The Ballerina's Secret. Teri Wilson
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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.
He looked. Because apparently there was some truth to Chance’s accusations. Maybe he’d stared. Maybe there’d even been some ogling.
He found her attractive. So what? He was only human. It didn’t mean he wanted to pursue anything. It simply meant he was a normal, red-blooded male.
Of course he hadn’t felt much like a normal, red-blooded male in a while. A long while. But what he saw when he looked through that window stirred an undeniably primal reaction in him. He had to suppress a groan.
Eyes closed, arms fluttering like a butterfly, Tessa moved across the floor on tiptoe. Like those times she’d been chastised in rehearsal, she moved with complete and utter abandon. Only now, alone in the semidarkened studio, there was no one there to rein her back in. No Russian. No Madame. Just Tessa, dancing for no one but herself. It was one of the most beautiful sights Julian had ever set eyes on.
A strange, dull ache formed in the center of his chest. He felt as though he were witnessing something he shouldn’t, some inherently private moment. Maybe it was the way she danced with her eyes closed. Or maybe it was the stillness of the lonely studio. Maybe both. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that every stretch of her arm, every lithe arabesque, seemed to impart a secret. A secret born in pain and longing. She moved with such melancholy grace that it almost hurt to watch.
“Why is she still here?” he asked and wondered if Chance noticed the sudden edge to his voice. God, he hoped not.
“It’s something she does.” Chance shrugged, seemingly oblivious. “She practices. Pretty much every chance she gets, not that it’s doing much good. This is the fourth time she’s auditioned.”
She practices every chance she gets? After a full day in the studio?
“That doesn’t sound like your typical dancer to me.” As if Julian actually knew the first thing about ballet.
Chance shook his head. “She’d never work out.”
“People improve. New dancers get chosen all the time.” Julian lifted a brow. “You did.”
“Now you’re comparing her to me? I thought you’d barely noticed her.” Chance let out a laugh. “She’ll never get chosen. She can’t handle it. It would be too much work.”
Julian watched as she traveled the entire length of the room on her toes, with the tiniest steps imaginable. She looked like she was floating on a cloud. Or through a dream. He swallowed. Hard. “She doesn’t strike me as someone who’s afraid of hard work.”
Chance’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know, do you?”
Julian tore his gaze from the window. Finally. “Don’t know what?”
“Tessa can’t hear. She’s deaf.”
It took Julian a minute to process what Chance was saying. Even then, it didn’t make any sense. “What do you mean she can’t hear?”
“She had an accident a year or so ago.” An accident. Chance dropped his gaze. He knew full well that Julian was no stranger to accidents.
“What kind of accident?”
Chance cleared his throat. “A ballet accident. Her partner dropped her during a lift, and she hit her head. He wasn’t just her dance partner either. He was also her fiancé.”
Julian thought back to the moment she’d crashed into him before rehearsal, the utterly blank look on her downturned face when he’d told her not to worry and the brush-off she’d given him when he’d tried to help her up. He remembered the way her head hadn’t moved at all when he’d spoken to her on the train. She hadn’t been slighting him. She’d never heard a word he’d said.
He shook his head. No. It just wasn’t possible. “How does she even do it? How does she know what’s being said in class? How does she dance?”
“She reads lips, and she counts the beats.”
She reads lips.
Without realizing what he was doing, Julian ran his fingertips across his own lower lip. Then he made contact with the scar tissue near the corner of his mouth, and his hand fell away.
He