Книга - Amorous Liaisons

Amorous Liaisons
Sarah Mayberry


Rugged artist Max has always loved Maddy’s company – and craved her body! But he gave her up once before. Now she’s on his Paris doorstep, needing a place to stay. And she’s just as beautiful as he remembered.Can he really resist seducing her again?







SARAH MAYBERRY has moved eight times in the past five years and is currently living in New Zealand – although that may change at the drop of a hat. When she’s not moving house or writing, she loves to read, go to the movies, buy shoes and travel (mostly to find more shoe shops). She has been happily partnered to her man for over fifteen years and plans to make it many more.

Bless you, Chris, for your enormous sympathy and patience with me as I grieved, anguished and swore over this book. I love you very much.



To Wanda, for being so calm and supportive and damned smart as always – every time you make me lift my game and this time you had your work cut out for you.



And to my friends and family who all made sympathetic noises and passed the chocolate at the right times. Where would I be without you?




Amorous Liaisons

Sarah Mayberry





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u5244326c-1e45-5254-9d71-fb5d0e16d29b)

About the Author (#u4ebc93b0-b9f4-5273-886a-6a9c04bd7af7)

Title Page (#ua2458c83-1f01-5d35-b3f9-ff604fc18df2)

Chapter One (#u8c61d7e8-de2e-53a7-8602-c6f477bc5ddf)

Chapter Two (#u298e517c-ec32-5203-b8b2-dc02e5539336)

Chapter Three (#u2137fccb-38d8-5082-bf1b-dbf276c3c95f)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


MADDY GREEN was finding it hard to breathe. She lengthened her stride, eager to reach the rehearsal studio. She could almost feel the familiar smoothness of the barre beneath her hand and almost see the glint of bright lights in the mirrors and hear the regular scuff and thump of other dancers leaping and landing and twisting and turning around her.

She needed the comfort of the familiar very badly right now.

The double doors to the Sydney Dance Company’s rehearsal studio A came up on her left. She pushed through them and the scent of warm bodies, clean sweat and a dozen different deodorants and perfumes and aftershaves wrapped itself around her.

Home. She was home.

“Maddy! How did your doctor’s appointment go?” Kendra asked the moment she spotted Maddy.

The other dancers turned toward her, faces expectant. Maddy forced herself to smile and shrug casually.

“It’s all good,” she said. “No problems.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say the other thing. Saying it out loud would make it real. And for just a few more minutes, she wanted to lose herself in the world that had held her enthralled since, at the age of four, she first saw a picture of a ballerina.

Kendra flew across the room to give her a hug, her slender arms strong around Maddy’s back.

“Fantastic. Great news. The best,” she said.

The other woman’s gauzy rehearsal skirt flared around her legs as she returned to her place in the center of the room. Kendra was only twenty-two. She had her whole career ahead of her. She was a beautiful dancer—powerful, delicate, emotional, intense. She would soar.

Maddy felt someone watching her and lifted her gaze to find Stephen Jones, the choreographer, eyeing her closely.

She turned her shoulder, breaking the contact. Stephen had been watching her a lot lately, checking her range of movement, testing the capabilities of her injured knee. Had he known, or guessed, what she’d been told today? Had everyone known except her that she was over? That she would never dance again?

Her heart pounded against her ribs and again she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

She threw her bag into the corner and slid off her street shoes, bending to tug on a pair of slippers with shaking hands. The ribbons whispered through her fingers as she wrapped them around her ankles and tied them neatly. She shed her skirt to reveal tights and leotard and took a place at the barre to begin warming up.

Pliés first, then some rond de jambes, keeping her head high and her arms relaxed. Every time she rose up en pointe, she felt the seamless, fluid glide of her body responding to her will, saw her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, posture perfect, form ideal.

Her heartbeat slowed. She was a dancer. Always had been, always would be.

“Maddy.”

She tore her eyes from her own reflection to find Andrew McIntyre, the company director, standing behind her. He, too, had been studying her perfect form in the mirror.

“Why don’t you come to my office?” he said. His voice was gentle, as was the light in his eyes.

He knew.

He’d spoken to Dr. Hanson. Of course he had. Hanson was the company’s doctor, after all. When she’d come on board four years ago she’d signed a contract agreeing that the company could access all health matters pertaining to her career.

“After rehearsal,” she said. “I’m warm now. And the rest of them are waiting for me.”

“I think we should do this now, don’t you?” he said.

He was frowning, as though what she’d said pained him in some way. He moved closer, reached out a hand to touch her.

She took a step backward. Rising en pointe on her bad leg, she lifted her right leg in grand battement to the side then up, up, up, until her toe was pointing toward the ceiling, her thigh straight beside her ear.

She held the position in a blatant display of skill and strength, her eyes daring Andrew in the mirror.

He held her gaze, never once looking away. And when her muscles began to scream and shake from the pain of holding such a demanding, strenuous position, he stepped forward and rested his hand on her shoulder.

“Enough, Maddy. Come to my office.”

She let her leg drop and relaxed onto her flat feet. Her knee throbbed, as it always did these days when she demanded too much of it. She hung her head and stared blindly at the polished floorboards.

She felt Andrew slide his arm around her shoulders. Then he led her toward the door. The other dancers stopped mid-rehearsal to watch her. She could feel their silent stares as she and Andrew stepped into the corridor. Andrew didn’t let her go until they were in his office.

“Sit,” he said.

He crossed to the wooden built-ins that spanned one wall of his office and opened a door. She heard the clink of glass on glass as he poured something.

“Drink this.”

Brandy fumes caught her nose as he lifted a glass to her lips.

“No,” she said, turning her head away.

Andrew held the glass there, waiting. Finally she took a token mouthful.

“And again,” he said.

She took a bigger mouthful this time. The brandy burned all the way down her throat to her belly. She shook her head firmly when he offered a third time.

He took her at her word and placed the glass on the coffee table in front of her. Then he sat in the armchair opposite her.

In his late fifties, he was a former dancer, his body slim and whippet-strong even after years away from the stage. His tanned skin was stretched tightly across high cheekbones, and thin lines surrounded his mouth from smoking. His eyes were kind as he studied her, a rarity from a man who was known throughout the dance world as a perfectionist first and a human being second.

“We will look after you, Maddy. Please know that. Retirement pay, any teaching work you want—you name it, you can have it. You’ve been one of our greatest dancers, and we won’t forget you.”

Maddy could feel the sweat cooling on her body in the air-conditioned chill.

“I want to keep dancing,” she said. “That’s what I want.”

Andrew shook his head decisively. “You can’t. Not for us. Not professionally. Your spirit might be willing, but your body is not. Dr. Hanson was very clear about that. We always knew that complete recovery from such a significant tear to your cruciate ligament was going to be a long shot. It’s time to hang up your slippers, Maddy.”

She stared at him, a storm of words closing her throat. Anger, grief, resentment, denial—she didn’t know what to say, how to react.

“I want to keep dancing,” she said again. “Give me more time. I’ll show you I can do it. I’ll do more rehab work, more Pilates. Whatever it takes.”

Andrew’s face went slack for a moment, and he leaned back and closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his hand. He looked defeated, sad.

