Dylan slowly and carefully unpeeled the costume, like a snake shedding a slippery skin, then dropped it into a wicker basket. Tomorrow morning it would be put into a washing machine by the wardrobe mistress, spin-dried and hung up ready for tomorrow night’s performance.
She always had to dust it inside with talc before she dressed; it was not easy to wriggle into the costume and she had never enjoyed wearing it.
Naked, she walked into her en suite bathroom, used the lavatory, which she was never able to do from the moment she put on her costume until she took it off, then had a long, cooling, relaxing shower, taking her time, dried herself and put on clean white panties and a matching bra.
The new dance ate up energy. It was physically demanding; every night she felt limp and drained afterwards. She was shivering now as if she had flu. For some reason tonight was worse than usual.
Because of those eyes, she thought, seeing them again: primitive, disturbing, the glittering eyes of a wolf in the forest, watching, stalking you before it leapt.
Oh, stop being melodramatic! she told herself, laughing at her own imagination as she went back into the dressing room. He was just another fan staring, and wasn’t that what Michael wanted from the audience—that fixed intensity of attention on what the dancers on stage were doing?
He was a brilliant choreographer and ‘Exercises for Lovers’ was the best thing he had created so far. She was very lucky to have met him at ballet school, to have formed a close partnership with him so young that had formed their careers. Their audiences thought of them together...Adams and Carossi...nobody spoke of one without the other. Dylan was a dancer, pure and simple, she had no other ambition—but Michael Carossi had always dreamt of becoming a choreographer, of being the best in the world. Dancing was not enough for him any more, he needed to invent his own steps, create the ballets they danced.
His choreography was intensely physical. Every day they had to rehearse for hours, bending, stretching, doing those incredible leaps, warming muscles to keep their bodies supple during the performance that evening. This was an exhausting ballet; she would be glad when they changed the programme to something less demanding.
The door into the corridor wasn’t locked. It was un unwritten rule backstage that if a door was closed you did not open it without knocking first and waiting to be invited in, so she never bothered to lock the door before getting undressed.
Hearing the door opening, she called out, ‘I’m getting dressed!’ looked into her mirror and felt her heart kick against her ribs.
He stood in the doorway, his dark eyes piercing her like a laser, moving over her slender, pale-skinned, almost naked body, leaving heat everywhere it touched.
Breathlessly, she managed to say, ‘Didn’t you hear me say I’m getting dressed?’
‘No, I didn’t. Sorry.’ The door shut again.
She was disturbed to find that her hands were trembling as she slid a filmy white slip over her head, smoothing down the delicate straps over her creamy shoulders, a flurry of lace over her breasts. Over that she added a gossamer-fine yellow chiffon dress, tight-waisted, low-necked, full-skirted, which made satisfying swishing noises around her thighs.
She blow-dried her damp hair, brushing the short brown curls into a semblance of order. Michael said the hairstyle made her look like a boy, especially as she had such a skinny, flat, athlete’s body.
Outside her door she heard loud, angry voices, and stiffened. What on earth was going on out there?
The door snapped open; Michael appeared in the doorway, his thin, fine-boned face flushed in anger. ‘This guy says he’s a friend of yours—is that right?’
Over his bony shoulder she met the dark eyes; they pleaded, urged.
‘Yes,’ she heard herself say, and couldn’t believe she had said it, almost contradicted herself, took it back. What on earth was the matter with her, pretending she knew this total stranger?
Of course, if she denied knowing him Michael would have him thrown out at once—and to her surprise she recognised that she didn’t want that to happen. She wanted to get to know this man.
Angrily pushing back a lock of damp, fair hair from his forehead, Michael demanded, ‘Who is he?’
Before she could think of a reply the other man answered for her. ‘None of your business.’ He pushed his way past Michael, closing the door in his face with a cool arrogance that took Dylan’s breath away. She had never seen anyone treat Michael Carossi as if he was just any other man. Michael was used to admiration, respect, the heady fumes of hero-worship from the whole company as well as their audiences. Michael was the god of their little world; the whole company revolved around him, including her.
The stranger stood, staring at her, and suddenly the room seemed far too small, she could hardly breathe.
‘You look...’ he began huskily, then stopped, swallowing; she saw his throat move. ‘Beautiful,’ he finished.
‘Thank you,’ she said, dry-mouthed, and forced a pretence of laugher. ‘I’m not, though—it’s an illusion, especially on stage. It’s just the make-up and clothes. I’m really very ordinary.’ Her eyes glanced sideways into the dressing table mirror at the slender girl reflected there. Brown hair, a small, heart-shaped face, slightly built—there was nothing special about her. There never had been.
‘Ordinary?’ he repeated. ‘Is that really how you feel? All this glamour, the show business stuff, the fans, the fuss people make over you! Do you wish you were just an ordinary girl?’
‘But that’s what I am! An ordinary girl who happens to be able to dance.’
‘You must have wanted to be a dancer!’
‘It just happened to me. I started when I was four years old, taking dancing lessons once a week. All my mother’s idea, actually. I don’t remember ever wanting to; it was all so long ago. I had no idea where it would all end. Nobody warns you that if you go on with it you’ll spend endless days in punishing, gruelling work. They don’t tell you about the muscle strain, the agony of sore feet, the aching back...’ She broke off, surprised by what she was telling him, flushed and worried. If he turned out to be a journalist and published what she had just said Michael would be furious with her! Hurriedly, she asked, ‘Look, who are you? How did you get in here?’
‘Walked in,’ he calmly said.
‘The stage doorkeeper should have stopped you!’ As if poor old George would have had much chance of keeping him out!
Nearly sixty, a cheerful, grey-haired man who had been a dancer once, George had broken a leg when he was thirty and never danced again. He had been given a job backstage and had graduated through various jobs to doorkeeper. Wiry, with a faint limp even now, George was practical and kind-hearted, a father-figure to the young dancers, but he would never be able to deal with a man like this.
The tough mouth curled up at one edge. ‘He was busy on the phone; he didn’t see me!’
Preferred not to, no doubt! thought Dylan. George had a strong sense of self-preservation; he wouldn’t risk getting his head knocked off!
Her blue eyes absorbed everything about the stranger, starting with that mouth. Wide, passionate, beautifully moulded, it had an erotic power that made her quiver. The very idea of being kissed by him made her head swim.
How tall was he? A foot taller than her; her head just came up to his wide shoulders. Now that he was under the raw glare of her dressing room lights she could see that he was not pale at all; no doubt it