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Cam sank back in his seat, staring at the stage where a dozen ballerinas whirled in graceful circles.
He had eyes for only one.
Her hair was drawn back in a demure chignon. She wore a lacy white thing—what was it called? A tutu. Right. Her ankles were crisscrossed by the white satin ribbons of her ballet shoes.
He felt his heart skip a beat.
Looking at her was like looking at a dream.
He could almost taste the sweetness of the tender skin beneath the chignon. See the perfection of her breasts hidden under the demure white lace. Hear the whisper of his name on her lips.
Oh, yes, it was his dancer. The packaging had changed but it was Salome, moving across the stage, arms raised in a graceful arc just as they’d been the night she’d danced for him in the moonlight.
The music was quick and bright. A waltz. One two three, one two three. His pulse kept time with it.
Look at me, he wanted to say. Salome, look at me.
But her eyes were demurely downcast, her head tilted at an angle that showed the creamy delicacy of her throat.
She wouldn’t look up.
He couldn’t look away.
Vegas, she’d said. Tap, she’d said. She’d never mentioned ballet or, yes, maybe she had, but only in passing. He started to smile. From this night on, he’d love ballet. It had brought her to him. She was here, she was fine…
Yes, she was here. In his city.
Cameron stiffened.
His city. And she hadn’t come to him. Hadn’t even called. She knew that he lived in Dallas. She knew his name, his profession and, goddammit, she hadn’t even tried to find out if he’d survived.
“Cameron?”
His father leaned over, concern on his face. Cam figured he probably looked like a man who was about to explode. He was sitting rigidly in his seat, hands knotted into fists in his lap.
“Son, what’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”
He’d been right all along. It had been the excitement. The danger. She hadn’t loved him, hadn’t given a damn about him…
And that was fine. He didn’t give a damn about her, either.
But he was furious. Enraged. All these weeks, he’d worried about what might have become of her but she—she—
“Son?”
“I’m fine, Dad. I just—I need some air, that’s all.” Avery began to rise but Cam pressed him back in his seat. “Stay for the end. I’ll meet you outside.”
Cameron got to his feet. Worked his way to the aisle. Paused when he got there, looked at the stage but her head was turned away, eyes still fixed on the floor as she whirled toward the wings.
To hell with her, he thought coldly, and headed for the lobby.
He went for a late supper with Avery. Made small talk. Did whatever it took to convince the old man he was okay and no, he didn’t need to phone the doctor.
When he figured enough time had passed, he pleaded a heavy workload the next morning and went home, where he paced his condo the first half of the night and spent the rest lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Get over it,” he said into the silence. “So she didn’t come. Didn’t call. So what?”
Actually he was lucky. Better to know she’d forgotten him in the blink of an eye than to have found himself dealing with a lovesick ballerina.
