Dance of Dreams

Chapter 1

The cat lay absolutely still on his back, eyes closed, front paws resting on his white chest. The last rays of the sun slanted through the long vertical blinds and shone on his orange fur. He was undisturbed by the sound of a key in the lock that broke the silence of the apartment. He half opened his eyes when he heard his mistress’s voice but closed them again, just as lazily, when he noted she was not alone. She’d brought that man home with her again, and the cat had no liking for him. He went back to sleep.

“But Ruth, it’s barely eight o’clock. The sun’s still up.”

Ruth dropped her keys on the dainty Queen Anne table beside the door, then turned with a smile. “Donald, I told you I had to make it an early evening. Dinner was lovely. I’m glad you talked me into going out.”

“In that case,” he said, taking her into his arms in a practiced move, “let me talk you into extending the evening.”

Ruth accepted the kiss, enjoyed the gentle surge of warmth just under her skin. But when he pulled her closer, she drew away. “Donald.” Her smile was the same easy one she had worn before the kiss. “You really have to go.”

“A nightcap,” he murmured, kissing her again, lightly, persuasively.

“Not tonight.” She moved firmly out of his arms. “I have an early class tomorrow, Donald, plus a full day of rehearsals and fittings.”

He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “It’d be easier for me if it were another man, but this passion for dancing…” He shrugged before reluctantly turning to leave. Was he losing his touch? he wondered.

Ruth Bannion was the first woman in over ten years who had held him off so consistently and successfully. Why, he asked himself, did he keep coming back? She opened the door for him, giving him one last, lingering smile as she urged him through. A glimpse of her silhouette in the dim light before she shut the door on him answered his question. She was more than beautiful—she was unique.

Ruth was still smiling as she hooked the chain and security lock. She enjoyed Donald Keyser. He was tall and dark and stylishly handsome, with an acerbic humor and exquisite taste. She respected his talents as a designer, wore a number of his creations herself and was able to relax in his company—when she found the time. Of course, she was aware that Donald would have preferred a more intimate relationship.

It had been a simple matter for Ruth to decide against it. She was attracted to Donald and was fond of him. But he simply did not stir her emotions. While she knew he could make her laugh, she doubted very much that he could make her cry. Turning into the darkened apartment, Ruth felt a twinge of regret. She felt abruptly, unexpectedly alone.

Ruth turned to study herself in the gilt-framed, rectangular mirror that hung in the hallway. It was one of the first pieces she had bought when she had moved into the apartment. The glass was old, and she had paid a ridiculous price for it, despite the dark spots near the top right-hand corner. It had meant a great deal to Ruth to be able to hang it on the wall of her own apartment, her own home. Now, as the light grew dim, she stared at her reflection.

She had left her hair down for the evening, and it flowed over her shoulders to swing past her elbows. With an impatient move, she tossed it back. It lifted, then settled behind her, black and thick. Her face, like her frame, was small and delicate, but her features weren’t even. Her mouth was generous, her nose small and straight, her chin a subtle point. Though the bones in her face were elegant, the deep brown eyes were huge and slanted catlike. The brows over them were dark and straight. An exotic face, she had been told, yet she saw no beauty in it. She knew that with the right makeup and lighting she could look stunning, but that was different. That was an illusion, a role, not Ruth Bannion.

With a sigh, Ruth turned away from the mirror and crossed to the plush-covered Victorian sofa. Knowing she was now alone, Nijinsky rolled over, stretched and yawned luxuriously, then padded over to curl in her lap. Ruth scratched his ears absently. Who was Ruth Bannion? she wondered.

Five years before, she had been a very green, very eager student beginning a new phase of her training in New York. Thanks to Lindsay, Ruth remembered with a smile. Lindsay Dunne, teacher, friend, idol—the finest classical ballerina Ruth had ever seen. She had convinced Uncle Seth to let her come here. It warmed Ruth to think of them now, married, living in the Cliff House in Connecticut with their children. Every time she visited them, the love and happiness lingered with her for weeks afterward. She had never seen two people more right for each other or more in love. Except perhaps her own parents.