“Maddy. I know how hard it is to give it up. Believe me. It nearly killed me. But I made a second chance for myself.” He paused a moment to let his words sink in. “You’re a beautiful, smart, resourceful woman. There’s another life out there waiting for you. You just have to find it.”

I don’t want to find it.

She almost said it out loud, but some of the numbness and shock were leaving her as the brandy burned its way into her system.

The doctor had handed down his decision, and Andrew had made his, too. She was broken, old. They had no use for her anymore.

“We’ll throw you a party. A real send-off. And we’ll help you any way we can. Retraining, or, as I said earlier, if you want to teach…?”

The thought of a party, of standing in front of her peers while people made toasts to her former talent made bile rise up the back of her throat.

“No. No party,” she said.

Suddenly she didn’t want to be here anymore. When the doctor had given her the news an hour ago, the company had felt like home, like the safe place to be. But now she knew it would never be her home again.

“People will want to say their goodbyes, pay their due respects,” he said.

“I’m not dead,” she said, standing abruptly.

She strode to the door. She hesitated for a beat outside the rehearsal studio, then braced herself to duck in and collect her bag. Head down, she did just that, not responding when Kendra asked if she was okay.

They would hear soon enough. Another dancer would be promoted into her role in the latest production. Maybe Kendra. Maybe one of the other soloists. Life would go on.

Outside in the warm summer air, she took deep breaths and fought tears.

She had never been more alone and scared in her life. Her entire world had crumbled around her—the discipline and passion that had formed the boundaries of her days and nights had dissolved into nothingness. She had no future, and her past was irrelevant. She was the owner of a broken body and broken dreams and precious little else.

She found her car keys in her handbag, but she had nowhere to go. No current lover to offer his shoulder, and no former lovers to call on, because her affairs never ended well. Her mother was miles away in America, enjoying the fruits of her third marriage. Maddy had never known her father. All her friends were dancers, and the thought of their ready sympathy had the bile rising in her throat again.

Where to go?

Where to go?

Out of the depths of her subconscious, a face rose up. Clear gray eyes, dark hair, a smile that offered mischief and fun and comfort and understanding in equal measure.

Max.

Yes. She needed Max. Even though it had been years. Even though their friendship had been reduced to occasional e-mails and Christmas cards.

He would understand. He always had. He’d hold her in his big, solid arms, and she’d feel safe, the way she always had with him.

And then maybe she could think. Imagine a world without dance. Construct a way forward.

Max.



MAX SHUT THE FLAP on the box and held it down with his forearm. He reached for the packing tape and used his thumbnail to find the leading edge.

“I’m all done in here. How about you?” a voice asked from the doorway.

He glanced up at his sister, Charlotte, taking in her smug expression and the way she’d planted her hands on her hips.

“Don’t even think it,” he said, tearing off a piece of tape and sticking the flap down.

“My room’s finished. Technically, that means my work here is done,” Charlotte said.

Max tossed her the spare roll of packing tape. So far, he’d only managed to pack away half of the books in his late father’s extensive collection.

“The sooner you start helping, the sooner we can both get out of here,” he said.

Charlotte propped herself against the door frame.

“Should have picked an easier room, Max,” she teased.

“I was being gallant. Giving you the kitchen and taking on this Herculean task to save you hours of hard labor. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Charlotte’s smile faded a little as she straightened.

“Where do you want me to start?” she asked.

Max glanced at the solid wall of books that remained unpacked.

“Pick a shelf. Any shelf,” he said.

Charlotte busied herself assembling a box as he started stacking books into another carton.

Dust hung in the air, dancing in the weak winter sunlight filtering through the dirty windows of his father’s apartment.

It felt strange to be back here, and yet he’d only been gone two months. The whole world had shifted in that time.

His father was dead.

He still couldn’t quite believe it. Ten weeks ago, Alain Laurent had succumbed to a bout of pneumonia, a constant hazard for quadriplegics. After a week-long battle, he’d died quietly in his sleep. Max had been out of the room, taking a phone call at the time. After eight years of constant care and devotion, after being there for so many of the major crises of his father’s illness, Max had missed the most important moment of all.

Had his father known that he was alone? Or, as his sister contended, had his father chosen that moment to slip away for good, sparing his son the anguish of witnessing his final moments?

“Stop giving yourself a hard time,” Charlotte said from across the room.

He frowned. “What?”

“You heard me. Don’t pretend you weren’t sitting there, thinking about Dad again. You did everything you could. We both did,” Charlotte said firmly.

He made a dismissive gesture and packed more books.

“It’s true, you know. What you just said. You are gallant. Which is charming on one level, but bloody infuriating on another.”

He smiled at his sister’s choice of words. They were half-Australian, half-French, but he always thought of Charlotte as being essentially European, with her dark hair and elegant fashion sense. Then, out of the blue, she’d toss out a bit of Aussie slang and remind him that they’d spent their teen years in Sydney, Australia, swimming and surfing and swatting flies away from backyard barbecues.

“I’m serious, Max,” she said. “You’re always riding to the rescue, thinking of everyone else except yourself. You need to learn to be selfish.”

He made a rude noise and continued to work.

“The day you think of yourself first, I’ll give it a go.”

Charlotte pushed her hair behind her ear, frowning. “That’s different. I have a family. I gave up the right to be selfish when I became a parent.”

Max dropped the book he was holding and pressed a hand to his heart. Moving with a quarter of his former grace and skill, he half staggered, half danced to the side wall, playing self-sacrifice and martyrdom for all he was worth.

“Very funny,” his sister said.

He dodged the small book she flung his way.

He tossed the book back and she shook her head at him. They packed in silence for a few beats, busy with their own thoughts.

He wondered who was looking after Eloise and Marcel today, Charlotte’s children with her merchant banker husband, Richard. He knew Charlotte was between babysitters at the moment. It was hard finding people competent to deal with Eloise’s special needs, but having them here hadn’t really been possible. Any disruption to Eloise’s routine inevitably led to distress.

“I never really thanked you, did I?” Charlotte said into the silence.

He pushed the flaps shut on another full box of books. The secondhand dealer was going to have a field day with their father’s collection. Everything from 1960s dime-store novels to Proust and Dante.

“That’s because there’s nothing to thank me for.”

“Do you miss it? Dancing?” Charlotte asked quietly.

He started assembling another box.

“Sometimes. Not so much anymore. It’s a long time ago now.”

“Only eight years. Perhaps you could—”

“No,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended. “Eight years is a lifetime in dance, Charlie. I’m too old now. Lost my flexibility, my edge.”

And he’d moved on, too. When the call had come through eight years ago that his father had been in a car accident, Max had flown straight from Sydney to Paris in the hope that he’d be able to say goodbye before nature took its course. As it turned out, he’d had eight years to say his goodbyes.

As soon as it became apparent that their father would survive his injuries but be confined to a wheelchair, Max had made the changes necessary to ensure his father’s comfort. He’d resigned from the avant-garde Danceworks company where he’d been earning himself a name in Australia and arranged to have his belongings shipped to Paris. Then he had moved into his father’s apartment in the genteel, refined arrondissement of St. Germain and started the renovations that had made it possible for him to care for his father at home.

