Chapter 1
The cat lay absolutely still on his back, eyes closed,
front paws resting on his white chest. The last rays of
the sun slanted through the long vertical blinds and
shone on his orange fur. He was undisturbed by the
sound of a key in the lock that broke the silence of the
apartment. He half opened his eyes when he heard his
mistress’s voice but closed them again, just as lazily,
when he noted she was not alone. She’d brought that
man home with her again, and the cat had no liking for
him. He went back to sleep.
“But Ruth, it’s barely eight o’clock. The sun’s still
up.”
Ruth dropped her keys on the dainty Queen Anne
table beside the door, then turned with a smile. “Don-
ald, I told you I had to make it an early evening. Din-
ner was lovely. I’m glad you talked me into going out.”
“In that case,” he said, taking her into his arms in
a practiced move, “let me talk you into extending the
evening.”
Ruth accepted the kiss, enjoyed the gentle surge of
warmth just under her skin. But when he pulled her
closer, she drew away. “Donald.” Her smile was the
same easy one she had worn before the kiss. “You re-
ally have to go.”
“A nightcap,” he murmured, kissing her again,
lightly, persuasively.
“Not tonight.” She moved firmly out of his arms. “I
have an early class tomorrow, Donald, plus a full day
of rehearsals and fittings.”
He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “It’d be
easier for me if it were another man, but this passion
for dancing...” He shrugged before reluctantly turning
to leave. Was he losing his touch? he wondered.
Ruth Bannion was the first woman in over ten years
who had held him off so consistently and successfully.
Why, he asked himself, did he keep coming back? She
opened the door for him, giving him one last, linger-
ing smile as she urged him through. A glimpse of her
silhouette in the dim light before she shut the door on
him answered his question. She was more than beauti-
ful—she was unique.
Ruth was still smiling as she hooked the chain and
security lock. She enjoyed Donald Keyser. He was tall
and dark and stylishly handsome, with an acerbic humor
and exquisite taste. She respected his talents as a de-
signer, wore a number of his creations herself and was
able to relax in his company—when she found the time.
Of course, she was aware that Donald would have pre-
ferred a more intimate relationship.
It had been a simple matter for Ruth to decide against
it. She was attracted to Donald and was fond of him. But
he simply did not stir her emotions. While she knew he
could make her laugh, she doubted very much that he
could make her cry. Turning into the darkened apart-
ment, Ruth felt a twinge of regret. She felt abruptly,
unexpectedly alone.
Ruth turned to study herself in the gilt-framed, rect-
angular mirror that hung in the hallway. It was one of
the first pieces she had bought when she had moved
into the apartment. The glass was old, and she had paid
a ridiculous price for it, despite the dark spots near the
top right-hand corner. It had meant a great deal to Ruth
to be able to hang it on the wall of her own apartment,
her own home. Now, as the light grew dim, she stared
at her reflection.
She had left her hair down for the evening, and it
flowed over her shoulders to swing past her elbows.
With an impatient move, she tossed it back. It lifted,
then settled behind her, black and thick. Her face,
like her frame, was small and delicate, but her fea-
tures weren’t even. Her mouth was generous, her nose
small and straight, her chin a subtle point. Though the
bones in her face were elegant, the deep brown eyes
were huge and slanted catlike. The brows over them
were dark and straight. An exotic face, she had been
told, yet she saw no beauty in it. She knew that with
the right makeup and lighting she could look stunning,
but that was different. That was an illusion, a role, not
Ruth Bannion.
With a sigh, Ruth turned away from the mirror and
crossed to the plush-covered Victorian sofa. Knowing
she was now alone, Nijinsky rolled over, stretched and
yawned luxuriously, then padded over to curl in her lap.
Ruth scratched his ears absently. Who was Ruth Ban-
nion? she wondered.
Five years before, she had been a very green, very
eager student beginning a new phase of her training in
New York. Thanks to Lindsay, Ruth remembered with
a smile. Lindsay Dunne, teacher, friend, idol—the fin-
est classical ballerina Ruth had ever seen. She had con-
vinced Uncle Seth to let her come here. It warmed Ruth
to think of them now, married, living in the Cliff House
in Connecticut with their children. Every time she vis-
ited them, the love and happiness lingered with her for
weeks afterward. She had never seen two people more
right for each other or more in love. Except perhaps
her own parents.
