Fever Dream Read Online Free PDF Page 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.
    Damn it. Why did it have to be him?
    If Rubio felt a similar pang of connectedness, he gave no sign. He looked away and pursed his lips, and she became aware again of the world around them, the soft chatter of other dancers and Yves’ consultation with the pianist. Petra did a few passés while Rubio supported her, to give him an idea of her weight and balance. He was taller than her, perhaps six-one or six-two to her five-four. Though his touch was light, his manner was as forceful and imperious as ever.
    “Turn,” he ordered, touching her waist.
    Petra hesitated. She was used to respect and deference, not commands. His dark eyes bored into hers, waiting with the sense of someone used to being obeyed. What had Yves called him? Rough around the edges? It was a little more than that. Rubio stepped closer, right into her space, molding his hands to curves of her waist, and she felt her nipples tighten against the sheer nylon of her leotard. Please don’t betray me, body. Don’t get hot for him. No, just no. How could she be sexually attracted to this man?
    She pushed those disturbing thoughts from her mind and launched into a neat series of pirouettes. She could assert her own dominance in this arena. She twirled eight, nine, ten times in a row. He attended her cues, his touch every bit as deft as it was reputed to be. He didn’t stand too close or too far away, but perfectly right. She forced one last pirouette, just to see if she could trip him up. He made a sound of irritation but they pulled it off, the way partners pull things off when they have to. She liked that he helped her when he could have left her to wobble to a stop in front of everyone.
    Then his hands tightened on her waist and he lifted her, a cold lift with the strength of his arms. She hadn’t expected it, and the landing jolted her. She looked over her shoulder at him with a frown. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Lift, again,” and this time she was ready. It felt like flying when they were in tune. He set her down and stepped away from her. No comments, no words, just a grunt and a hooded look.
    So that was that, a quick assessment for both of them. She wondered what he thought of her lines, her technique. How did she compare to his other partners? And how did she feel about him? She wasn’t sure she could judge. She felt curiously shaken-up at the moment.
    “Are you warmed up enough?” she asked, bending down to fiddle with her laces. “This pas de deux has a lot of lifts.”
    She straightened to find his lips curled in an unpleasant sneer. “Don’t worry. I won’t drop you.”
    “I never said you would. I was just asking if you were warmed up.”
    “I’ve been dancing as long as you. Longer. I can manage my own preparation.”
    “Fine.” She waved a hand at him and they backed away from one other. This was a rehearsal studio, not a boxing ring. They weren’t going to accomplish anything by sniping at each other, aside from feeding the gossip mill. She watched as he bounded to the other side of the room, executing some astounding cabriolets.
    “Okay,” he said, returning to her. “You ready?”
    She was more “ready” than she wanted to admit. He