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emitted some chemical or pheromone that was making her crazy, or perhaps it was the close physical contact with his body. She could feel his hard abs through his shirt, and smell the fresh, clean scent of his cologne. Or was it only soap?
    God, why did she care? With determined concentration, she pushed everything out of her mind but Juliet’s adolescent excitement and emotion, and the precise execution of the steps. This balcony scene was lyrical and romantic, a stolen interlude between two lovers who desired each other desperately but were never meant to be. Her partner fell easily into the role of Romeo, and seemed to become a whole other person.
    She’d hoped this rehearsal might be a disaster from beginning to end so she could hop on a plane and put this whole thing behind her, but she found herself impressed with his partnering. He made everything so easy. He gave her the emotion she needed to lose herself in the role, so it felt natural, almost magical, and he gave her only as much support as she needed, so all her energy might go to the dance. As for him, he performed his steps with such finesse, even now in a casual rehearsal. He could make you a better dancer , she thought to herself. He’s that good.
    At least he was good until the second series of lifts. He absolutely did not have to put his hand there . A mistake, she hoped. They moved on to more sweeping movements, to balanced poses that felt easy and graceful.
    “Beautiful,” he murmured when she stretched into a taut arabesque. “So pretty, your extension.”
    “Thank you.” She felt a weird tightening in her chest, some giddy pleasure that he’d noticed and complimented something about her. His partnering made her feel so safe, allowed her to become naive, impulsive Juliet without reservation. She thought if Romeo and Juliet were real, they might have felt this connection as they came together in the dark of Verona’s night. In the middle of an intricate series of lifts she met his gaze and some recognition passed between them.
    But then, damn it. He groped her again, and this time she knew it was intentional. Was he testing her? Her limpid gaze turned into a glare.
    “Stop,” she muttered under her breath. “I know what you’re doing. Stop it.”
    “Not doing nothing,” he said. “You’re taller than my last partner. Hands in the wrong place. Sorry.”
    That was a bald lie, because Ashleigh Keaton was the same height as her. Irritation propelled Petra through an abbreviated solo and made it easy for her to shy away in character when Romeo tried to kiss her. But then, oh God, how he made her fly. It was impossible to stay angry, to not be drawn back into the emotional flow of the piece. His hands were a miracle, such a miracle.
    I wonder what else he can do with those hands...
    This part of the ballet was meant to be innocently provocative, but with Rubio it took on whole new shades of sensuality. His dark eyes caressed her, his arms clasped her close and then propelled her into beautiful movements. On either side of the room, dancers stared at them, still as statues. Yves appeared to be holding his breath. Petra met Rubio’s gaze and found such intensity, such tenderness that it shook her.
    It was a moment , as they said in the theater. It was the beginning of them, of their legendary partnership. Yves was right—they only had to dance together to understand each other. Petra thought she would remember this first dance forever, the emotion, the perfection, the soft, flowing legato of the piano, and the preternatural stillness of the room. They began the final turns leading up to the big kiss but then—again—his hands weren’t in the right place.
    His palm brushed over her breast in such a way that Yves wouldn’t notice, or the accompanist, or any of the two dozen or so dancers arrayed along the walls. But she noticed, because she felt the betrayal of trust down to her toes.
    She stopped mid-step and spun on him. He grinned at her, a