Even after six years, thinking of her parents brought
on a wave of sadness—for herself and for the tragic
loss of two bright, warm people. But in a strange way
Ruth knew it had been their death that had brought her
to where she was today.
Seth Bannion had become her guardian, and their
move to the small seacoast town in Connecticut had
brought them both to Lindsay. It had been through Lind-
say that Seth had been made to see Ruth’s need for more
training. Ruth knew it hadn’t been easy for her uncle
to allow her to make the move to New York when she
had been only seventeen. She had, of course, been well
cared for by the Evanstons, but it had been difficult for
Seth to give her up to a life he knew to be so difficult
and demanding. It was love that had made him hesitate
and love that had ultimately ruled his decision. Her life
had changed forever.
Or perhaps, Ruth reflected, it had changed that first
time she had walked into Lindsay’s school to dance. It
had been there that she had first danced for Davidov.
How terrified she had been! She had stood there
in front of a man who had been heralded as the finest
dancer of the decade. A master, a legend. Nikolai Da-
vidov, who had partnered only the most gifted balle-
rinas, including Lindsay Dunne. Indeed, he had come
to Connecticut to convince Lindsay to return to New
York as the star in a ballet he had written. Ruth had been
overwhelmed by his presence and almost too stunned
to move when he had ordered her to dance for him. But
he had been charming. A smile touched Ruth’s mouth
as she leaned her head back on the cushions. And who,
she thought lazily, could be more charming than Nick
when he chose to be? She had obeyed, losing herself in
the movement and the music. Then he had spoken those
simple, stunning words.
“When you come to New York, come to me.”
She had been very young and had thought of Niko-
lai Davidov as a name to be whispered reverently. She
would have danced barefoot down Broadway if he had
told her to.
She had worked hard to please him, terrified of the
sting of his temper, unable to bear the coldness of his
disapproval. And he had pushed her. Ruth remembered
how he had been constantly, mercilessly demanding.
There had been nights she had curled up in bed, too
exhausted to even weep. But then he would smile or
toss off a compliment, and every moment of pain would
vanish.
She had danced with him, fought with him, laughed
with him, watching the gradual changes in him over the
years, and still, there was an elusive quality about him.
Perhaps that was the secret of his attraction for
women, she thought: the subtle air of mystery, his
foreign accent, his reticence about his past. She had
gotten over her infatuation with him years ago. She
smiled, remembering the intensity of her crush on
him. He hadn’t appeared to even notice it. She had
been scarcely eighteen. He’d been nearly thirty and
surrounded by beautiful women. And still is, she re-
minded herself, smiling in rueful amusement as she
stood to stretch. The cat, now dislodged from her lap,
stalked huffily away.
My heart’s whole and safe, Ruth decided. Perhaps
too safe. She thought of Donald. Well, it couldn’t be
helped. She yawned and stretched again. And there was
that early class in the morning.
Sweat dampened Ruth’s T-shirt. Nick’s choreography
for The Red Rose was complicated and strenuous. She
took a much-needed breather at the barre. The remain-
der of the cast was scattered around the rehearsal hall,
either dancing under Nick’s unflagging instructions or
waiting, as she did, for the next summons.
It was only eleven, but Ruth had already worked
through a two-hour morning class. The long, loose
T-shirt she wore over her tights was darkened by patches
of perspiration; a few tendrils of her hair had escaped
from her tightly secured bun. Still, watching Nick dem-
onstrate a move, any thought of fatigue drained from
her. He was, she thought as she always did, absolutely
fabulous.
As artistic director of the company and as established
creator of ballets, he no longer had to dance to remain
in the limelight. He danced, Ruth knew, because he was
born to do so. He skimmed just under six feet, but his
lean, wiry build gave an illusion of more height. His
hair was like gold dust and curled carelessly around a
face that had never completely lost its boyish charm.
His mouth was beautiful, full and finely sculpted. And
when he smiled...
When he smiled, there was no resisting him. Fine
lines would spread out from his eyes, and the large irises
would become incredibly blue.
Watching him demonstrate a turn, Ruth was grate-
ful that at thirty-three, with all his other professional
obligations, he still continued to dance.
He stopped the pianist with a flick of his hand.
“All right, children,” he said in his musically Russian-
accented voice. “It could be worse.”
