Page 6 of Slow Burn

Fuck, fuck, fuck! It was like my brain was too overwhelmed to keep up with what my eyes were seeing, to register exactly who was standing in front of me.

There had been a blissful few seconds during which I appreciated this man for nothing more than aesthetics – tall, muscular, shimmering olive skin, long hair pulled back into a sleek, cheekbone-accentuating style that turned his face into the most perfect heart shape.

And then realization had kicked in with a thud. G .

We’d known nothing about each other that night, other than how good it had felt to be together.

This was the man who had swept me off my feet – literally – and into the bedroom.

I’d only been nineteen, and let’s just say that the limited amount of sex I’d had up until that point had been nothing compared to what would happen in his room that night.

But the thing was, by then I’d accepted the reality of what was expected of me, by my parents, my family, everyone – that my flight in the early hours of the morning would signify the end of my dancing career as I knew it and the beginning of a new chapter of my life.

I’d known I’d never see G again, had been utterly convinced, and yet here he was standing in front of me all these years later, oozing star quality and good looks and donning the same self-assured expression I remembered from before, a sort of “ Look, everyone, look at me, look how perfect I am! ” The miniscule amount of confidence I’d managed to drum up for the audition had drained out of me the instant I registered who the leading man was.

How was I supposed to give the dance performance of my life when it felt like I had to remind myself even to breathe?

‘Lira James, meet Gabriele Riccitelli. You are ready to dance?’ said Carlos, tapping his pen impatiently on his clipboard, probably wondering why I was standing motionless on the dance floor like a startled rabbit, and no doubt instantly regretting bringing me in.

None of this would have happened if he’d given me more information about the show I was auditioning for; if I’d thought to ask.

If I’d known it was G – or Gabriele, as it turned out was his name – I could have prepared myself.

But okay, I was here now, and it wasn’t the best way for us to meet again, with several pairs of eyes watching our every move, but it was still the moment I’d dreamed of for so long, wasn’t it?

I smiled at him, knowing that any second now he’d smile back and all the anxiety would melt away and we could dance.

And then we could talk afterwards, couldn’t we?

I’d wait for him in the foyer and we could go for a coffee or something.

Catch up. Because this was amazing if you thought about it – what were the odds?

It was the one audition I’d done in thirteen years and I was going to be in the arms of the man I’d loved dancing with more than anyone else in my entire life.

I took a couple of steps towards him, expecting his gaze to soften, assuming that he would hold out his hand, pull me into him and whisper something in my ear about what a surprise this was, how he couldn’t believe I was here in front of him after all these years.

Except he didn’t do any of these things and was staring at me blankly, his eyes darker and colder than I’d remembered.

What if he didn’t recognize me at all and was wondering how this woman he’d never seen on the British dance scene had managed to crowbar her way into the audition of the year?

Had our night together, which I’d replayed over and over in my mind, meant nothing more to him than another notch on his bedpost?

‘Start the music,’ Gabriele barked at Emily, his Italian accent much less romantic-sounding than it had been in Paris.

He slunk over to the middle of the dance floor, jerkily holding out his hand for me to join him and still refusing to look me in the eye.

Was he really going to make me dance with him in front of all these people without saying a single word?

I took a deep breath, calming myself. If he was going to act like an arse, let him.

If he wanted to pretend I didn’t exist, and that I didn’t deserve a place on the dance floor next to him, I would show him that I did.

Come on, Lira! I told myself. Remember why you are here. This is your big chance.

If I wanted to impress Carlos Torres and the team of producers I presumed were flanking him on both sides, I was going to need to stop remembering the night I’d spent in bed with Gabriele Riccitelli with immediate effect and focus on the task at hand.

Glancing down at my outfit – black leggings, black leg-warmers, a red crop top, my favourite peach satin Latin shoes – I wondered if I’d done enough.

Should I have worn something brighter, something more revealing, like the girls I was competing against, who had at least seventy-five percent of their honed bodies on show?

And Gabriele’s girlfriend – or at least I presumed that’s who she was, the way she’d sauntered out, casually blowing a kiss at him and reminding him to come to hers later – was no exception.

I gave myself a talking-to in my head: I am a talented dancer, even if I haven’t been pushing myself to my full potential lately.

I deserve to be at this audition – Carlos Torres wouldn’t have asked me otherwise.

I’m going to absolutely nail this. If I repeated these mantras to myself enough times, maybe I’d start to believe them.

I was aware of every movement of my body as I held my head high and stepped across the wooden floor to join Gabriele.

Adrenaline rushed through me when I reached out to put my hand inside his and he yanked me close to him, ready to begin the dance.

I was wrestling with my own brain, refusing to let it drag me back to the last time Gabriele had held me like this.

This was different. This was an audition, in front of one of the leading Latin choreographers in the world.

The memories I’d retained of being in Paris with him had no place here.

And I’d danced with male partners before, hundreds of them over the years, some I’d had crushes on, some I’d even been intimate with, and it had never felt anything like this, so why was my body responding this way now?

This was a professional environment, this was about a job, my career.

I was not going to let him ruin it for me.

I dared to look up at him, challenging him to look back.

He must have read my mind because he finally dipped his eyes to meet mine, but it was like there was no emotion behind them; none of the softness there’d been as I stroked his hair all those years ago and he’d fallen asleep in my arms, satiated and happy.

I wrenched the thought from my mind and focused on what I was about to do.

The opening bars of the music rang out across the studio and I tried my best to focus.