It hadn’t been an easy decision and there had been moments—especially at the very beginning when he and his father had been acclimating to their new roles—when Max had bitterly regretted his choices. He’d left so much behind. His career, his dreams, his friends. The woman he loved.

But Alain Laurent had been a generous and affectionate parent. When their mother had died when Max was ten years old and Charlotte just eight, Alain had done everything in his power to ensure they never felt the lack of a mother’s love. He had been a man in a million, and for Max there had never been any doubt that he and Charlotte would do whatever was necessary to make the remainder of his life as rewarding as possible.

“You could have left it to me. Thousands of men would have,” Charlotte said.

“On behalf of my gender, I thank you for your high opinion of us,” he said drily.

“You know what I mean.”

He stopped and faced his sister.

“Let’s put this to bed, once and for all. I did what I wanted to do, okay? He was my father, too. I loved him. I wanted to care for him. I couldn’t have lived with it being any other way. Just as you couldn’t have lived with having to choose between Richard and your children and Dad. End of story.”

Charlotte opened her mouth then shut it again without saying anything.

“Good. Can we move on now?”

Charlotte shrugged. Then, slowly, she smiled. “I’d forgotten how bossy you can be. It’s been a while since you read me the riot act.”

“Admit it, you miss it,” he said, glad she’d dropped the whole gratitude thing.

Of course, willingly supporting his father didn’t stop the what-ifs from leaking out of his subconscious in the unguarded moments before falling asleep at night.

What if he’d been able to follow his dream and dance in London, New York, Moscow, Paris? Would he have made it, achieved soloist status and seen his name in lights?

And what would have happened with Maddy? Would he ever have told her how he felt? How much he loved her—and not just as her reliable friend and sometime dancing partner?

As always when he thought of Maddy, he pictured her on stage, standing in a circle of light, her small, elegant body arched into a perfect arabesque. Then came the memories of her as a woman, laughing with him on the ratty couch in the dump of a house they’d shared with two other dancers, or lounging on the back porch in the hot evening air.

False memories, he knew. Gilded by time and distance. Maddy couldn’t possibly be as funny, as warm and beautiful and sensual as he remembered her. He’d turned her into a symbol of everything he’d given up.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Charlotte asked as she slid a box across the worn parquetry floor to join the others he’d stacked against the wall.

He deliberately misunderstood her.

“Finish packing these boxes, then find someplace warm to have a cold demi of beer,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “I mean next. What are you going to do now that you’ve got your life back?”

He shrugged, even as his thoughts flew to the apartment he’d rented in the Marais district across the river. His sister hadn’t seen it yet. It had been hell holding her off, and he would have to tell her his plans soon, but he wasn’t ready for her disapproval yet. He was still coming to terms with his own audacity himself.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” he lied.

Charlotte dusted her hands on her butt. “Well, you should. You could use Dad’s money to go to university, get a degree. Or put a deposit on a place of your own. Start making a life for yourself. Hell, you could even get a girlfriend. Really shake things up.”

It was Max’s turn to roll his eyes. “Why is it that married people always think that everyone else would be happier in a relationship?”

“Because it’s true. And you’re made to be a husband, Max. If any man should have children, it’s you. They’d be gorgeous, for starters. And talented. And smart and kind.”

“Why does it sound like you’re writing copy for a personals ad?”

“Relax. I haven’t stooped that low. Yet. But I do have some wonderful friends I’d love you to meet.”

“No.”

“Why not? Give me one good reason why you don’t want to meet an attractive, available woman?”

“I’ll find my own woman when I’m ready.” The truth was, the next twelve months were going to be challenging enough without adding a new relationship into the mix.

“For God’s sake. Surely you must want the sex, at the very least? How many years can a man survive on hand relief alone, anyway?” Charlotte asked.

He nearly choked on his own tongue. Half amused, half surprised, he stared at his sister. She was many things, but comfortable with earthy talk was not one of them.

“Hand relief? Are you serious?”

“What’s a better word for it? Happy ending? Spanking the monkey? Choking the chicken?”

He laughed because he couldn’t help himself. “Are you done yet?”

“Max, I’m serious,” Charlotte said.

He saw with surprise that there were tears in her eyes. “Look, your concern for my…um…monkey is sweet. I think. But I’m not going to discuss my sex life with my sister.”

“That’s because you don’t have one. And it’s such a waste, Max. I know women who would crawl over broken glass to get to you. Let me hook you up with one of them.”

He held up a hand. “Spare me the broken-glass crawlers. Please. And take my word for it that I have a sex life.”

He thought of Marie-Helen and Jordan, women he’d slept with on a casual basis over the years. He liked them both, he enjoyed the sex, but he was not compelled by either woman. That lack of engagement had been important in his former life, when all his energy had been focused on his father’s well-being.

“Well. I hope that’s true.” Charlotte studied his face. “I want you to have all the things you’ve missed out on.”

“I get that. Thank you,” he said. “Now, can we talk about something else? Anything else, in fact. Global warming? The extortionate price of tropical fruit?”

Charlotte let the subject go. They spent another two hours boxing up the library. By the time they exited the apartment, they were both dusty and weary.

“What time are you letting the dealer in tomorrow?” he asked.

“Around ten.”

They both stood on the threshold, glancing around the apartment that had been their father’s home, hospital and prison.

“Will you miss it?” she asked.

The apartment had been in their family for two generations. He could remember his grandmother serving Sunday meals in the dining room, the family gathered around. But he could remember more clearly his father’s pain and suffering.

“No. You?”

She shook her head. “Too many sad memories.”

He locked up for the last time and handed the key to his sister. They parted ways in the street and he walked two blocks to the Metro. After changing lines twice, he climbed the stairs of the St. Paul station and emerged into the weak afternoon sunlight.

It was early February, and he could see his breath in the air. He stopped to buy a bottle of wine and some fresh-baked bread on his way home. Then he let himself into the former shop that he’d leased on a cobblestoned side street of Le Marais.

His footsteps echoed as he made his way across a wide expanse of floorboards to the kitchen.

Normally a place the size of his loft would cost a mint to rent, but he’d managed to discover the last shitty, unrenovated hole in the upwardly mobile third arrondissement. What it lacked in ambience, hygiene and plumbing it gained in space. More than enough to accommodate his bed, a couch, an armchair, a kitchen table and all his workshop materials and leave him with plenty of room to fill with his art.

His art.

He studied the handful of small sculptures and the one full-size figure in bronze that stood next to his workbench.

For a long time he’d fooled himself into thinking that his sketches and small-scale sculptures were a hobby, mindless doodling to chew up the time between tending to his father’s needs and fill the hole that losing dancing had left. He’d always drawn and experimented with clay, ever since he was a kid. It was harmless, he’d figured, pointless.

But as his skill had increased, so had his drive to capture more and more of his ideas in clay, plaster, bronze—each time bigger and better than the time before. He’d pushed away the urge as it became more insistent, but when his father’s health had deteriorated a few months ago, he’d found himself thinking about what would happen after his father had found his peace. Max’s hands had itched as he imagined what he could do with his art if he had more time, more space, more energy.