This from Davidov, Ruth mused wryly, was close
to an accolade.
“Ruth, the pas de deux from the first act.”
She crossed to him instantly, giving an absent brush
at the locks of hair that danced around her face. Nick
was a creature of moods—varied, mercurial, un-
explained moods. Today he appeared to be all business.
Ruth knew how to match his temperament with her
own. Facing, they touched right hands, palm to palm.
Without a word, they began.
It was an early love scene, more a duel of wits than
an expression of romance. But Nick hadn’t written a
fairy tale ballet this time. He had written a passionate
one. The characters were a prince and a gypsy, each
fiercely flesh and blood. To accommodate them the
dances were exuberant and athletic. They challenged
each other; he demanded, she defied. Now and then a
toss of the head or a gesture of the wrist was employed
to accent the mood.
The late summer sun poured through the windows,
patterning the floor. Drops of sweat trickled unheeded,
unfelt, down Ruth’s back as she turned in, then out
of Nick’s arms. The character of Carlotta would en-
rage and enrapture the prince throughout the ballet.
The mood for their duel of hearts was set during their
first encounter.
It was at times like this, when Ruth danced with
Nick, that she realized she would always worship him,
the dancer, the legend. To be his partner was the great-
est thrill of her life. He took her beyond herself, beyond
what she had ever hoped to be. On her journey from
student to the corps de ballet to principal dancer, Ruth
had danced with many partners, but none of them could
touch Nick Davidov for sheer brilliance and precision.
And endurance, she thought ruefully as he ordered the
pas de deux to begin again.
Ruth took a moment to catch her breath as the pia-
nist turned back the pages of the score. Nick turned to
her, lifting his hand for hers. “Where is your passion
today, little one?” he demanded.
It was a salutation Ruth detested, and he knew it. The
grin shot across his face as she glared at him. Saying
nothing, she placed her palm to his.
“Now, my gypsy, tell me to go to the devil with your
body as well as your eyes. Again.”
They began, but this time Ruth stopped thinking of
her pleasure in dancing with him. She competed now,
step for step, leap for leap. Her annoyance gave Nick
precisely what he wanted. She dared him to best her.
She spun into his arms, her eyes hot. Poised only a mo-
ment, she spun away again and with a grand jeté, chal-
lenged him to follow her.
They ended as they had begun, palm to palm, with
her head thrown back. Laughing, Nick caught her close
and kissed her enthusiastically on both cheeks.
“There, now, you’re wonderful! You spit at me even
while you offer your hand.”
Ruth’s breath was coming quickly after the effort of
the dance. Her eyes, still lit with temper, remained on
Nick’s. A swift flutter raced up her spine, distracting
her. She saw that Nick had felt it, too. She saw it in his
eyes, felt it in the fingers he pressed into the small of
her back. Then it was gone, and Nick drew her away.
“Lunch,” he stated and earned a chorus of approval.
The rehearsal hall began to clear immediately. “Ruth.”
Nick took her hand as she turned to join the others. “I
want to talk to you.”
“All right, after lunch.”
“Now. Here.”
Her brows drew together. “Nick, I missed breakfast—”
“There’s yogurt in the refrigerator downstairs, and
Perrier.” Releasing her hand, Nick walked to the piano.
He sat and began to improvise. “Bring some for me,
too.”
Hands on her hips, Ruth watched him play. Of
course, she thought wrathfully, he’d never consider
I’d say no. He’d never think to ask me if I had other
plans. He expects I’ll run off like a good little girl and
do his bidding without a word of complaint.
“Insufferable,” she said aloud.
Nick glanced up but continued to play. “Did you
speak?” he asked mildly.
“Yes,” she answered distinctly. “I said, you’re in-
sufferable.”
“Yes.” Nick smiled at her good-humoredly. “I am.”
Despite herself, Ruth laughed. “What flavor?” she
demanded and was pleased when he gave her a blank
look. “Yogurt,” she reminded him. “What flavor yo-
gurt, Davidov.”
In short order Ruth’s arms were ladened with cartons
of yogurt, spoons, glasses and a large bottle of Perrier.
