Judy Hubbard - Our First Dance

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The day flew by and before she knew it, it was a little after 8:30 p.m., but she still wasn’t ready to call it a night. She had never been so tired, nor felt so alive. She had thought Erina was a taskmaster, but she had nothing on Damien. He was a perfectionist, and she vowed she would be perfect for him.

Sounds of music echoed in the quiet as she rehearsed her first dance alone. She had tried to get Dennis to stick around, but he had moaned that a hot bath was calling to him. She smiled as she pirouetted around the room, improvising when she came to the part she would be dancing with Dennis.

“You need a partner.”

She gasped and turned toward the door, where Damien leaned against the frame watching her.

“Damien, you startled me.”

“Sorry.” He walked over to her. “You still have energy left after rehearsals. That’s admirable.”

“This ballet is everything to me. I can rest after the performances are over.”

“I like your attitude.”

“I’m going to give you—the role of Juliet—everything I have, Damien. I won’t fail you.”

“I know.” He smiled. “I sensed the drive in you. I’m glad you’re not disappointing me.”

“I won’t, ever.” Her eyes were deadly serious. “I promise.”

That was a promise she intended to keep. This wonderful man was giving her the chance of a lifetime, and she would always be grateful to him for that. She wasn’t used to having someone of Damien’s caliber treat her with such respect and courtesy. She had other bosses in the past who had blatantly dangled the lead in her face in exchange for unlimited access to her body; vile offers that she had rejected. Damien had offered her the lead without even hinting that she repay him with anything other than hard work and brilliance. He possessed integrity—a trait she had started to believe no longer existed in the executive branches of the world of dance.

“I know you won’t.” He extended his hand. “Shall we?”

She hesitated for a second before taking his hand, allowing him to pull her close. She knew this was a mistake, but masochist that she was, she wanted to feel his arms around her. She had to stop thinking about him like this; he was her boss, and his offer to dance with her wasn’t emotionally motivated—it was business.

“Where do we start?”

“At the beginning.” He released her and walked over to select the appropriate music before returning.

When he placed both hands on her waist and maneuvered until her back was pressed against his muscled chest, every logical thought quickly fled from her mind, being replaced with inappropriate desire instead. The music began and they started dancing very close, yet bodies never intimately touching again; she always stayed just out of his reach.

They danced together for about fifteen minutes and he deliberately changed their steps so that they ended close together as they had begun, her back to his stomach—instead of an arm’s length apart. He twirled her around to face him so that their lips were nearly touching and his arms were around her waist. Their rapidly beating hearts echoed the same intense rhythm—in part due to the dance, but in bigger part due to the obvious attraction that sprung to life when they touched that neither seemed capable of controlling.

After a few minutes, by silent mutual consent, they released each other and took a step backward away from temptation.

“I could use some water,” Natasha spoke, simply to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“Me too.” He walked to the door. “Let’s see what’s left in the break room.”

She should refuse and leave, but she didn’t. Instead she followed him out. Once in the deserted kitchen, she found a bottle of water and he opted for black coffee. They sat at a small table.

“So what do you think of the ballet?” He chose a nice, safe topic of conversation.

“It’s wonderful.” She smiled. “Romeo and Juliet has always been one of my favorites. I can’t wait to perform.”

“Nothing is more exciting than opening night,” he agreed.

“Especially when you’re dancing the lead.”

“I’m glad you tried out for Juliet.”

“So am I.”

“Not to pat myself on the back, but my company is internationally known and many of my ballerinas are world famous. Why didn’t you attend any of our open auditions?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I was busy working with other troupes.”

She sensed he knew she was lying. She had wanted to prove she could make it in any troupe—not just an African-American one. That had been important to her, but now after years of frustration, she simply wanted to dance the lead.

“I’m glad the opportunity finally presented itself.”

“So am I.” She smiled at him, grateful for his obvious tact.

“You don’t wear a lot of makeup, do you?”

“Excuse me?” She nearly choked on her water. “Do you think I need to?”

“Definitely not.” He smiled and trailed a finger lightly down her cheek. His smile widened as he felt the shudder that passed through her at his actions. “You have the softest, smoothest skin.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was whisper soft.

His finger lingered maddeningly before eventually, reluctantly ending contact with her flesh. She felt bereft the second it did.

“Tell me what drives you, Natasha.”

She shrugged, willing her heart to slow its frantic rhythm. “Work is my passion and my life.”

He smiled in understanding. “A fellow workaholic.”

“Definitely.” She echoed his smile.

Suddenly for reasons he refused to examine, he wanted to know more about her, her life, her past. “Do you have a large family?”

She hesitated for a second before answering, “Average. My older brother, Nathan, is a lawyer. He lives in Washington. My younger sister, Nicole, dreams of being a famous fashion designer. She lives with our parents in Rochester. What about you?”

“Marcy, my sister, is a stockbroker like my dad,” he said with some pride. “She lives here in the city, and our parents stay most weekends in the Hamptons. My mom’s a partner in her law firm.”

“Are you and your sister close?”

“Very.”

“So are Nathan, Nicole and I.” She sipped her water. “I can’t wait to see them.”

“You love them very much,” he said with approval.

“Yes.”

Her feeling toward her family pleased him because it echoed his and also because her genuine affection for them showed she could care about someone other than herself. She seemed steady and reliable and, thankfully, grounded—so unlike the psychopath he had the misfortune to get mixed up with ten years ago, Mia; her dysfunctional relationship with her family should have been his first clue that she wasn’t playing with a full deck. But, Mia had been very good at pretending. When he remembered all the pain he had endured because of that maniac…

“Damien, are you all right?”

“Yes.” He pulled himself out of his unpleasant memories. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” At his nod, her frown nearly disappeared. “Okay. Well, I think I’ll head home. I’m beat.”

“I don’t doubt it. You put in a brutal day.”

She sighed contentedly. “I loved every second of it.”

“Good, because tomorrow will be just as long,” he promised around a smile.

“I’ll be prepared.” She stood and he followed suit. “Good night.”

“May I walk you home?” Why had he said that? It was the gentlemanly thing to do. That’s why.

“No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s late. You shouldn’t be walking the streets by yourself.”

“I’ve lived in the city my entire life, and it isn’t that late.”