Even after six years, thinking of her parents brought on a wave of sadness—for herself and for the tragic loss of two bright, warm people. But in a strange way Ruth knew it had been their death that had brought her to where she was today.

Seth Bannion had become her guardian, and their move to the small seacoast town in Connecticut had brought them both to Lindsay. It had been through Lindsay that Seth had been made to see Ruth’s need for more training. Ruth knew it hadn’t been easy for her uncle to allow her to make the move to New York when she had been only seventeen. She had, of course, been well cared for by the Evanstons, but it had been difficult for Seth to give her up to a life he knew to be so difficult and demanding. It was love that had made him hesitate and love that had ultimately ruled his decision. Her life had changed forever.

Or perhaps, Ruth reflected, it had changed that first time she had walked into Lindsay’s school to dance. It had been there that she had first danced for Davidov.

How terrified she had been! She had stood there in front of a man who had been heralded as the finest dancer of the decade. A master, a legend. Nikolai Davidov, who had partnered only the most gifted ballerinas, including Lindsay Dunne. Indeed, he had come to Connecticut to convince Lindsay to return to New York as the star in a ballet he had written. Ruth had been overwhelmed by his presence and almost too stunned to move when he had ordered her to dance for him. But he had been charming. A smile touched Ruth’s mouth as she leaned her head back on the cushions. And who, she thought lazily, could be more charming than Nick when he chose to be? She had obeyed, losing herself in the movement and the music. Then he had spoken those simple, stunning words.

“When you come to New York, come to me.”

She had been very young and had thought of Nikolai Davidov as a name to be whispered reverently. She would have danced barefoot down Broadway if he had told her to.

She had worked hard to please him, terrified of the sting of his temper, unable to bear the coldness of his disapproval. And he had pushed her. Ruth remembered how he had been constantly, mercilessly demanding. There had been nights she had curled up in bed, too exhausted to even weep. But then he would smile or toss off a compliment, and every moment of pain would vanish.

She had danced with him, fought with him, laughed with him, watching the gradual changes in him over the years, and still, there was an elusive quality about him.

Perhaps that was the secret of his attraction for women, she thought: the subtle air of mystery, his foreign accent, his reticence about his past. She had gotten over her infatuation with him years ago. She smiled, remembering the intensity of her crush on him. He hadn’t appeared to even notice it. She had been scarcely eighteen. He’d been nearly thirty and surrounded by beautiful women. And still is, she reminded herself, smiling in rueful amusement as she stood to stretch. The cat, now dislodged from her lap, stalked huffily away.

My heart’s whole and safe, Ruth decided. Perhaps too safe. She thought of Donald. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She yawned and stretched again. And there was that early class in the morning.

Sweat dampened Ruth’s T-shirt. Nick’s choreography for The Red Rose was complicated and strenuous. She took a much-needed breather at the barre. The remainder of the cast was scattered around the rehearsal hall, either dancing under Nick’s unflagging instructions or waiting, as she did, for the next summons.

It was only eleven, but Ruth had already worked through a two-hour morning class. The long, loose T-shirt she wore over her tights was darkened by patches of perspiration; a few tendrils of her hair had escaped from her tightly secured bun. Still, watching Nick demonstrate a move, any thought of fatigue drained from her. He was, she thought as she always did, absolutely fabulous.

As artistic director of the company and as established creator of ballets, he no longer had to dance to remain in the limelight. He danced, Ruth knew, because he was born to do so. He skimmed just under six feet, but his lean, wiry build gave an illusion of more height. His hair was like gold dust and curled carelessly around a face that had never completely lost its boyish charm. His mouth was beautiful, full and finely sculpted. And when he smiled …

When he smiled, there was no resisting him. Fine lines would spread out from his eyes, and the large irises would become incredibly blue.

Watching him demonstrate a turn, Ruth was grateful that at thirty-three, with all his other professional obligations, he still continued to dance.

He stopped the pianist with a flick of his hand. “All right, children,” he said in his musically Russian-accented voice. “It could be worse.”

