.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Rehearsal can’t start without the music, and I guess you could say that’s me. I’m the music.”
He waited for a laugh. Or a smile. Neither was forthcoming. Not even a hint of acknowledgment. Just like on the train.
Okay, then.
He sat back on his heels and watched her gather her things. She might not want to give him the time of day. Correction—not might. She clearly didn’t. And while that realization didn’t please him in the slightest, he had no desire to see her punished for being tardy. The Russian appeared so full of himself, he’d abhor such a violation. If for some reason he took it in stride—a possibility that seemed slim at best—Madame Daria would never let it slide. Of that, Julian was certain.
Still.
He prickled at being slighted by Tessa. Again. Granted, this was her world, not his. He was in a dance studio, not some smoky blues club in the West Village, where, even now, he could have his pick of women.