What was the first step again?! It was like everything I’d just learned in the studio next door had disappeared into thin air, and the other girls already had an advantage over me because they had all been taught the routine last week at my studio, whereas I had pretty much taught myself.

My only hope was that muscle memory would kick in and somehow my limbs would move in the right order without me having to tell them.

If I didn’t pull it together, this whole thing was going to be a disaster.

The Argentine tango was supposed to be sultry and sexy.

This thunderous energy between us might have worked if we were dancing a paso doble – we could have channelled our anger into it, even if we did have to look like we wanted to tear each other’s clothes off at the same time – but the tango was different.

We were going to have to pretend to be deeply attracted to each other.

Fake it, Lira , I told myself. Do it, now! Gabriele might well have thought the same thing, because suddenly he was making eye contact with me again, though he looked more like he wanted to kill me than seduce me.

Right now, all I could do was harness the energy that had come from seeing G again. I plastered a – fake! – sexy smile on my lips and forced myself to remember the bloody steps, which, thankfully, seemed to be coming effortlessly now, despite how thrown I’d been walking into the studio.

As we glided around the room, as he flicked his legs between mine then lifted me onto his shoulder as though I was as light as air, as I kicked my leg up high and then he spun me around on the spot, as he lowered me to the ground, pulling me close to him for a sweeping back bend, I forgot all the awkwardness that had come before and let the music take over.

I connected with him where I could, smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Gone was the dull coldness I’d seen in his eyes just moments ago; now they glittered as his slim hips pressed against me in that oh-so-sexy way I remembered from before.

I tried to drag myself back to the present, to what really mattered in the moment: the here and now, the feel of his hand in mine, our strong arms extending to the beat, the palm of my hand flat against his beautiful chest. The steps came naturally, allowing me to concentrate on the feel of the dance rather than what came next, but try as I might, it was like we’d somehow slipped right back to that night in Paris, dancing like we’d never been apart.

Afterwards, we were breathless and sweating.

I dropped his hand and looked to the panel to see whether or not they’d approved.

They all looked a bit shocked, and I didn’t know whether that was a good or a bad thing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I was aware of the rise and fall of Gabriele’s chest in his tight, white vest. He’d given his all to that dance, too.

He was that kind of dancer and so was I – someone who threw everything they had into the ring, every single time. But was it enough?

Carlos cleared his throat and looked up from scribbling away on his clipboard.

‘Lira, thank you for coming in. I enjoyed your performance very much.’

My stomach flipped. I remembered now how horrific auditions were – it wasn’t a pleasant experience, was it, waiting for somebody to tell you if the absolute best of yourself, the heart and soul you’d just given to that routine, had been enough.

Or if you’d managed to accrue yet another failure to add to the long list you already had.

And I had to expect to fail this time, surely – I wasn’t anywhere near at the top of my game.

And yet I’d danced well, I knew I had. And I couldn’t help but dream about what it might feel like to land the job and start a new chapter of my life when I’d thought that particular book was closed forever.

‘We have a big decision to make,’ said Carlos. ‘And I think it’s fair to say that you’ve given us all something to think about, Lira James.’

I swallowed hard, daring to look at Gabriele. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight, a twitch of tension in his cheek. He didn’t want me to get the job, that much was obvious. No doubt there was another dancer he preferred. And as the leading man, he’d probably have the final say.

‘We will be in touch,’ announced Carlos.

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I said, smiling at the panel, and purposely not giving Gabriele the satisfaction of smiling at him, just for him to ignore it.

Seriously, who did he think he was? It was for the best that I probably wouldn’t be getting the job – even if we could turn it on when a performance required it, it would make for a very unpleasant couple of months if we were at each other’s throats behind the scenes.

After I left the studio, I strode towards Leicester Square tube, arms folded around myself, no longer enjoying the May sunshine.

I didn’t stop to notice the tourists, the shops I might usually find enticing, the buskers, the taxis, the honking horns as traffic snaked from six different directions at the bottom of Long Acre.

I felt so many emotions at once that it was entirely overwhelming, each one so big that I wanted nothing more than to shut down my mind to stop me having to think about anything at all.

I’d danced at a professional level again today, and it had gone… well ? I’d impressed Carlos Torres. I’d proved I was more than a dance teacher at my parents’ studio.

And there was Gabriele.

My heart hammered so violently in my chest when I pictured his face there, right in front of me, that I rested my hand on it to steady it.

How the hell had we just pulled off a dance that good, given the tension between us?

An Argentine tango so heated that my breath had caught in my throat afterwards, and not just because of the physicality of it, but because of the feel of Gabriele’s arms around me, the way his hands had spanned my waist, the way he’d gripped me when he’d turned me; it had sent shivers coursing through my entire body.

Yep, there was no denying it, he still looked as hot as hell.

My legs had felt actually, properly weak when we’d finished dancing, so much so that it had taken extreme effort to thank the panel and walk off the dance floor and look remotely okay while doing this normally very natural task.

And now I’d have that agonizing wait for Carlos to call and tell me whether or not I’d got the job.

I wanted to forget about it, to assume I wouldn’t be cast, to be grateful I’d even had the chance to try. But there was part of me that knew Gabriele wouldn’t have generated that much heat with anyone else.

What if they were looking for chemistry above all else? Because as much as I didn’t want to admit it, we had that in spades.

I pulled out my phone before heading down to the tube. Gabriele wasn’t the only person I had chemistry with, I reminded myself, tapping out a message to Jack.

Do you have time for a PT session this afternoon? Could swing by the gym on my way home.

He picked up my message immediately and I waited as he typed a reply.

Sounds good. I’ll be waiting for you in my office.