This from Davidov, Ruth mused wryly, was close to an accolade.

“Ruth, the pas de deux from the first act.”

She crossed to him instantly, giving an absent brush at the locks of hair that danced around her face. Nick was a creature of moods—varied, mercurial, unexplained moods. Today he appeared to be all business. Ruth knew how to match his temperament with her own. Facing, they touched right hands, palm to palm. Without a word, they began.

It was an early love scene, more a duel of wits than an expression of romance. But Nick hadn’t written a fairy tale ballet this time. He had written a passionate one. The characters were a prince and a gypsy, each fiercely flesh and blood. To accommodate them the dances were exuberant and athletic. They challenged each other; he demanded, she defied. Now and then a toss of the head or a gesture of the wrist was employed to accent the mood.

The late summer sun poured through the windows, patterning the floor. Drops of sweat trickled unheeded, unfelt, down Ruth’s back as she turned in, then out of Nick’s arms. The character of Carlotta would enrage and enrapture the prince throughout the ballet. The mood for their duel of hearts was set during their first encounter.

It was at times like this, when Ruth danced with Nick, that she realized she would always worship him, the dancer, the legend. To be his partner was the greatest thrill of her life. He took her beyond herself, beyond what she had ever hoped to be. On her journey from student to the corps de ballet to principal dancer, Ruth had danced with many partners, but none of them could touch Nick Davidov for sheer brilliance and precision. And endurance, she thought ruefully as he ordered the pas de deux to begin again.

Ruth took a moment to catch her breath as the pianist turned back the pages of the score. Nick turned to her, lifting his hand for hers. “Where is your passion today, little one?” he demanded.

It was a salutation Ruth detested, and he knew it. The grin shot across his face as she glared at him. Saying nothing, she placed her palm to his.

“Now, my gypsy, tell me to go to the devil with your body as well as your eyes. Again.”

They began, but this time Ruth stopped thinking of her pleasure in dancing with him. She competed now, step for step, leap for leap. Her annoyance gave Nick precisely what he wanted. She dared him to best her. She spun into his arms, her eyes hot. Poised only a moment, she spun away again and with a grand jeté, challenged him to follow her.

They ended as they had begun, palm to palm, with her head thrown back. Laughing, Nick caught her close and kissed her enthusiastically on both cheeks.

“There, now, you’re wonderful! You spit at me even while you offer your hand.”

Ruth’s breath was coming quickly after the effort of the dance. Her eyes, still lit with temper, remained on Nick’s. A swift flutter raced up her spine, distracting her. She saw that Nick had felt it, too. She saw it in his eyes, felt it in the fingers he pressed into the small of her back. Then it was gone, and Nick drew her away.

“Lunch,” he stated and earned a chorus of approval. The rehearsal hall began to clear immediately. “Ruth.” Nick took her hand as she turned to join the others. “I want to talk to you.”

“All right, after lunch.”

“Now. Here.”

Her brows drew together. “Nick, I missed breakfast—”

“There’s yogurt in the refrigerator downstairs, and Perrier.” Releasing her hand, Nick walked to the piano. He sat and began to improvise. “Bring some for me, too.”

Hands on her hips, Ruth watched him play. Of course, she thought wrathfully, he’d never consider I’d say no. He’d never think to ask me if I had other plans. He expects I’ll run off like a good little girl and do his bidding without a word of complaint.

“Insufferable,” she said aloud.

Nick glanced up but continued to play. “Did you speak?” he asked mildly.

“Yes,” she answered distinctly. “I said, you’re insufferable.”

“Yes.” Nick smiled at her good-humoredly. “I am.”

Despite herself, Ruth laughed. “What flavor?” she demanded and was pleased when he gave her a blank look. “Yogurt,” she reminded him. “What flavor yogurt, Davidov.”

In short order Ruth’s arms were ladened with cartons of yogurt, spoons, glasses and a large bottle of Perrier. There was the sound of chatter from the canteen below her mingling with Nick’s playing the piano from the hall above. She climbed the stairs, exchanging remarks with two members of the corps and a male soloist. The music Nick played was a low, bluesy number. Because she recognized the style, Ruth knew it to be one of his own compositions. No, not a composition, she corrected as she paused in the doorway to watch him. A composition you write down, preserve. This is music that comes from the heart.