There was the sound of chatter from the canteen below
her mingling with Nick’s playing the piano from the
hall above. She climbed the stairs, exchanging remarks
with two members of the corps and a male soloist. The
music Nick played was a low, bluesy number. Because
she recognized the style, Ruth knew it to be one of his
own compositions. No, not a composition, she corrected
as she paused in the doorway to watch him. A composi-
tion you write down, preserve. This is music that comes
from the heart.
The sun’s rays fell over his hair and his hands—long,
narrow hands with fluid fingers that could express more
with a gesture than the average person could with a
speech.
He looks so alone!
The thought sped into her mind unexpectedly, catch-
ing her off balance. It’s the music, she decided. It’s only
because he plays such sad music. She walked toward
him, her ballet shoes making no sound on the wood
floor.
“You look lonely, Nick.”
From the way his head jerked up, Ruth knew she had
broken into some deep, private thought. He looked at
her oddly a moment, his fingers poised above the piano
keys. “I was,” he said. “But that’s not what I want to
talk to you about.”
Ruth arched a brow. “Is this going to be a business
lunch?” she asked him as she set cartons of yogurt on
the piano.
“No.” He took the bottle of Perrier, turning the cap.
“Then we’d argue, and that’s bad for the digestion, yes?
Come, sit beside me.”
Ruth sat on the bench, automatically steeling her-
self for the jolt of electricity. To be where he was was
to be in the vortex of power. Even now, relaxed, con-
templating a simple dancer’s lunch, he was like a cir-
cuit left on hold.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, reaching for a car-
ton of yogurt and a spoon.
“That’s what I want to know.”
Puzzled, she turned her head to find him studying
her face. He had bottomless blue eyes, clear as glass,
and the dancer’s ability for complete stillness.
“What do you mean?”
“I had a call from Lindsay.” The blue eyes were fixed
unwaveringly on hers. His lashes were the color of the
darkest shade of his hair.
More confused, Ruth wrinkled her brow. “Oh?”
“She thinks you’re not happy.” He was still watch-
ing her steadily: the pressure began to build at the base
of her neck. Ruth turned away, and it lessened imme-
diately. There had never been anyone else who could
unnerve her with a look.
“Lindsay worries too much,” she said lightly, dip-
ping the spoon into the yogurt.
“Are you, Ruth?” Nick laid his hand on her arm,
and she was compelled to look back at him. “Are you
unhappy?”
“No,” she said immediately, truthfully. She gave him
the slow half smile that was so much a part of her. “No.”
He continued to scan her face as his hand slid down
to her wrist. “Are you happy?”
She opened her mouth, prepared to answer, then
closed it again on a quick sound of frustration. Why
must those eyes be on hers, so direct, demanding per-
fect honesty? They wouldn’t accept platitudes or pat
answers. “Shouldn’t I be?” she countered. His fingers
tightened on her wrist as she started to rise.
“Ruth.” She had no choice but to face him again.
“Are we friends?”
She fumbled for an answer. A simple yes hardly cov-
ered the complexities of her feelings for him or the
uneven range of their relationship. “Sometimes,” she
answered cautiously. “Sometimes we are.”
Nick accepted that, though amusement lit his eyes.
“Well said,” he murmured. Unexpectedly, he gathered
both of her hands in his and brought them to his lips.
His mouth was soft as a whisper on her skin. Ruth didn’t
pull away but stiffened, surprised and wary. His eyes
met hers placidly over their joined hands, as if he were
unaware of her would-be withdrawal. “Will you tell me
why you’re not happy?”
Carefully, coolly, Ruth drew her hands from his. It
was too difficult to behave in a contained manner when
touching him. He was a physical man, demanding physi-
cal responses. Rising, Ruth walked across the room to
a window. Manhattan hustled by below.
“To be perfectly honest,” she began thoughtfully,
“I haven’t given my happiness much thought. Oh, no.”
She laughed and shook her head. “That sounds pomp-
ous.” She spun back to face him, but he wasn’t smil-
ing. “Nick, I only meant that until you asked me, I just
hadn’t thought about being unhappy.” She shrugged and
leaned back against the windowsill. Nick poured some
fizzing water and, rising, took it to her.
“Lindsay’s worried about you.”
“Lindsay has enough to worry about with Uncle Seth
and the children and her school.”
“She loves you,” he said simply.
He saw it—the slow smile, the darkening warmth in
her eyes, the faintly mystified pleasure. “Yes, I know
she does.”
