Fever Dream (3 page)

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Rubio banged open the elevator and stepped into the stillness of his soaring, cement-walled loft. He threw his keys on a table and collapsed on the couch, running his fingers through his hair. Petra Hewitt. Damn it.

He’d only seen her perform two times, but that was enough to know he didn’t want her as a partner. She was too perfect, horribly perfect, and he didn’t like it. She danced like a robot, like an alien from some ballet planet where no one made mistakes. Her body was perfect, her balance, her technique, her face, her hands and feet, all perfect. She was so flawless that she shook his normally unshakable confidence, and he didn’t need that in his life right now. Petra Hewitt danced like she was tiptoeing over the skulls of her enemies—and he was pretty sure he’d made an enemy of her tonight.

He bit off a few Portuguese expletives and reached for his phone to message Liam.
Call me, a-hole. U suck.

He went to the kitchen for an apple and then walked over to the wall of windows to look out at the London cityscape below. He was on the eighth floor of a modernized industrial building. He’d bought this concrete-bound loft because one of the walls was a giant window, but he hadn’t realized there would be nothing to see but more concrete and buildings. In the slums of Rio where he grew up, people built houses right on top of each other, rickety, cobbled-together houses that boiled in the summer months, but at least in the
favela
, there had been a view.

His phone rang and he crossed to answer it, his mouth stuffed with a bite of apple. “Li-am?” He swallowed. “You fucking dick.”

“I’m working.” His friend’s calm tone only increased his agitation. “What’s up? What do you need?”

“I need you and Yves to stop conspiring against me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rubio tore off another bite of apple. “I know it was you,” he said, gnashing the fruit between his teeth. “
Que droga.
They couldn’t afford her without you.”

“City Ballet has plenty of donors. Hundreds. How can you be so sure it was me?” Rubio could tell he was grinning, even over the phone.

“I will punch you right in your ugly face.”

“Aw, come on,” Liam said in his drawling American accent. “She’s the best, Ruby. Me and Yves thought you should have the best. She was restless in New York, having some kind of personal issue—”

“Because she is a snotty, perfectionist diva! Everyone in ballet knows this.”

“Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re not exactly known for rainbows and sunshine.”

“She is worse than me. Much worse. She told me my feet were bricks.”

“Let me guess, it was right after you said something horribly inappropriate to her.”

“Is not inappropriate to inform someone their forehead is too big.”

Liam sighed. “Your English is getting better but your charm factor sucks. If you’re going to dance with this woman—”

“I’m not going to dance with her. No.”

“You’re going to dance with her, you obnoxious fuck, and you’re going to like it. The paperwork is all but signed.”

Stupid Liam. He didn’t get it. He wasn’t there, looking at her regal fucking majesty from across the table. Sure, Petra Hewitt was an amazing dancer. Sure, they belonged together but...damn it. She was just so good. He was used to being top dog at City Ballet. He enjoyed starring in all the photo ops, fielding all the big interviews and television appearances. He was the one with the fanciest dressing room. He was the exalted star the lower-tier dancers were afraid to look on.

“You did this to stick it to me,” he said. “You and Yves. You want to stick it to me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You think I’m too much a diva. Too ego-tastical. Too full of myself.” He stalked over to the kitchen and tossed the apple core in the trash.

“Well, yeah, sure, but—”

“You want to take me down a nudge.”

“Notch. Take you down a notch, you ego-tastical bastard. And no, that’s not what motivated Yves to bring her here. He did it for you, because you need a dancer at her level to continue to develop your art. Look, I love Ashleigh, and she’s a great dancer, but she struggled to do the things that came easily for you. Maybe it’s time for you to struggle a little. I’m sure you can do it,” he said in a bright voice that made Rubio want to kick him in the nuts.

“It’s not just that,” Ruby said. “I don’t like her. She’s unpleasant. She’s stuck-up and she doesn’t smile. Her hair is this terrible yellow color and she has eyes like...like...lizard color. Snake eyes.”

“Translation,” Liam cut in. “She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen and she wasn’t sexually receptive to you, so now you’re pissed off.”

“No, that is not it at all. I would rather die than have sex with her.”