The sun’s rays fell over his hair and his hands—long, narrow hands with fluid fingers that could express more with a gesture than the average person could with a speech.

He looks so alone!

The thought sped into her mind unexpectedly, catching her off balance. It’s the music, she decided. It’s only because he plays such sad music. She walked toward him, her ballet shoes making no sound on the wood floor.

“You look lonely, Nick.”

From the way his head jerked up, Ruth knew she had broken into some deep, private thought. He looked at her oddly a moment, his fingers poised above the piano keys. “I was,” he said. “But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

Ruth arched a brow. “Is this going to be a business lunch?” she asked him as she set cartons of yogurt on the piano.

“No.” He took the bottle of Perrier, turning the cap. “Then we’d argue, and that’s bad for the digestion, yes? Come, sit beside me.”

Ruth sat on the bench, automatically steeling herself for the jolt of electricity. To be where he was was to be in the vortex of power. Even now, relaxed, contemplating a simple dancer’s lunch, he was like a circuit left on hold.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, reaching for a carton of yogurt and a spoon.

“That’s what I want to know.”

Puzzled, she turned her head to find him studying her face. He had bottomless blue eyes, clear as glass, and the dancer’s ability for complete stillness.

“What do you mean?”

“I had a call from Lindsay.” The blue eyes were fixed unwaveringly on hers. His lashes were the color of the darkest shade of his hair.

More confused, Ruth wrinkled her brow. “Oh?”

“She thinks you’re not happy.” He was still watching her steadily: the pressure began to build at the base of her neck. Ruth turned away, and it lessened immediately. There had never been anyone else who could unnerve her with a look.

“Lindsay worries too much,” she said lightly, dipping the spoon into the yogurt.

“Are you, Ruth?” Nick laid his hand on her arm, and she was compelled to look back at him. “Are you unhappy?”

“No,” she said immediately, truthfully. She gave him the slow half smile that was so much a part of her. “No.”

He continued to scan her face as his hand slid down to her wrist. “Are you happy?”

She opened her mouth, prepared to answer, then closed it again on a quick sound of frustration. Why must those eyes be on hers, so direct, demanding perfect honesty? They wouldn’t accept platitudes or pat answers. “Shouldn’t I be?” she countered. His fingers tightened on her wrist as she started to rise.

“Ruth.” She had no choice but to face him again. “Are we friends?”

She fumbled for an answer. A simple yes hardly covered the complexities of her feelings for him or the uneven range of their relationship. “Sometimes,” she answered cautiously. “Sometimes we are.”

Nick accepted that, though amusement lit his eyes. “Well said,” he murmured. Unexpectedly, he gathered both of her hands in his and brought them to his lips. His mouth was soft as a whisper on her skin. Ruth didn’t pull away but stiffened, surprised and wary. His eyes met hers placidly over their joined hands, as if he were unaware of her would-be withdrawal. “Will you tell me why you’re not happy?”

Carefully, coolly, Ruth drew her hands from his. It was too difficult to behave in a contained manner when touching him. He was a physical man, demanding physical responses. Rising, Ruth walked across the room to a window. Manhattan hustled by below.

“To be perfectly honest,” she began thoughtfully, “I haven’t given my happiness much thought. Oh, no.” She laughed and shook her head. “That sounds pompous.” She spun back to face him, but he wasn’t smiling. “Nick, I only meant that until you asked me, I just hadn’t thought about being unhappy.” She shrugged and leaned back against the windowsill. Nick poured some fizzing water and, rising, took it to her.

“Lindsay’s worried about you.”

“Lindsay has enough to worry about with Uncle Seth and the children and her school.”

“She loves you,” he said simply.

He saw it—the slow smile, the darkening warmth in her eyes, the faintly mystified pleasure. “Yes, I know she does.”

