Fever Dream Read Online Free PDF Page B

filthy, knowing grin that felt like a kick between the legs, especially after the magic that had come before. Without thinking, she reached out and cracked him across the face. The slap echoed in the silence of the room.
    “You’re an asshole,” she said.
    He didn’t reply, only stared at her, his hand held over the red mark of her blow. Why did she feel like crying?
    Because he’d showed her the prince and then turned into the toad, like she wasn’t good enough for the prince. Like she wasn’t good enough for him. But God help her, she’d gouge out her eyes before she cried in front of him. She shoved the tears down, beneath her anger and her outrage. “If you want to dance with me,” she snapped, “you need to act professional out of respect for my art. Out of respect for all the hours I’ve put in to get to this fucking place.”
    In her peripheral vision, she saw Yves start toward them, then stop again. The rehearsal room grew even quieter than before. “You know what I mean,” she finished in little more than a whisper. “You know what I’m talking about.”
    “I’m sorry,” he finally said, rubbing his fingers across his cheek. “I made a mistake.”
    He looked at her with his head bowed a bit to the side, like a chastened boy. A gorgeous, chastened boy. How could he be so beautiful and so awful at once?
    “Yes, this is a mistake, all of it,” she said, looking away from him. Emotions assaulted her—anger, disappointment, confusion, and worst of all, horribly inappropriate lust. She could still feel the pull to him, the agitation of all her erogenous zones, but she thought she’d die if she had to dance with him again. She’d die if he ever groped her crotch or her breast again with that leer on his face. If she had to kiss him, even on stage...
    No, she couldn’t sign a contract here. She ducked her head and started for the door, but he followed, catching her wrist.
    “My mistake,” he said. “Let me fix it. We go again. Please.”
    “No, you were right about us. This isn’t going to work—”
    “I think this will work,” he said, speaking over her. “A good partnership doesn’t start until the first slap.”
    She stared into his dark eyes. The lurid mockery was gone, replaced by an apologetic gaze.
    “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” she said, pulling her hand from his. “A stupid way to start a partnership.”
    “I didn’t start nothing. This just happened. This... This...” He gestured helplessly. This magic , she supplied in her mind. He lowered his voice and took her hand again. “You know what I mean,” he said, borrowing her earlier words.
    Yes, she did know what he meant, but her courage had left her. She felt too vulnerable now, too afraid. “You don’t really want to dance with me,” she said, staring at the middle of his chest.
    “I need a partner and you’re here.” His fingers tightened on hers. “And there’s a lot to do before the season gets underway. So...we go again, Petra. Please.”
    She might have had the power to leave if not for that please , because she understood how much it cost him to add it. “I don’t know,” she said, deeply conflicted. “I’m not sure about you and me. I’m not sure it will work out.”
    He gave her a look that said liar . And she was lying. She was grasping for any way out of this, because his artistry cowed her and his enigmatic sexuality seduced her. This must have been how her mother felt when she danced with Petr Grigolyuk, and that had ended so badly. Dancing with Fernando Rubio would be hell for her, a constant struggle against feelings she didn’t want to have.
    He glanced to the side at a stifled outburst of giggles, and Petra remembered everyone was watching this private moment. Would this story be in the tabloids next? Slappily Ever After. She wouldn’t put it past any of these dancers to sell a play-by-play of this interlude to the press.
    “Is because you don’t want to kiss me?” he