“What are you talking about? You can make super ballet babies. She’s already a super ballet baby, isn’t she? Grigolyuk’s kid? Add some Rubio to the mix and this kid can take over the world.”

“We’re never having a kid,” he groused. “She’s horrible. I hate her.”

“You adore her,” said Liam. “That’s good. It will create compelling sexual tension between you while you’re performing, sort of how you were with Ashleigh.”

Rubio crossed back to the window and looked out at the cloudy, gray sky. No, no view at all. “I don’t know why we’re friends,” he muttered into the phone. “I hate you.”

“Sort of how you ‘hate’ Petra Hewitt? Cool. Well, listen, I’m glad we had this talk but I have a security business to run. Your ghastly little dance partner isn’t coming cheap. So try to make it work, okay?”

Ruby hung up on Liam and pressed his head to the window, breathing condensation onto the glass. He’d have to do some thinking about this Petra Hewitt situation. He didn’t like her, not really, but he admired her far too much. He wished she was horrible and ugly like a lizard but she wasn’t. She was very pretty. Her forehead was completely normal size.

For the first time in a long time, The Great Fernando Rubio felt insecure and a bit threatened, and he didn’t like that at all.

Petra could feel everyone’s eyes following her as she crossed the main rehearsal room. She stole a quick glance around to see if Fernando had arrived yet, but no, he wasn’t there. Maybe he wouldn’t show up. Petra had considered it, after she saw the morning papers. Someone at The Gilded Swan had snapped photos of them snarking back and forth across the table and sold them to the press. There was even one of her storming away with Yves in pursuit while Fernando sneered in the background.

Ballet Battle Royale
, one headline trumpeted.
The Prima and the Prince
, read another.
Trouble in Paradise?

Oh, there was trouble all right. Petra could honestly say she’d never been featured in a tabloid, not until now. Due to the media hubbub, tickets for City Ballet’s fall performances were selling out, and the theater was considering adding extra matinees to keep up with demand. She hadn’t even signed the contract yet!

Yves had told her about the sold-out shows this morning, with carefully restrained excitement. He didn’t mention anything about the photos, but Petra noticed copies of the papers everywhere. In the cafeteria, in the costume room, in the dancers’ lounge. Everyone hid them when she was around, which made her feel even more unnerved about the whole thing. Petra Hewitt, tabloid fodder. Ugh.

Maybe your dad will see it
, said some unwelcome voice inside her.
Then he’ll know you’re here.

No. She didn’t care about that. She didn’t give a shit about her dad or the fact that everyone was reading about her and Fernando’s blow up. She doubted she’d even agree to dance here, although she desperately needed to get away from New York. Gary Paulsen was in New York. Creepy guy, who sent her flowers and chocolate and teddy bears, and letters five or six days a week. Eighty percent of her “fan mail” at the theater had been his bizarrely cordial notes.
You’re so delicate, so lovely. Your dancing is like nothing I’ve ever seen.
You are the most beautiful woman on earth.
They disturbed her so much that she never replied to any of them, although the Met Ballet staff sent him the occasional autographed headshot. Near the end, he’d started sending his weird notes to her apartment, to her actual private address.
Why don’t you reply to me?
I’m your biggest fan.
Your artistry gives me a reason to live.
I wish I could hold your hand.
I wish I could give you a hug.
Are you lonely?
I am.

My biggest dream would be to make you my wife.

Uh, no.

For the record, she had never been married, and if she did get married it wouldn’t be to the bald, ruddy, creepy man who lingered around the theater exit and sometimes right outside her building door. He’d never said anything threatening to her, or tried to approach her, but he was always there and it really freaked her out.

Petra sprawled on the floor to stretch, and laid her cheek against the resin-scented surface. All studios pretty much smelled the same, but the people here were strangers. She’d known everyone back at Met Ballet, from principal dancers to corps, but she didn’t know anyone here yet. Well, she knew one person...

As if on cue, Fernando Rubio entered and swaggered to the far side of the rehearsal room to warm up. He didn’t greet anyone or look in her direction, not that she wanted him to. He wore a black tee and gray sweatpants, typical practice clothes, but the way they hugged his finely-honed body...his broad shoulders...his taut ass...