The past eight years had taught him that life was never predictable, often cruel, and even more often capricious. Men plan and God laughs—he’d often thought the quote should be men dream and God laughs.

But he’d had a gutful of what-ifs. He’d had eight years of being on hold, in limbo, living for someone else.

He and Charlotte had inherited a small sum of money from their father’s estate. There would be a little more when the apartment sale was finalized—but not much since they’d taken out a mortgage to fund their father’s care—and Max had decided to recklessly, perhaps foolishly, use his share to give himself a year to prove himself. The rent paid, food supplied, his materials purchased. And if he had nothing to show for it at the end of it all, so be it. At least he would have followed one of his dreams through to its conclusion.

His hands and face felt grubby from the hours amongst dusty books. He stripped and took a quick shower. His hair damp, clad in a pair of faded jeans and a cashmere sweater that had seen better days, he slit the seal on the merlot he’d bought and placed a single glass on the counter.

The sound of his doorbell echoed around the loft. He eyed the distant front door cautiously.

He wouldn’t put it past Charlotte to pay a sneak visit after the conversation they’d had today, trying to catch him in the act of having a sex life so she could truly rest easy.

He ran his hands through his hair. His sister was going to find out her brother was chasing a rainbow sometime. Might as well be today.

His bare feet were silent as he made his way to the white-painted glass front door. He could see a small silhouette on the other side of the glass and he frowned. Too short for Charlotte. And too slight for either Jordan or Marie-Helen.

He twisted the lock and pulled the door open.

And froze when he saw who was standing on his doorstep.

“Maddy.”

“Max,” she said.

Then she threw herself into his arms.





Chapter Two


MADDY PUSHED HERSELF away from Max’s embrace and brushed the tears from the corners of her eyes. He appeared utterly blown away to see her. She suddenly realized how stupid she must seem, arriving on his doorstep unannounced and crying all over him.

She was feeling kind of blown-away herself. It had been eight years since she’d last seen his face, and she was surprised at how much older and grown-up he seemed. He was thirty-one now, of course. No longer a young man. She hadn’t expected him to remain untouched by time, but the reality of him was astonishing. He almost looked like a stranger, with new lines around his mouth and eyes. His formerly long, tousled hair was cut short in a utilitarian buzz cut. His body was different, too. As a dancer, he’d been all lean muscle and fluid grace, but the man standing before her seemed bigger, wider, taller than the friend she remembered.

She laughed self-consciously as she realized they were both simply staring at each other.

“Always knew how to make an entrance, didn’t I?” she said.

“It’s great to see you,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were in town. Where are you dancing? Or perhaps I should ask who’s trying to steal the great Maddy Green away from the SDC?”

She opened her mouth to tell him her news, but nothing came out. Instead, a sob rose up from deep inside and she felt her face crumple.

“Hey,” Max said. He moved closer, one hand reaching out to catch her elbow. “What’s going on? Who’s got you so upset?”

She pressed her face into the palms of her hands. She couldn’t look at him when she said it. God, she could barely make herself say the words.

“They retired me. I had a knee reconstruction in July after I tore my anterior cruciate ligament. It’s been coming along well, getting stronger, but the company’s surgeon won’t clear me to dance. So it’s all over,” she said, the words slipping between her fingers.

“Maddy. I’m so sorry,” Max said.

She dropped her hands. “I didn’t know what to do, where to go. And then I thought of you. And I caught the first plane to Paris. Didn’t even bother to pack,” she said. She tried to laugh at her own crazy impulsiveness, but the only sound that came out was an odd little hiccup.

Max’s eyebrows arched upward and his gaze flicked to her dance bag, lying on the ground at her feet where she’d dropped it when he opened the door.

She understood his surprise. What kind of person took off around the world on the spur of the moment and lobbed on the doorstep of a man she hadn’t seen in over eight years?

“Guess I wasn’t really thinking straight,” she said.

An icy breeze raced down the alley, rattling windows and cutting through the thin wool of her sweater. She shivered and Max shook his head.

“You’re freezing.” He tugged her through the doorway as he spoke, reaching to grab her bag at the same time.

“Merde. This thing is still as heavy as I remember,” he said as he hefted the black suede bag.

The ghost of a smile curved her lips. Max used to give her a lot of grief about all the rubbish she hauled around. He always wondered how someone as small as she needed so much stuff. One time he’d even tipped the entire contents onto the coffee table and made her justify every piece of detritus. They’d been laughing so hard by the time they got a third of the way through the pile that Maddy had begged him for mercy for fear her sides really would split.

“Girl’s got to have her stuff,” she said, the same response she’d given him all those years ago.

He smiled and kicked the door shut behind him.

“I was just opening a bottle of wine. That’ll help warm you up,” he said.

She glanced around as he led her across the large open space. Ancient beams supported the roof high overhead, and the walls were rough brick with the odd, haphazard patch of plaster smeared over them. A workbench lined one wall, filled with hand tools, and a row of sculptures sat side by side near a painted-over window.

She knew from the mass e-mail that Max had sent to his friends that he’d recently moved into a new apartment after the death of his father, but this was the last place she’d imagined him living. In the old days, he’d always been the one who complained the most about the moldy bathroom and crusty kitchen in their shared rentals. He’d even painted his bedroom himself because he couldn’t stand the flaking, bright blue paint that had decorated his walls.

But maybe his appearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Maybe the years had given him a different appreciation for what made a home.

“I was sorry to hear about your father,” she said as he dumped her bag on a low modern leather couch. At least that conformed to her idea of the old Max’s tastes—sleek, welldesigned, high quality.

“Yeah. Thanks for the flowers, by the way. I can’t remember if I sent a thank-you card or not,” he said. “It’s all a bit fuzzy, to be honest.”

“You did.”

They were both uncomfortable. She wondered if it was because she’d brought up his father, or because she’d miscalculated horribly in racing to him this way. She hadn’t expected it to be awkward. She’d expected to walk through the door and feel the old connection with him. To feel safe and warm and protected.

Stupid. She could see that now. E-mails and Christmas cards and the occasional phone call were not enough to maintain the level of intimacy they’d once shared. She’d run halfway around the world chasing a phantom.

“Maybe I should come back tomorrow,” she said, stopping in the space between his makeshift living zone and the counter, sink and oven in the back corner that constituted his kitchen. “You’ve probably got plans. I should have called before coming over. We can meet up whenever you’re free.”

Max put down the bottle of wine he’d been opening and walked over to stand in front of her. He reached out and rested his hands on her shoulders. The heavy, strange-but-familiar weight warmed her.

“Maddy. It’s great to see you. Really. I wish it was for a happier reason, for your sake, but I’m honored you thought of me. Now, make yourself at home. I don’t have a thing to do or a place to be. I’m all yours,” he said.

More foolish tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away, then nodded. “Okay. All right.”

He returned to the wine bottle, and she sat at one end of the couch. She was tired. Emotionally and physically. She felt as though she’d been holding her breath ever since Andrew had looked her in the eye and confirmed Dr. Hanson’s pronouncement that her career was over.

“Here.”