“That surprises you?” Absently, he wound a loose tendril of her hair around his finger. It was soft and slightly damp.

“Her generosity astonishes me. I suppose it always will.” She paused a moment, then continued quickly before she lost her nerve. “Were you ever in love with her?”

“Yes,” he answered instantly, without embarrassment or regret. “Years ago, briefly.” He smiled and pushed one of Ruth’s loosened pins back into her hair. “She was always just out of my reach. Then before I knew it, we were friends.”

“Strange,” she said after a moment. “I can’t imagine you considering anything out of your reach.”

Nick smiled again. “I was very young, the age you are now. And it’s you we’re speaking of, Ruth, not Lindsay. She thinks perhaps I push you too hard.”

“Push too hard?” Ruth cast her eyes at the ceiling. “You, Nikolai?”

He gave her his haughtily amused look. “I, too, was astonished.”

Ruth shook her head, then moved back to the piano. She exchanged Perrier for yogurt. “I’m fine, Nick. I hope you told her so.” When he didn’t answer, Ruth turned, the spoon still between her lips. “Nick?”

“I thought perhaps you’ve had an unhappy … relationship.”

Her brows lifted. “Do you mean, am I unhappy over a lover?”

It was instantly apparent that he hadn’t cared for her choice of words. “You’re very blunt, little one.”

“I’m not a child,” she countered testily, then slapped the carton onto the piano again. “And I don’t—”

“Do you still see the designer?” Nick interrupted her coolly.

“The designer has a name,” she said sharply. “Donald Keyser. You make him sound like a label on a dress.”

“Do I?” Nick gave her a guileless smile. “But you don’t answer my question.”

“No, I don’t.” Ruth lifted the glass of Perrier and sipped calmly, though a flash of temper leaped into her eyes.

“Ruth, are you still seeing him?”

“That’s none of your business.” She made her voice light, but the steel was beneath it.

“You are a member of the company.” Though his eyes blazed into hers, he enunciated each word carefully. “I am the director.”

“Have you also taken over the role of Father Confessor?” Ruth tossed back. “Must your dancers check out their lovers with you?”

“Be careful how you provoke me,” he warned.

“I don’t have to justify my social life to you, Nick,” she shot back without a pause. “I go to class, I’m on time for rehearsals. I work hard.”

“Did I ask you to justify anything?”

“Not really. But I’m tired of you playing the role of stern uncle with me.” A frown line ran down between her brows as she stepped closer to him. “I have an uncle already, and I don’t need you to look over my shoulder.”

“Don’t you?” He plucked a loose pin from her hair and twirled it idly between his thumb and forefinger while his eyes pierced into hers.

His casual tone fanned her fury. “No!” She tossed her head. “Stop treating me like a child.”

Nick gripped her shoulders, surprising her with the quick violence. She was drawn hard against him, molded to the body she knew so well. But this was different. There were no music or steps or storyline. She could feel his anger—and something more, something just as volatile. She knew he was capable of sudden bursts of rage, and she knew how to deal with them, but now …

Her body was responding, astonishing her. Their hearts beat against each other. She could feel his fingertips digging into her flesh, but there was no pain. The hands she had brought up to shove him away with were now balled loosely into fists and held motionlessly aloft.

He dropped his eyes to her lips. A sharp pang of longing struck her—sharper, sweeter than anything she had ever experienced. It left her dazed and aching.

Slowly, knowing only that what she wanted was a breath away, Ruth leaned forward, letting her lids sink down in preparation for his kiss. His breath whispered on her lips, and hers parted. She said his name once, wonderingly.

Then, with a jerk and a muttered Russian oath, Nikolai pushed her away. “You should know better,” he said, biting off the words, “than to deliberately make me angry.”

“Was that what you were feeling?” she asked, stung by his rejection.

“Don’t push it.” Nick tossed off the American slang with a movement of his shoulders. Temper lingered in his eyes. “Stick with your designer,” he murmured at length in a quieter tone as he turned back to the piano. “Since he seems to suit you so well.”

He sat again and began to play, dismissing her with silence.