Stop, Petra. Stop it now.
It was normal for dancers to check out one another’s bodies, but she didn’t want to think of him that way. She got to her feet and hid the shake of her knees in deep
pliés
, feeling each muscle lengthen and respond. She noticed Yves standing to the side with the artistic director, their eyes alert. It would be a coup for them to cement this partnership. It would place City Ballet squarely at the top of the world’s dance pyramid and guarantee ticket sales for seasons to come. It might even place Hewitt and Rubio alongside the great ballet couples of history…

“Hey, you,” Fernando called across the rehearsal room. “Are you going to be ready some time today?”

The entire room went still. Great ballet couples of history? Only if they didn’t kill one another first. Petra tapped her toe box on the floor once, twice, before she turned to him with a scowl. “You know my name every bit as well as I know yours, Fernando. I would appreciate it if you’d call me by it, as opposed to ‘hey’ or ‘you.’”

She heard a few stifled titters. His black eyes burned darker, if such a thing was possible. “My name is Rubio,” he snapped, “not Fernando.” Then he held out his hand, stubbornly refusing to call her anything at all.

She stared at that elegant hand, not moving an inch. If he thought she would come scurrying to him after that display, he was mistaken. She stood where she was, her arms crossed over her chest. He shrugged and, to her shock, tilted forward into a perfect handstand. His shirt fell down, exposing a back of bronzed, defined muscle. Her mouth went dry.

“Nice trick,” she said, turning away. She heard his shoes hit the floor as he righted himself.

“Come,” he said impatiently. “If we are going to dance, let’s dance.”

“I don’t know if we’re going to dance,” she said, lifting her chin. “I was told I would receive an apology for last night.”

“For telling you about your big forehead?” he drawled, across the entire rehearsal space. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it. Not out loud.”

She blew out a breath. “Alrighty then.” She turned on her heel and went to get her bag. “I can fly home today if I hurry.”

“Ms. Hewitt.” Yves’ voice sounded hushed in the dead-silent room as he crossed to her. “Please, wait. Mr. Rubio?” He beckoned to the frowning dancer, who glared at her like a dark-haired demon fallen from grace. The director said a few short words in Fernando’s—no,
Rubio’s
—ear that Petra couldn’t hear. With an expression of forbearance, Rubio turned to her.

“I apologize for last night,” he said tightly. “Now…please…we dance.”

She looked at his outstretched hand but didn’t take it. “You don’t want to dance with me.”

There was some flicker of sadness in his eyes, a tightening of his jaw. “I can’t dance with who I want. Forgive me, please. Is not your fault.”

That apology sounded a bit less hostile, and Petra felt herself relent. Fernando Rubio was gorgeous and talented, and hell, he was a legend. She’d come all this way. She might as well take a spin around the floor and see what he was like as a partner.

“Okay,” she said. “Past is past.” She turned to Yves. “What part of
Romeo
are you rehearsing today?”

“Well,” said Yves, a bit tentatively. “We’ve been waiting to rehearse the balcony
pas de deux
.”

Jesus, the balcony scene was one of the most romantic pieces in all of ballet, and it ended with a huge, passionate kiss. Was this the director’s way of trying to smooth the tension between them? They would have done better to start with the death scene.

She would look unprofessional if she refused, so she deferred to Rubio, who shrugged and mumbled something unintelligible. Yves beckoned to the accompanist, a disheveled-looking guy hunched over a coffee mug in the corner. He scurried over to the piano and banged a handful of keys as he sat. The tuneless, dissonant sound seemed an appropriate opening coda as Rubio reached for her hand. Their eyes met and held, and for a moment no one in the room seemed to move or breathe, including the two of them.

Was this the start of history, or disaster? Rubio turned her hand over and their fingers laced, and in his gaze, some connection flowed to her, some recognition of their rightness for each other. No matter her misgivings, no matter his gruff rudeness, as artists they belonged together, as did their hands, their feet, every part of their painstakingly trained bodies. Rubio was the dark to her light, the strength to her grace, the premier to her prima.