1
Clara
Ballet is like dreaming on your feet.
But when the dancing stops, the nightmare begins.
I knew this better than anyone.
Marilyn Monroe once said if you give a girl the right shoes, then she can take over the world. But what happens when those shoes are stripped away from you? What are you left with then?
Stepping outside, I swayed a bit, my gait a little unsteady as I headed toward my mailbox. The sunlight was so bright it stung my eyes, which were already aching from not sleeping through the night yet again. Insomnia had kept me up until dawn and the few hours I’d managed were definitely not enough.
I slanted my hand against my forehead to provide a modicum of shadow while I moved my aching body across the lawn. If I were being honest, this gesture wasn’t because of that. It was to block out the rest of the world from seeing me too. It had been four years, and yet it was as if I feared some photographer who didn’t give a shit about anything but snapping “that picture” in order to sell it to some sleazy tabloid would jump out from the bushes at any moment.
I thought back to the person I once was. The renowned, beautiful, and very much sought-after prima ballerina whom everyone wanted.
Wanted to feature a photo of me in midair, arms arced gracefully over my head, legs extended, toes pointed in a perfect grande jeté on the cover of their glossy magazines.
Wanted to be able to name drop me as an attendee for their A-list parties.
Wanted to escort me on their arm like the ballet’s version of a trophy wife.
Wanted. I was wanted.
But now, ever since I’d stepped out of that spotlight focused on center stage — for which I only had myself to blame — I didn’t want anyone to even glance my way.
I used to love all eyes on me, the thunderous applause, the long-lasting standing ovations, the dozens of roses heaped into my arms after every performance, the male attention. I no longer desired any of that. I wanted to lock myself away, to hide from the rest of the world, and to not be seen by anyone.
As the mailbox swung open, I moaned, and my heart sank as I spotted the thick pile of unpaid bills. I used to have money to burn. Now — after years of teaching students who would never be stars in anyone’s but their parents’ eyes no matter how hard they practiced — the balance in my account was dangerously close to zero. With the current economy, people were tightening their belts regardless of how much they doted on their precious babies, and dance lessons were often the first extracurricular activity to be struck from their budget. Perhaps if I’d opened a real school, or if I’d capitalized on my reputation, I would still live like a princess.
But I’d not had that choice. The few classes I taught out of my garage-slash-studio were barely enough to keep me going.
It was a shame my lavish lifestyle had been reduced to such a mediocre one, but this was exactly what I deserved for allowing myself to get into such a fucked-up mess to begin with.
Becoming aware of the sound of a car’s engine growing louder, getting closer — too close to be going anywhere else other than my house, which was situated at the end of a cul-de-sac — I spun around and crossed my arms in annoyance. Everyone who knew me well was more than aware they needed to contact me in advance before showing up. Even with my finances in the toilet, the first thing I’d impressed on my clients was never to show up unannounced. I couldn’t imagine who had dared to breach that hard and steadfast rule.
As the car pulled to a stop, I leaned in a little to take in the dark hair of the driver who was effectively blocking my driveway. Two things instantly caught my attention and caused my heart to skip a beat.
One — he was most definitely not a client.
Two — he was incredibly attractive.
A weird frisson of electricity coursed through my veins as I observed the way he filled out his suit as he climbed from the car and moved around its hood to approach me.
When I lost everything, I also lost a part of myself. I’d actively gone out to screw around as much as possible. I’d wanted to forget all the angst, push away all the bad things I’d been through, to keep living the high life, and I figured fucking any man who caught my fancy would help me to do so.
Unfortunately, that had resulted in making me even unhappier. So I took a sabbatical, swearing off all men until I found someone I really liked. Which was where I currently still was. Because of that, I felt extremely out of practice. I was as close to a nun as a woman could be without pledging her life to the church. So, despite my vow of celibacy, the unexpected sight of someone as incredibly hot as my visitor caused a clear uptick in my pulse.
When he got closer, my eyes locked on one of the broadest chests I’d ever seen. It tapered into the flat plane of an abdomen. My fingers actually itched with a desire to lift that designer shirt to run over the rippled ridges of the six-pack I’d bet my life on lay beneath the expensive fabric. He brushed a wayward strand of hair away from his face to look at me, showing me a pair of gorgeous sparkling blue eyes, and the slow curling of his lips into a smile that threatened to stop my heart. Blue eyes, black hair, chiseled jaw — a combination that created a blend of perfection possessing the power to corrupt even the staunchest of saints.
Without a doubt, he was the most flawless male specimen I’d seen in a very long time.
Curiosity had me slamming the door of my mailbox shut and walking toward him, closing the distance between us. “If you’re here for any classes, I’m afraid I don’t accept walk-ins.”
Actually, he looked far too young to be the father of the next wannabe ballerina. Or perhaps far too, I don’t know — delicious — to be married.
“Hello,” he said in a professional tone of voice, which was when my eyes flicked up from where they’d been cataloging his firm, muscular thighs and the bulge residing between them to take in the fact he was not only wearing a jacket, he had a tie hanging down his pristine white shirt. This man was here for business, which meant trouble for me. Despite the fact his suit appeared to be perfectly tailored rather than one off a rack, there was always a chance he could be a reporter for some gossip rag.
Damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have done that interview with that cute Aussie a few months back. I blamed it on an accent that could easily curl a girl’s toes, but now it was obvious the guy had been a shark. I hadn’t been the “opportunity of his lifetime.” I’d just been chum in the waters and now feared there was about to be a feeding frenzy. When would I ever learn men and I were so not a good mix?
“I don’t require any services at the moment. My name’s Alexei Volkov. I’d like a minute of your time.”
“What for?” I snapped back in a frustrated tone I didn’t mean to sound as harsh as it did, but I so didn’t need this right now. My headache was coming back with a vengeance, and I was in a seriously bad mood, which, unfortunately, wasn’t really a new thing for me.
The man didn’t seem frazzled, however. Instead, he was scanning my body from head to toe with eyes that suddenly seemed as though they were not only the most mouth-watering shade of indigo, but were capable of seeing right through me. I fought not to let the fact the oversized T-shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants as well as hair I was sure looked like a rat’s nest made me feel woefully inadequate. Forcing myself to relax my death grip on the pile of bills, I waited for him to answer my question.