LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      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

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