He slid a large wineglass into her hand. Red wine lapped close to the brim and she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Save me a trip back to the kitchen to get you another one,” he said.

“I haven’t been drunk in years,” she said, staring down into the deep cherry liquid. “I guess if there was ever a time, this is it.”

“Absolument,” he said.

She drank a mouthful, then another.

“I was wondering what else was different about you,” she said when she’d finished swallowing. “Apart from your hair and your face. It’s your accent. It’s much stronger now.”

“That would come from speaking my native tongue for the past eight years,” he said wryly. “These days, the only time I get to practice my English is when someone from the old days calls or visits.”

“It’s nice,” she said. “The girls from the corps would love it. I remember they used to be all over you because of your accent.”

“I think you’re forgetting my stellar talent on stage and my legendary status as a lover,” he said mock-seriously.

Her shoulders relaxed a notch as she recognized the familiar teasing light in his eyes. There was the old Max she knew and loved, the Max she’d craved when her world came crashing down around her.

“Right, sorry. I keep forgetting about that. What was that nickname you wanted us all to call you again?”

He snorted out a laugh and she watched, fascinated, as his face transformed.

He’s been too serious for too long, she realized. That’s what’s different about him, as well.

She could only imagine what caring for his wheelchair-bound father must have been like. Terrifying, exhausting, frus-trating and rewarding in equal measures, no doubt.

“The Magic Flute,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about that. Never did catch on.”

“We had our own names for you, don’t worry,” she said. She toed off her shoes. As always, it was bliss to free her feet. If she could, she’d go barefoot all day.

“Yeah? You never told me that. What did you use to call me?”

He settled back on the couch. He filled the entire corner, his shoulders square and bulky with muscle.

“Not me, the corps. Wonder Butt was the most popular,” she said. “Because of how you filled out your tights.”

Another laugh from Max. The warm wine-glow in the pit of her stomach expanded. The more he laughed, the more the years slid away and the more she saw her old friend. Maybe it hadn’t been so stupid coming here after all.

“Some of the girls called you Legs. Again, because of the way you filled out your tights.”

“We’d better be getting to the Magic Flute part soon or I’m going to be crippled with size issues for weeks.”

She felt her cheeks redden as she remembered the last nickname the other ballerinas had for Max. She shifted on the couch, not sure why she was suddenly self-conscious about a bit of silly trash talk. It had been a long time since she’d been coy or even vaguely self-conscious about anything sexual.

She cleared her throat.

“I believe they also used to call you Rex, too,” she said.

He frowned, confused. She made a vague gesture with her hand. She couldn’t believe he was forcing her to elaborate.

“You know. As in Tyrannosaurus Rex. Big and insatiable.”

He threw back his head and roared with laughter. She found herself joining in.

“Maddy Green,” he said when he’d finally stopped laughing. His light gray eyes were admiring as he looked at her. “It’s damn good to see you. It’s been too long.”

A small silence fell as they both savored their wine.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked after a while. “Call people names, throw a tantrum? I’m happy to listen if you do.”

She drew her legs up so that she was sitting cross-legged.

“I wasn’t ready for it. I mean, they told me the surgery was a long shot, but I’ve always been a good healer. And the knee was getting better. If they’d just given me more time…”

She looked down and saw her left hand was clenched over her knee, while her right was strangling the glass.

“What did the doctor say?”

“A bunch of cautious gobbledygook about my body being tired and not being able to compensate anymore. I know my body better than any of them. I know what I’m capable of. I know I’ve got more in me. I can feel it here,” she said, thumping a fist into her chest so vehemently that the bony thud of it echoed.

“Careful, there, tiger,” he said.

She took a big, gulping sip.

“I still can’t believe that Andrew took Hanson at face value like that. Like it was gospel.”

“Hanson? I was wondering who treated you. He’s supposed to be pretty good, right?”

She shrugged a shoulder dismissively. “Yes. The best, according to Andrew. Which is why they use him exclusively. But he’s not the only doctor in the world. Remember Sasha? He was told he’d be crippled for life if he kept dancing, and he went on to score a place with the Joffrey Ballet. He’s one of their lead soloists now.”

He smiled. “Fantastic. Good for him. I’ve lost track of so many people, I’ve been out of it all for so long now. Is Peter still dancing? I tried to keep an eye out for him. Always thought he’d make it big.”

“He got sick,” she said quietly. “You know what he was like—never could say no.”

Despite the well-known risk of AIDS, there were still plenty of beautiful, talented dancers who slept their way into an early grave. The travel, the physicality of the dance world, the camaraderie—passions always ran high, on and off the stage.

“What about Liza? I heard she’d gone to one of the European companies but then that was it.”

Max and Liza had had a thing for a while, Maddy remembered. Was he thinking about making contact with her, now that he was free to make decisions for himself once again and Maddy had turned up on his doorstep, reminding him of the past?

“She’s with the Nederlands Dans Theatre,” she said. “I heard she’d gotten married, actually.”

Max looked pleased rather than pissed. She decided he’d merely been curious about an old friend. For all she knew, he was involved with someone anyway. She’d seen no evidence that there was a woman in his life in his apartment, and he’d never mentioned a girlfriend in any of his e-mails, but that didn’t mean a thing. He was a good-looking man. And there was that whole Rex thing. A man who enjoyed sex as much as Max apparently wouldn’t go long without it.

She frowned. Since when had Max’s sex life been of any concern to her? Their friendship had always been just that—a friendship. Warm, loving, caring and totally free of any and all sexual attraction on either side, despite the fact that they were both heterosexuals with healthy sex drives. Without ever actually having talked about it, they had chosen to sacrifice the transient buzz of physical interest for the more enduring bond of friendship. Which was why Max remained one of her most treasured friends—she hadn’t screwed their relationship up by sleeping with him.

She lifted her glass to her lips and was surprised to find it was empty.

Maybe that was why she was wondering about things she didn’t normally wonder about where Max was concerned—too much wine, mixed in with the unsettling realization that her old friend had changed while she’d been dancing her heart out around the world.

He pushed himself to his feet. “Let me fix that for you.”

She watched him walk away, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. There was no hint of the lithe young dancer she’d once known in his sturdy man’s walk. He still moved lightly, but his feet didn’t automatically splay outward when he stopped in front of the counter, and there were no other indications that he’d once been one of the most promising, talented dancers she’d ever worked with.

Max had abandoned his career as a dancer to care for his father. Walked away just as his star was rising. At least she had had the chance to realize many of her dreams before Andrew and Dr. Hanson had written her off.

Her bleak thoughts must have been evident in her face when he returned because he shoved a plate of sliced, pâté-smeared baguette at her.

“Eat something, soak up that wine. I don’t want you messy drunk too soon,” he said.

“I’m off carbs,” she said before she could think. “Need to drop weight.”

How stupid was that? She didn’t need to drop weight anymore. She could eat herself to the size of a house if she wanted to.

She looked at Max, desperately seeking some magic cure for the hollow feeling inside her.

“How did you do it?” she asked in a small voice. “How did you walk away? Didn’t you miss it? Didn’t you need it?”

He slid the plate onto the table. There was sympathy in his eyes, and old pain.

