“This has absolutely nothing to do with her hair. Her movement is perfect, as careful as I’ve ever seen in a dancer—corps or principal or anything in between. Why is she buried in the back of your company?”
“Because she’s not a show person, Jackson. Yes, she has flawless technique, but she won’t be able to do it. Trust me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
The two men faced off, arms crossed over chests. Jackson would stand his ground. He knew from experience that matters of casting could make or break a ballet. Of course after many years of managing ballet companies, Lawrence knew it too. With a harried sigh, the older man guided Jackson into the hall.
“Look, I understand you don’t want to hear this, but I know my dancers. She doesn’t have the experience—”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“I’d love to see you choreograph a new Firebird on one of our prima ballerinas, but Prosper—no, I don’t see it.”
“I do see it. She can do it.”
“It will cause a revolt! You can’t just go plucking unknowns from the corps and choreographing productions on them.”
“There are plenty of other roles for your principals.”
Lawrence frowned, but Jackson sensed victory. The director had worked too hard to lure Jackson to the Townsend to risk alienating him right at the start.
“Fine. If you’d like to try Prosper in the role, you’re welcome to. But I’m afraid you’ll find the most exciting thing about her is that shock of orange hair.”
Jackson pursed his lips, biting back any further retorts so as not to press his luck. The men returned to the class to discuss the casting of the other roles, but Jackson’s gaze kept returning to her. At one point he caught her looking back at him with her deep green eyes. She quickly dropped her gaze. But he continued to stare, enthralled by the precision of her pointe work, the fluidity of her port de bras. The perfect arch of her foot.
Now that he had his Firebird, he couldn’t wait to get started. There was something so compelling about the story of the magical bird that was both a blessing and a curse to the prince who captured her. The choreographers of a century ago had made it too tame, too innocent. He thought the darker themes of the story needed to be brought to the fore. He saw the whole sexy, violent story coming to life in his imagination. The immortal Kostchei with his macabre band of followers; the twelve abducted maidens, vulnerable and pure; the Tsarina and Prince Ivan, star-crossed lovers trapped by a madman; and the skittish Firebird pulling out her red feather and putting everything back to rights.
It was getting colder. Icy wind blew up the narrow city street and sliced through the wool coat and sweater Prosper wore. She shivered and hugged herself. It was midmorning, but she still felt sleepy and slow. She’d been up late the night before thinking about Jackson Spencer again. She really needed to pull herself together. He would figure out how she felt about him if she didn’t get herself under control. He would feel the lust coming off her in waves, lust aimed right at him. What were they called, those chemicals? Pheromones? She must be dripping with them. She must be silly with wild, undisciplined pheromones by now.
Why was she so hot for him? She’d never had much of a sex drive, not like the drive she’d felt lately. She’d read in his bio that he’d danced in a Chicago company years ago. She felt jealous of the lucky ballerinas he must have partnered. How had they managed to dance with him so near? With him touching them? She would fall right off pointe and probably break her leg if he put his hands on her. He must have been spectacular at partnering. He was so masculine and sexy. His eyes missed nothing, and his body was so solid, so strong.
Ugh, enough. She ducked into a small coffee shop and forced herself to think about something besides Jackson. She scanned the specials, but nothing caught her eye.
“Just the usual, Derick.” She smiled at the middle-aged man behind the counter.
“One mocha cappuccino coming right up.” His voice sounded loud in the nearly empty space. “Have a seat. We’re not busy. I’ll bring it out to you.”
She nodded as he turned to make the drink. She scanned the display of free reading materials beside the counter and picked up the local underground mag to see if any of the bars were hiring. There were several pages of ads in the back, and she leafed through them looking for the job classifieds. She was flipping past the personals when a header caught her eye. A small caricature of a cat dressed like a dominatrix, cracking a whip. A tagline beside it. Fetish.
“Order up,” Derick sang out, sweeping over to deliver her drink. She quickly pushed the mag to the side. Since the shop was empty, he crowded into the booth beside her to chitchat, although what she really wanted was to gawk at the fetish ads. After fifteen minutes she’d finished her coffee and said good-bye, shoving the paper in her dance bag. The moment she stepped back on the street, the warm coffee inside her froze.
She walked faster on her way to the theater. Time for class. She’d have to look over the kinky ads later. Just for fun, she told herself. No way would she answer one. She wouldn’t place an ad either, although she found herself crafting one in her mind. SWF, 25, shy, petite, red hair. ISO someone to control her, to tell her what to do. To spank her, to torment her, to fuck her. Scruffy blond hair and unbelievably intense eyes a plus. Oh, probably too many words. It would take way too many words to explain what she wanted, what she needed. But it would be fun to read the other ads and see what other kinky New Yorkers were in search of.
Prosper ducked into the building. She was going to be late if she didn’t hurry. Again the image of Jackson rolling up his sleeves came to mind. Enough, Prosper. That’s all she needed was to go into class and be confronted with him, larger-than-life, with that image rolling around in her head. And he would be there. He always was, at least for a while, looking around as they cycled through the same boring exercises. She wondered if he’d made his decisions about casting yet.
She scurried to her place just as the ballet master called them to attention. She did some quick stretches and turned the wrong way to begin. Damn. Jackson was standing not ten paces away. A quick glimpse as she’d crossed the room revealed he was wearing his usual serious expression, along with a loose white T-shirt and baggy sweats. Only he could make gym pants sexy.
She disciplined her mind to the exercises, to executing each movement perfectly. She became so involved in her work that she was shocked to look up and find him standing beside her. She blushed, knowing it would show in her pale cheeks. She flitted a look at his face. His gaze was fastened to her feet.
He spoke then, so low she was certain the dancers to the right and left couldn’t hear.
“Prosper, I’d like to speak to you after class.”
She nodded, not looking at him. What could he want with her? It wasn’t his job to critique or reprimand the dancers, not that Prosper thought she was doing anything wrong. But if he didn’t want to comment on her technique, then why did he need to talk to her?
After class he waited for her by the door. The other dancers watched as she left and followed him down the hall. She was more aware than ever of his imposing size and musculature as he led her into Lawrence’s office and through to the small conference room. He smelled fresh, like deodorant or aftershave. She trailed behind, staring at the light freckles on the back of his neck, his golden hair. He ushered her in and shut the door behind her. He didn’t sit down, and neither did she. Instead he faced her, his arms crossed over his chest.