“You don’t have any idea who she is, do you?” Sara jabbed a finger at his chest. “That’s Noelle Nelson.”
Finally. The Duchess had a name. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“She’s only like the most famous ballerina in the country. Maybe even the world. Principal dancer with the New York City Ballet.”
Ballet? Jace knew as much about ballet as he did about nuclear physics. But he knew you needed two fully functioning knees. And from the look of the contraption on Noelle’s leg, she was in the same boat as him where her career was concerned. Without a paddle.
He watched her as she pedaled, her mouth set in a harsh line, a bead of sweat forming on her temple, her knuckles white on the handlebars. As slow as she was going, it still took an emotional toll. “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit.” Sara gave him a not-so-gentle shove toward the treadmill. “Go. Walk. But if I see you doing anything more than that, I’m hitting the emergency stop button.”
“Deal.” Jace started to offer his hand to her but pulled it back. “I’d shake on it, but I wouldn’t want to jar anything.”
“Ha-ha.” Sara picked up a physioball and headed across the room, where an older man with one ankle wrapped was sitting on a mat next to a set of low parallel bars. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for your session.”
Jace set off in the opposite direction.
“Morning, Duchess.” He plunked his water bottle into the holder on the treadmill console. “Fancy meeting you here.”
She stared out the window, not so much as glancing at him. “I thought we agreed to steer clear of each other.”
“You agreed. I just smiled.” He flashed her another of his never-fail-to-charm grins and hit the start button on the treadmill, setting the speed as high as he could without incurring the wrath of Sara.
“If you have to work out next to me, could you at least keep your mouth shut?”
“I thought we’d chit-chat. Get to know each other. Pass the time. Hell, at this speed, I could recite the Gettysburg Address.” He peeked over his shoulder for Sara. Her back to him, she was totally occupied with the guy in the ankle wrap. He edged the rate of the treadmill up a notch. “If I remembered it.”
Noelle swiveled her head to look at him. Finally. Too bad her baby blues flashed with annoyance and not a more...pleasurable emotion. Like desire. “What part of ‘I’m not here to make friends’ did you not get?”
“You can’t have too many friends. And you know what they say about all work and no play.”
“Well, I don’t want to play.” Her head snapped forward, her attention back on the window, or whatever lay outside it. “You’re not the only one with a job on the line and people counting on you.”
“Sara says you’re some big-time ballerina.”
“Sara’s new. She talks too much.”
“What’d you do?” He gestured toward her leg. “Torn ACL?”
“How did you guess?”
“I’ve seen a few in my time. Not on a dancer, though.”
“Dancers are just as much athletes as baseball players.” From the way the last two words dripped off her tongue, it was clear she considered his profession on par with used car salesmen and politicians. “More so, if you asked me. You don’t see us sitting on the bench, spitting tobacco. And the guys I work with throw around hundred-pound ballerinas, not a five ounce sphere.”
“Easy, Duchess.” He held up a palm. “I wasn’t trying to insult you.”
“You don’t have to try.” She tossed her ponytail. “You just do.”
“Like Yoda?”
“Minus the green skin and the pointy ears, obviously.”
“So you think dancers are better athletes than ballplayers?”
“Not better.” Wrinkles creased her forehead like she was deep in thought, searching for the right word to bridge the gap between her occupation and his. “Different. But we earn our living with our bodies, just like you do.”
“Finally.” He flashed another mega-watt smile, with as little effect as the last one. Damn. He hadn’t struck out this many times in a row since he’d faced Johan Santana at Shea his rookie season. “Something we have in common.”
“I seriously doubt there’s anything else.”
“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Let’s just say I’m not interested in finding out.” She slowed, then stopped pedaling.
“That’s disappointing.”
“I guess you’ll have to learn to live with disappointment.”
She eased herself off the bike and made her way over to the free weights. He shrugged off her pissy attitude, knowing from personal experience she was covering for something. Like the fear of losing a lifetime of hard work.
Besides, it was just as well. If their conversation had gone on any longer, he might have let slip just how well acquainted he was with disappointment.
“What the hell?”
He stumbled as the treadmill came to a stop. Sara stood next to the machine, her finger still on the e-stop button. “I warned you.”
“I was barely moving.”
“You were practically running.” She handed him a towel. “It’s time for your session. Wipe off your machine and let’s get going. You’re in my army now, hotshot.”
Great. Not even noon and he’d already managed to piss off two women. With a groan, he balled up the towel, tossed it into a nearby hamper and followed Sara.
It was gonna be a fan-freaking-tabulous day.
* * *
WHAT WAS IT about Jace Monroe that brought out her inner diva?
Noelle flopped onto her bed, if you could call gingerly lowering herself so as to avoid jolting her bum-knee flopping. She really should take a shower, but she didn’t have the energy after her workout. Half an hour on a stupid stationary bike, and she felt as spent as if she’d danced Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. Plus, she was supposed to Skype with Holly in—she glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand—ten minutes.
Fuming, she ran a brush through her hair in a futile attempt to look presentable and pulled her laptop out from under the bed. Why did she let him get to her? She’d dealt with plenty of macho morons who saw ballet as some sort of sissy thing. One fairly innocuous comment from Jace, and she’d flown off the handle.
The guy must think she was a lunatic. Not that she cared what he thought. Not one bit.
Now she just had to convince her brain, which seemed to be fixated on him. And her heart, which beat a little faster every time he looked at her with that maddeningly sexy, Patrick-Swayze-in-Dirty-Dancing smile.
She shrugged it off and booted up the computer. Nothing like a little time with her sister and niece to get her mind off bedroom eyes, sun-kissed skin and sculpted muscles, three things she didn’t need occupying valuable brain space. No, what she needed now was to be totally focused on her rehabilitation. Without that, her chances of dancing professionally again were next to nil.
She’d just logged onto Skype when an alert flashed showing an incoming call. She clicked on “answer with video,” and a live feed of Holly popped up, a squirming, curly-haired toddler in her arms.
“Hey, Hols.” Noelle settled in on the bed, adjusting the laptop across her knees so her own face showed in a