“I had lots of distractions. Worry over Père, practical things to sort out. I didn’t have the time to think about it for a long while.”

“And then?”

“It was hard. Nothing feels like dancing. Nothing.”

She nodded, swallowing emotion. “It’s my life. I’ve given it everything, every hour of every day.”

“I know. It was one of the things I always admired about you. You were the most passionate dancer I knew.”

Her jaw clenched.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to use past tense,” he said.

God, he was so perceptive. Always had been.

“I can’t believe it’s over. It’s too big, too much,” she said.

A heavy silence fell. She could feel Max trying to find something to say, something that would make it all right. But there was nothing he or anyone could say or do. The decision had been made.

She shook her head and shoulders, deliberately shaking off the grim mood that had gripped her.

“Tell me about you. About your dad and…Charlotte, right? That’s your sister’s name, isn’t it?”

They talked their way through the first bottle of wine and then the second. Maddy ate more than half of the bread and pâté and by ten was bleary-eyed with fatigue and alcohol.

“I need to go find a hotel,” she said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re staying here.”

As soon as he said it, something inside her relaxed. She’d been hoping he would offer. She could still remember how she used to crawl into bed with him when it was cold and the heating wasn’t up to the task of fending off the drafts from the many, many cracks and gaps in their house. The smell of Max all around her, the warmth of his body next to hers. He used to pull her close and she’d fall asleep with her head on his shoulder.

Just the thought of feeling that safe again made her chest ache.

“You can have my bed, I’ll sack out on the couch,” he said, standing to clear the dishes.

She stared up at him.

“I don’t mind sharing with you. We used to sleep together all the time. Remember?” She hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

He hesitated a moment. “Sure. I’ll try not to hog the quilt. It’s been a while since I’ve shared with anyone.”

She smiled up at him, relieved. “You know, I’m glad I came. It was a bit weird at first, but that was only because we hadn’t seen each other for a while. And now it feels like the old days.”

He looked away, his focus distant.

“The old days. Yeah.”

“Do you mind if I have a shower first?” she asked.

“Of course not. I’ll get you a towel.”

He moved away, disappearing through a doorway to one side of the living area. Maddy began weaving her long hair into a braid to prevent it from getting wet.

She had no idea what tomorrow held. Even acknowledging that fact was a scary, scary thing for a dancer who had lived a life of strict self-discipline.

For a moment she got dizzy again and her heart began to pound. No rehearsal. No costume fittings. No classes. No gym or Pilates. What would she do with the time? God, what would she do with the rest of her life?

Max reappeared with a fluffy white towel and a fresh bar of soap.

“The bathroom’s pretty primitive, but it gets the job done,” he said.

The panic subsided as she looked into his clear gray eyes.

It would be all right. She was here with Max, and somehow she would find a way through this.

She stood and took the towel, then rested her hand on his forearm for a few seconds to feel the reassuring warmth of him.

Definitely she had done the right thing coming here, no matter how crazy it had seemed at first. Definitely.

MAX RAN A HAND ACROSS the bristle of his buzz cut as Maddy disappeared through the bathroom door.

Maddy Green. He couldn’t quite believe that she was in his apartment after all these years.

The shock of seeing her on his doorstep continued to resonate within him. It was almost as though thinking of her today at his father’s apartment had conjured her into his life.

She was still beautiful, with her long, rich brown hair and deep brown eyes. And being in the same room with her was still an experience in itself—her body vibrated with so much emotion and intensity, she was utterly compelling. It was one of the reasons she was such a joy to watch on stage—she had presence, star quality. She’d always drawn people to her.

He heard the shower come on and began collecting glasses and plates.

Her perfume hung in the air, something flowery and light. The same perfume she’d always worn.

Jesus. I still remember her perfume. How sappy is that?

A part of him was flattered that she’d thought of him in her hour of need. But he also wasn’t sure how he felt about her barreling back into his life.

Once, she’d been the center of his world. He’d devoted half his twenties to loving her.

The wine bottles clinked together loudly as they hit the bottom of the recycle bin. Max wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans.

His gut tightened as he thought of her news. Her career was over. Tough enough for someone like him to walk away from dancing. He’d only been in the early stages of his career. But Maddy had given her whole life to dance. She’d flown high—and the resulting fall was going to be long and painful.

He thought of her wounded look as she’d told him the doctor’s verdict. Despite his ambivalence about seeing her again, he wished he could take away her pain. The old feelings still had that much of a hold on him. He didn’t want to see her hurting.

He bounded up the stairs to the sleeping platform suspended above the kitchen zone. If she was staying in his bed, he needed to change the linen.

He was spreading a clean sheet across the mattress when she spoke from behind him.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Bachelor lifestyle.” He turned, and something primitive thumped deep in the pit of his belly.

She wore one of his T-shirts. The hem hit her at midthigh and her hair was loose around her shoulders. He could see the soft outline of her nipples through the well-worn fabric. She’d always been small in the breast department, like most dancers, but she was nicely rounded and very perky. His gaze dropped to her bare, finely muscled thighs. Was she wearing any underwear?

Damn.

“I borrowed a T-shirt. Hope that was okay?”

He shifted his attention back to the sheet and concentrated on making the crispest hospital corners in the history of mankind.

“Sure.”

“I’ve always wanted a loft,” she said, wandering to the rail to look down over the rest of the apartment.

If he looked up, he knew he’d have a great view of her ass and the backs of her slim thighs. He kept his gaze fixed where it was.

Eight years had passed. How could he still want her so badly?

He glanced toward the stairs. It was one thing to want to comfort her, but it was another thing entirely to desire her. He’d been down that road before and he knew it went nowhere.

He unfolded the top sheet and flicked it hard to send it ballooning out over the bed.

You don’t love her anymore. You stopped loving her years ago.

The thought sounded clear as a bell in his mind. Some of the tension left his shoulders. He was getting wound up about nothing. It was true—he’d gotten over Maddy long ago. Stopped thinking about her, fantasizing, wondering. It had literally been years since he’d been a slave to his feelings for her.

Which was reassuring, but didn’t quite explain the hard-on crowding his jeans.

She’s a woman. A gorgeous, almost-naked woman. And you spent the better part of three years fantasizing about her. That kind of sexual attraction doesn’t just die. But it doesn’t mean anything except that you’re horny, and she’s hot.

He looked at Maddy.

She was a beautiful, sexy woman. That was undeniable. Probably any guy would feel something down south at the sight of her in his big T-shirt and precious little else.

Okay. Good. He’d rationalized his hard-on to death. Now he had to deal with the minor problem of their sleeping arrangements. The last thing he wanted was for Maddy to realize he was hot for her. She’d come to him seeking solace, not sex.

“You know, I think you’d be much more comfortable if I slept on the couch,” he suggested casually. “I tend to toss and turn a lot. And you need to get over your jet lag.”

She turned from studying his apartment, a frown on her face.

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed, Max. If you’re worried about it, I’ll sleep on the couch,” she said.

“I’m not worried. I was just thinking of you.”

A little too much, as it turns out.