“That surprises you?” Absently, he wound a loose
tendril of her hair around his finger. It was soft and
slightly damp.
“Her generosity astonishes me. I suppose it always
will.” She paused a moment, then continued quickly
before she lost her nerve. “Were you ever in love with
her?”
“Yes,” he answered instantly, without embarrassment
or regret. “Years ago, briefly.” He smiled and pushed
one of Ruth’s loosened pins back into her hair. “She
was always just out of my reach. Then before I knew
it, we were friends.”
“Strange,” she said after a moment. “I can’t imagine
you considering anything out of your reach.”
Nick smiled again. “I was very young, the age you
are now. And it’s you we’re speaking of, Ruth, not Lind-
say. She thinks perhaps I push you too hard.”
“Push too hard?” Ruth cast her eyes at the ceiling.
“You, Nikolai?”
He gave her his haughtily amused look. “I, too, was
astonished.”
Ruth shook her head, then moved back to the piano.
She exchanged Perrier for yogurt. “I’m fine, Nick. I
hope you told her so.” When he didn’t answer, Ruth
turned, the spoon still between her lips. “Nick?”
“I thought perhaps you’ve had an unhappy...rela-
tionship.”
Her brows lifted. “Do you mean, am I unhappy over
a lover?”
It was instantly apparent that he hadn’t cared for her
choice of words. “You’re very blunt, little one.”
“I’m not a child,” she countered testily, then slapped
the carton onto the piano again. “And I don’t—”
“Do you still see the designer?” Nick interrupted
her coolly.
“The designer has a name,” she said sharply. “Donald
Keyser. You make him sound like a label on a dress.”
“Do I?” Nick gave her a guileless smile. “But you
don’t answer my question.”
“No, I don’t.” Ruth lifted the glass of Perrier and
sipped calmly, though a flash of temper leaped into
her eyes.
“Ruth, are you still seeing him?”
“That’s none of your business.” She made her voice
light, but the steel was beneath it.
“You are a member of the company.” Though his
eyes blazed into hers, he enunciated each word care-
fully. “I am the director.”
“Have you also taken over the role of Father Confes-
sor?” Ruth tossed back. “Must your dancers check out
their lovers with you?”
“Be careful how you provoke me,” he warned.
“I don’t have to justify my social life to you, Nick,”
she shot back without a pause. “I go to class, I’m on
time for rehearsals. I work hard.”
“Did I ask you to justify anything?”
“Not really. But I’m tired of you playing the role of
stern uncle with me.” A frown line ran down between
her brows as she stepped closer to him. “I have an uncle
already, and I don’t need you to look over my shoulder.”
“Don’t you?” He plucked a loose pin from her hair
and twirled it idly between his thumb and forefinger
while his eyes pierced into hers.
His casual tone fanned her fury. “No!” She tossed
her head. “Stop treating me like a child.”
Nick gripped her shoulders, surprising her with
the quick violence. She was drawn hard against him,
molded to the body she knew so well. But this was dif-
ferent. There were no music or steps or storyline. She
could feel his anger—and something more, something
just as volatile. She knew he was capable of sudden
bursts of rage, and she knew how to deal with them,
but now...
Her body was responding, astonishing her. Their
hearts beat against each other. She could feel his finger-
tips digging into her flesh, but there was no pain. The
hands she had brought up to shove him away with were
now balled loosely into fists and held motionlessly aloft.
He dropped his eyes to her lips. A sharp pang of
longing struck her—sharper, sweeter than anything
she had ever experienced. It left her dazed and aching.
Slowly, knowing only that what she wanted was a
breath away, Ruth leaned forward, letting her lids sink
down in preparation for his kiss. His breath whispered
on her lips, and hers parted. She said his name once,
wonderingly.
Then, with a jerk and a muttered Russian oath, Niko-
lai pushed her away. “You should know better,” he said,
biting off the words, “than to deliberately make me
angry.”
“Was that what you were feeling?” she asked, stung
by his rejection.
“Don’t push it.” Nick tossed off the American slang
with a movement of his shoulders. Temper lingered in
his eyes. “Stick with your designer,” he murmured at
length in a quieter tone as he turned back to the piano.
“Since he seems to suit you so well.”
He sat again and began to play, dismissing her with
silence.
