“You look anxious,” he began. “Don’t be. You’re not getting called on the carpet for anything you’ve done wrong. In fact, I’ve been observing class and come to the conclusion that you’re one of the most talented dancers here.”
Oh my God. “Thanks, Mr. Spencer. I try.”
“I have a role for you, Prosper. A career-starting one. As you know, I’m here to stage Stravinsky’s Firebird, and I’d like you to dance the lead.”
“The lead? The Firebird?” She tried to exude a calm, self-assured demeanor at this news. But the Firebird, the title role! She was both ecstatic and terrified. “I… God… Wow. I would love to. But Lawrence might not—I’m not one of the principals—”
“I spoke to Lawrence. It took some convincing, but he’s agreed I can give you a try. I think you have the talent and the ability.” He studied her, pulling at his lip. “But I’m not yet convinced you have the drive.”
“Oh, I do, I swear. I do. I want to do it. I’m just a little—”
“Surprised?”
“To put it lightly. Yes.”
“I hope you realize, Prosper—” He stopped. “Prosper. I’ve never heard that name before. Is there a story behind it?”
“It’s short for Prosperity.”
“Prosperity!” He seemed to like that, repeating it. “Prosperity Ware. Fantastic name.”
“Thank you.” She was spellbound by the warmth of his rare smile.
“Well, Prosperity, if you accept this role…” His smile faded, replaced by familiar stern lines. “If you accept this role, I’m going to expect perfection from you. I’ve wanted to stage Firebird for some time. I have some progressive ideas for it. This won’t be Fokine’s cutesy ballet.”
He let that sink in, fixing her with a look that reminded her to a frightening degree of the way he looked at her in her dreams.
“I’m going to expect diligence, stamina, courage, patience,” he continued. “Everything a prima ballerina needs to have, particularly one who’s having a ballet choreographed on her.”
“Yes, Mr. Spencer. I understand. Absolutely.”
“Can you do it? Really? Tell me now, before we even get started. Do you have what it takes?”
“Yes.” She imbued her voice with all the confidence she could muster. “I definitely do.”
“We’ll see. The part is yours conditionally. We’ll do some work together and see how things progress. I’d like you to meet me in the small rehearsal room tomorrow after class.”
“Okay. Yes. I’ll be there. I’m so excited to work with you!” Tone it down, Prosper. Don’t simper.
He nodded and led her to the door. “I’m excited too. I’ll see you tomorrow. Come ready to work hard.”
And with that she was dismissed. His calm, detached manner did nothing to dampen her joy. She ran to the costume closet and collapsed on the floor in a heap, muffling her squeals in a pile of tutus.
She wished she could scream the news from the rafters, but he had only given the part to her conditionally. But she would show him. She would show all of them that she was talented, that hard work paid off. She rested her cheek against the scratchy tulle, her heart racing with excitement. Not only was she going to dance the role of the Firebird, but she was going to be working with Jackson Spencer every day. It might take weeks for him to block the steps with her and the other dancers, weeks of working side by side with him. Then serious rehearsals after the new year.
The ballet was scheduled to headline the spring season in February. That was a solid three months of collaboration. She just hoped her horny fantasies wouldn’t interfere with her ability to work with him. She hugged herself. She knew she could do it. She would help Jackson realize his vision and mount an unforgettable ballet. She floated through the rest of the day dreaming of birds and princes, danger and bravery, and Jackson’s unforgiving stare.
Chapter Two
Jackson could see the orange hair in his peripheral vision the moment she arrived for rehearsals. “Come in,” he said. “Close the door.” He shut the curtain to the window beside him with a snap of his wrist but left the other curtain open. “I’ve been waiting. Class ran over?”
“No.” She dropped her dance bag and crossed to the barre. “Some people wanted to know what I was doing here with you.”
He realized his hands were clenched at his sides. Settle down. He’d been waiting too long to begin work with her. He was antsy. He watched her stretch for a moment, then looked away as his groin begin to tighten. Her lines, they destroyed him.
“So what did you tell them?” he asked to distract himself. “All your curious friends. Did you tell them you were dancing the Firebird?”
“You said conditionally, so I haven’t said anything yet.” She finished stretching and turned to him, standing still. Waiting. Even the way she stood was alluring. He needed to get her moving, get her on her toes instead of this excruciating stall.
“Come on. Center.”
She moved to the center of the room. It was called the small rehearsal room, but it wasn’t small, only not as large as the larger rehearsal hall where the company took class and where entire ballets were rehearsed in front of the mirror. This room was only mirrored on one side. He turned her toward it.
“So you know the basic story of Firebird?”
“Yes, pretty much. The prince finds her in a garden, dances with her—”
“Captures her.”
Prosper fell silent.
“He captures her and refuses to release her unless she agrees to return when he asks.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “A very practical monarch.”
“Yes, practical, but also selfish. And driven to subdue a creature both weaker and more powerful than himself.”
He watched as a blush crept across the back of her neck. My God, she was so close he could smell her, fresh soap and faint perfume.
“But you’re not dancing the prince,” he said, collecting himself. “And really, his story doesn’t concern you. After you tell him the secret of how to defeat Kostchei and rescue his princess, you fly away, and he’s left with his safe, proper wife.”
“Mmm.”
“But I think he remembers the Firebird his whole life. Do you know why?”
She turned her head, the blush spreading across her cheeks. “Why?”
“Because she was the only creature of her kind he’d ever seen in his life.”
She drew in a soft breath. He was going to lick her in a moment, all the way from her nape up to her staid ballerina bun. Focus. Show her what to do, instead of staring at her neck and imagining a collar there.
“Can you do this with your arms?”
He showed her some of the birdlike movements he’d been thinking about. She did what he showed her, better and more gracefully than him. He took her through a few more steps, broadly at first, then precisely. “Are you still being a bird?” he reminded her from time to time. But she was, and it was a thrill for him to stand near her and watch her move through space, bring his steps to life. He tried not to touch her too much, although he ached to. A few nudges, a few pats to isolate body parts to show how they should move. That was all he would allow himself. This was business. He had a ballet to create. He wasn’t here spending time with her to get his rocks off. Concentrate, idiot.
“I’m still thinking,” he said when they finally paused. “I’m just trying to see the best way to tell the story through the movements.”
She nodded, standing at rest but still ready to move as soon as he guided her in some way. God, those eyes—they were so green. He wanted to ask where on earth she’d gotten those eyes, but instead he said, “They’ll hate you, you know.”