“Well, if I get to choose, I’d rather sleep with you. I don’t really want to be alone right now, you know?”

The lost look in her eyes sealed it for him.

“Fine. I’ll just go brush my teeth,” he said.

And try to find something to sleep in. Preferably something armor-plated.

By the time he’d brushed his teeth, discovered he had a choice of workout pants or boxer-briefs and opted—reluctantly—for the boxer-briefs since he could only imagine Maddy’s reaction if he rolled into bed wearing full sweats, ten minutes had passed. When he climbed to the sleeping platform, Maddy was curled up on one side of the bed, her eyes closed and her head pillowed on one hand.

She stirred as the mattress dipped under his weight.

“I thought you were never coming to bed.”

“Had to put the dog out and check on the kids,” he said.

She smiled faintly, her big eyes drowsy. Up close, he could see how fine and clear her skin was, as well as note the few endearing freckles that peppered her nose. She’d always hated them, calling them her bane and covering them every chance she got.

He smiled.

“What?” she asked.

“I’d forgotten about your bane.”

She pulled a face.

“Trust you to notice them.”

“They’re cute.”

“On a ten-year-old. Not on a prima ballerina. I bet Anna Pavlova didn’t have freckles.”

He saw the exact moment that she remembered, again, that she was no longer a prima ballerina. The light in her eyes dimmed and her full lips pressed together as though she was trying to contain something.

“Come here.”

He held out an arm and she shifted across the mattress until she was lying against his side, his arm around her shoulders, her head on his chest.

If he kept concentrating on the lost, bewildered look in her eyes, he figured he had a fair to middling chance of pulling this off without embarrassing either of them. She needed him. That was enough to push all other thoughts into the background.

“It’s going to be all right, Maddy,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“I should have been ready for this. All ballet dancers have to retire, I know that.” Her words were a whisper. “Is it so wrong and greedy to want a little more? Another year? Two?”

Max tightened his embrace. He could feel how tense she was, could feel the grief and confusion in her.

“It’ll be all right,” he repeated, smoothing a circle on her back with the palm of his hand.

He felt the tension leave her body after a few minutes as the wine and jet lag and emotion caught up with her. He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathing.

Knowing Maddy, she would probably be off home again tomorrow, her mad, impulsive trip having served the purpose of helping her express her grief and confusion. She had friends in Australia, a home. A life. She’d want to go back to the familiar as she tried to work out what happened next in the Maddy Green story.

She shifted in her sleep. As her perfume washed over him, a memory hit him. When they’d lived together, she’d left a scarf in his car after they’d gone to the movies one night. Rather than give it back to her, he’d hung on to it because it smelled of her perfume. A secret memento of Maddy.

Talk about besotted. He’d been so far gone it was a wonder the words hadn’t appeared over his head and followed him around: I am in love with Maddy Green.

Another memory: the night he’d decided to tell Maddy how he felt. It had taken months to screw up his courage enough to risk their friendship. He’d arranged candles and red roses and bought a bottle of French champagne. The kitchen of their crappy rental had looked like a bordello by the time he’d finished decking it out—a kid’s idea of a romantic scene, he recognized now. Then Maddy had come home, jumping out of her skin because she’d just been invited to join the Royal Ballet in London. He’d watched her unalloyed joy, untouched by regret for what she would be leaving behind. When she’d ducked off to call her mom, he’d quietly snuffed the candles and hidden the champagne in the back of the fridge and left his declaration unmade.

Thinking about it now, he could only thank God she’d been so preoccupied with her own news that she’d never thought to ask why she’d walked into the best little whorehouse in Sydney. She’d saved them both a painful and awkward conversation.

Maddy murmured in her sleep, her head moving on his shoulder restlessly. She rolled away from him, sprawling across half the bed.

He rolled the other way and resolutely closed his eyes. He had his first session with the life model he’d hired tomorrow. He needed to sleep, despite his circling thoughts and how aware he was of Maddy lying just a few feet away. He wasn’t a kid, held to ransom by his body and his emotions. If the past eight years had taught him anything, it was to grab sleep when he could find it.



HE WOKE TO FIND HIMSELF curled into Maddy’s back, her butt nestled into the cradle formed by his hips and thighs. One of his arms was wrapped around her torso.

He was painfully hard, his erection pressed against the roundness of her backside. So much for the protection of his boxer-briefs. His hand had somehow crept beneath her T-shirt to rest beneath the lower curve of her breasts. He could feel her ribs expand and contract as she breathed in and out.

She felt good. Small and sleek and feminine.

He knew he should back off, roll away before she woke and realized where she was and who he was and what was happening in his underwear.

He didn’t move. He wanted to flex his hips and press himself against her so badly it hurt. His whole body tensed as he imagined sliding his hand a few vital inches and cupping her breast. He could almost feel the softness of it in his palm.

Thanks to the notorious lack of privacy in dancers’ changing rooms, he’d seen Maddy in various states of undress over the years. She had small, pink nipples, and when she was cold they puckered into tight little raspberries.

He imagined plucking them, rolling them between his fingers. Pulling them into his mouth and tasting his fill of her.

His hard-on throbbed.

Man, oh man.

He closed his eyes. He had to back off. Now.

Maddy stirred, her body flexing in his embrace, her backside snuggling into his hips.

He’d never been so close to losing control in his life. His hand lifted from her torso. But instead of sliding it up and over her bare breasts, he twisted away from her warmth.

He slid to the side of the bed and sat up, scrubbing his face with his hands.

Talk about close. Too close.

His underwear bulging, he made his way downstairs. The cold water of the shower hit him like an electric shock, but it took care of business below stairs very effectively.

He eyed himself in the mirror as he shaved. He wasn’t going to give himself a hard time for waking with an erection. It was pretty much an everyday occurrence, with or without a hot woman in his bed. He wasn’t even going to give himself grief for horning onto Maddy while she slept. He was only human, after all.

But those few moments of temptation…

They were a whole other ball game. His jaw tensed as he imagined Maddy’s reaction if she’d discovered him feeling her up. She’d come to him seeking comfort and understanding and he’d almost jumped her when she was at her most vulnerable.

Just as well she’d probably be going home tomorrow. He clearly couldn’t be trusted where she was concerned.

Dressed in faded jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, he headed into the kitchen to make coffee. He worked as quietly as possible to fill the stovetop espresso maker. While he was waiting for it to brew, he cleared away some of the debris on the kitchen table. Which was when he saw the envelope icon flashing on his cell phone, indicating he had messages.

He clicked it open with his thumb, frowning when he saw it was a message from Gabriella, his life model.




pls call ASAP.


He dialed her number, a bad feeling in his gut. The message was time-stamped early this morning, and Gabriella was due in an hour. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to realize something was up. As her phone rang and rang, he hoped the news wasn’t terrible.

It had taken him over a month to find the body type he’d wanted to act as model for his latest project. The works he planned had been inspired by his years in dance, and he’d been excited when a mutual friend had put Gabriella in contact with him. She was a dancer—nowhere near Maddy’s level, but she had the refined, defined muscles and flexibility he required.

He tried to anticipate the reason for the last-minute contact. She might be sick. Her car might have broken down. Or—disaster—she might have broken a leg or something else equally debilitating.

