Only the Brave Try Ballet. Stefanie London

imagine.’ She sounded smug, sure, but he totally deserved it.

      He shook his head and laughed. ‘You’re not selling the ballet ideal very well.’

      ‘You don’t think you’ve got what it takes?’ She cursed herself. She shouldn’t be baiting him. No doubt he’d be the kind of guy to enjoy a little verbal sparring. But the words had slipped out before she could stop them. It was too...fun. And she needed a little fun right now.

      He grinned at her, confirming her fears. ‘If I want something, there ain’t a force in the world that will stop me from having it.’

      Jasmine gulped. His pointed look sent liquid fire through her veins. There was no doubt in her mind that she was on his list of things to want. She had to remind herself that this was business and—fun as it might be, she was only after a pay cheque. But that grin...the crooked, self-assured way he smiled...it was like a fist through her stomach.

      No, this would not work on her. She wasn’t another airhead groupie, ready to fall at his feet.

      ‘You can’t have everything you want. That’s not how the world works.’ And didn’t she know it.

      He raked his eyes over her. ‘Watch me.’

      Awareness tingled on her skin. She could feel his gaze so keenly that it might as well have been the brush of his fingertips or the rasp of his tongue for what it was doing to her insides. She bit down on her lip, trying unsuccessfully to blank out the flickering reel of R-rated images in her mind.

      ‘Since you’re so strong of mind, why don’t you focus some of that energy on this lesson?’

      After Grant had made his way through the warm-up she moved them on to a new exercise, facing him at the barre.

      ‘We’ll start the tendu à terre in first position. Watch me.’ She extended her right leg forwards until only the tips of her pointed toes touched the ground.

      Looking as out of place as one would expect from a footballer in a ballet studio, Grant struck an angled version of first position with his working arm, his shoulders bunched up around his neck.

      Jasmine rested her hand on the tense muscle. ‘You have to loosen up from here or you’ll never relax into it,’ she said, running her hands down his arm and shaping it into the proper position. Her fingertips brushed his hard, curved biceps. Her breath quickened while her heart bounded like an over-excited puppy. ‘Now, extend your working leg forwards slowly. Point your foot and keep it on the ground.’

      He shifted as he moved his leg forwards, tipping his hips out of alignment. Her hands automatically went down to put them back into place. Her fingers fluttered involuntarily against his hipbone. Through the thin fabric of his running tights his muscular thighs were perfectly visible. The fitted garment didn’t leave much to the imagination...and, speaking of imagination, hers was running wild.

      From the sharp intake of his breath and the flare of his pupils he must have felt it too. And the jolt of electricity that made her whole body feel like a live wire—could he feel that as well?

      She stepped back and instructed him to complete the exercise on his own. Using her remote, she played classical music so he had timing to work with. He fought to keep his posture straight and Jasmine clasped her hands in front of her to stop herself from reaching out to touch him again.

      ‘That’s looking good. If we can get those hips to stay square, then you’ll master this in no time. The tendu leads on to a lot of other steps in ballet.’

      She was babbling—a side-effect from the onslaught of lust. God, it had been far too long since she’d been with a man, it must be the hormones making her crazy. That’s all it was, a perfectly reasonable and natural response...absolutely nothing to do with him. She needed a break. Now.

      ‘Why don’t you grab a drink?’ She walked to the front of the studio where her water bottle sat next to the MP3 player and her mobile phone. ‘We’ll get started again in a few minutes.’

      They had another half an hour to go—how was she going to keep herself in check for that long? She took a swig of her water and relished the cool liquid sliding down the back of her throat.

      ‘Did you ever think about going pro with your dancing?’ His voice caught her off guard and she stiffened.

      Busying herself with the MP3 player, she grappled for a response. She tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry.

      ‘I’m not sure if any ballerinas would refer to it as “going pro.”’

      ‘Picking on my slang is an excellent way to avoid the question,’ he said. ‘But I’ll rephrase. Did you ever think about dancing professionally?’

      ‘Yes.’ Not a lie, but not an invitation either.

      ‘And?’

      She bit her lip and sighed. The last thing she needed was for him to pity her...or, worse, want to help in some way. She always dealt with problems by herself; she preferred it that way. Dealing with things on her own meant there was no one pushing their ideas on her, no one convincing her to do something outside her comfort zone and no one controlling her.

      But how could she get around this topic for the rest of their time together? At some point it would come up again and she’d have the same dilemma: lie or expose herself.

      ‘I was a soloist with the Australian Ballet.’ She kept her voice even, unemotional. ‘I trained in ballet my whole life and have wanted to be a professional ballerina ever since I was eight years old.’

      ‘Then why did you quit?’

      ‘I didn’t quit.’ The word tasted dirty in her mouth. She would never have stopped dancing if her hand hadn’t been forced. ‘I was injured in a car accident and now I don’t have full movement in my foot and ankle. I can’t dance en pointe anymore.’

      She opened her mouth to continue but the words died in her throat. Her lips were parched and her tongue was heavy, as if physically resisting the truth. She couldn’t mention the constant pain. The mental torment. The shame of how it had happened.

      She couldn’t talk to anyone about that—not even her best friend.

      Grant was silent, lines forming at the centre of his forehead. His thick brows were knitted together. Out of nowhere his left hand reached out and clasped hers. Jasmine jumped at the unexpected touch. Her hand was tiny in his grip. Fragile.

THREE

      He clasped the fragility of her hand between his fingers, her bones feeling tiny and delicate and perfect. She gasped, her lips opening and closing, before she clenched her jaw. She’d been hurt before, and she wore it like a warning sign that read Stay the Hell Away.

      She frowned, her rich brown eyes narrowing at him as she withdrew her hand from his grip. He wasn’t even sure why he’d touched her, but something stirred deep within him. Everything about her was restrained, from her not-a-hair-out-of-place bun to her neatly filed pink fingernails. She had a carefully constructed veneer that held him at arm’s length, and while he had no interest in getting closer she looked as though she could use the comfort. Yeah, he was comforting her...it had nothing to do with the strange ache in his chest.

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

      ‘Not as sorry as I was.... You’re here to work on your flexibility, remember?’ Her voice wobbled slightly but she retained control. ‘You’re here to work.’

      The way her eyes glittered and her cheeks were stained pink told him he’d unintentionally hit a nerve. How interesting. A woman with a mystery was his personal weakness, and there was a hell of a lot more to her story than she was letting on. He was drawn in by the opportunity to uncover her secrets, to peel away the layers of complexity that shrouded her. He would pick his moment, when she wasn’t so raw, so exposed. He would find out what had hurt her more than a shattered dream.