The phone clicked as someone answered.

“Max. I’m so glad you got my message,” Gabriella said. “I was worried you wouldn’t see it in time.”

“Hi, Gabriella. What’s up?”

“I’m so sorry, Max, but I won’t be able to make it today. I got a job.”

“Right. Congratulations.” He tried to sound genuine. He knew that Gabriella had been looking for dancing work for some time now without much luck.

“I know this ruins your plans, but I had to take it,” she said apologetically. “I hope you understand.”

“Of course. We’ll just reschedule. What’s your timetable like? Is it weekend work?”

“Oh, I didn’t explain very well, did I? The job’s not here in Paris. It’s a touring show, a kids thing. I’ll be on the road for the next three months.”

Shit. Might as well have broken a leg.

He leaned against the kitchen table and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Right,” he said.

“I can still sit for you when I get back, if you’re happy to wait,” she offered tentatively.

“Sure. Give me a call when you’re back in town.”

He’d need to find someone before that, of course, but there was no need for Gabriella to feel needlessly bad. She had to make a living, and what he could pay her as a life model wouldn’t come even close to what she’d earn as a full-time dancer.

“Okay. I’m really sorry for the short notice, Max.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll work something out.”

After wishing her best of luck with her new job, he ended the call.

He fought the urge to kick something. It had been a long time since he’d wanted something wholly for himself. Was it too much to ask that even the simplest of his desires—that his chosen model be available to sit for him at a convenient time—be answered?

“What’s up?”

He turned to find Maddy halfway down the stairs. She was rumpled and sleep-creased and warm-looking. He made an effort to keep his eyes above the hemline of the T-shirt.

“Nothing. Just a work thing,” he said.

“Of course. You’re back in the workforce now. What are you doing?”

He stared at her. There were a handful of people who knew about his artistic ambitions. None of them were close friends or family. Still, he had to start owning his desires sooner or later.

“A bit of stonework. Mostly working with bronze. Mostly figure-based stuff,” he said.

God, he felt like a pretentious wanker saying the words out loud.

She frowned. She had no idea what he was talking about, of course.

I’m trying to be an artist.

That’s what he should have said.

Her baffled gaze slid over his shoulder to where his earlier works marched along the wall beside his workbench.

“Oh! Those are yours?” she asked, incredulous.

As well she might be.

Her eyes were wide as she walked over to inspect them.

“God, Max, I thought you’d brought them over from your dad’s place or something and didn’t know where to put them in your new loft,” she said.

He stayed where he was, his whole body tense as she circled his most recent piece, a full-size bronze figure of a woman balanced on one leg, her other leg bent at the knee and held at a right angle from her body, her pointed foot hitting her supporting leg above the knee. Her arms were lifted high, joining in a graceful arch over her head.

He’d been happy with the emotion he’d been able to capture in the piece, but it still needed work.

“This is great! Wow. Max, this is amazing. I can’t believe someone I know made something this beautiful.”

Something—relief?—expanded in his chest and he let himself move closer.

Maddy ran a hand over the curve of the woman’s waist and hip, her face lit with admiration.

“I can almost feel her moving. How did you do that?” she said. Then she snatched her hand away. “I’m so sorry! Is it okay if I touch it?”

Her expression was so contrite he had to laugh.

“It’s bronze. It could probably survive a nuclear holocaust,” he said.

She looked at him, shaking her head.

“I can’t believe you didn’t mention this last night, or in any of your e-mails, for that matter. I remember you used to sketch, but this is…I don’t have the words. What a dark horse. How long have you been doing this?”

He shrugged. “I’ve just been dabbling, really. But I’m about to get started on a new series I’ve been planning.”

“Was that what the call was about?”

“Yeah. Gabriella, my life model, pulled out at the last minute. I’m going to have to find someone else.”

He sounded pissed. Probably because he was.

She’d moved on to inspect his smaller, earlier works. He shuffled from foot to foot, then shoved his hands into his back pockets. They weren’t as good as they could be. He’d been learning his craft when he made them, honing his skills. He should have destroyed them. Or put them in storage somewhere.

Maddy’s eyes were warm when she looked at him again.

“Max. I don’t know what to say. These are really, really good.”

He was embarrassed by how much her praise meant to him.

“Thanks.”

She stroked the bronze figure again. “Losing this life model is a pretty big deal, yeah?”

“It’s a setback. It took me a while to find her. The series is dance-based, and ordinary models aren’t up to it.”

“Dance-based.” She looked at the bronze woman again. “Like this?”

“More dynamic. I want to capture that moment when dance becomes more than just movement,” he said. Then he stopped. Could he sound like any more of a tosser, crapping on about his work like some beret-wearing poseur?

She looked at him. There was a new light in her eye, as though she’d made an important decision.

“Use me,” she said.

“Sorry?” He actually shook his head, convinced he hadn’t heard right.

“You need a new life model, right? Someone to portray a dancer. Why not me?”




Chapter Three


HE WAS GOING TO SAY NO. Maddy could tell by the way his eyes darkened and his jaw tensed.

She had no idea if she was the right model for what he wanted to do. But as soon as the idea popped into her head it had felt right. Especially given the realization she’d woken to this morning.

“Before you say no, hear me out,” she said. “I decided something this morning. I’m not going to take this forced retirement lying down. I’m going to get a second opinion—hell, a fifth and sixth if I need it. I’m going to keep doing my rehab work and I’m going to find a way to dance.” She said it like a challenge, daring him to disagree with her.

She’d given up too easily; the thought had been waiting for her, fully formed, when she opened her eyes and blinked at Max’s ceiling half an hour ago. Dr. Hanson was one doctor, and she’d allowed his opinion to count for more than it should. She wasn’t prepared to give up. Not yet. Not until she’d explored every avenue. Her future happiness depended on her efforts.

Only when Max nodded slowly did she release the breath she’d been holding. If he’d looked disbelieving—God, if he’d laughed—she wasn’t sure what she would have done.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he said.

She smiled.

“Thank you. I needed to hear you say that. The thing is, most of the top dance medicine gurus are here in Paris. I couldn’t be in a better place, even if I only came here because you were here. I’m going to call around today, try to get an appointment.”

“That might take a while. Months, even.”

“I know. I’m going to lean on some old colleagues to put in a word for me, see if I can’t jump the waiting list.”

“Stay here,” he said. “It’s no palace, but it’s a roof.”

She felt a rush of gratitude. The idea of staying with Max was infinitely preferable to twiddling her thumbs in a faceless hotel room for weeks while she gnawed her nails to the bone waiting for another specialist’s pronouncement. But she couldn’t mooch off him.

She said as much, and he made a rude noise.

“We’re friends, Maddy. It’s not mooching.”

“Look, it’s one thing to show up on your doorstep, drink your wine, eat your bread and crash in your bed for a night. But I can’t foist myself on you for weeks at a time. Not unless you let me help you in return. That’s why I offered to model for you. It would be a sort of barter—my body for your accommodation.”

“You don’t need to offer me a deal to stay here. You’re welcome anytime.”

“Thank you. But I can’t live here and not offer anything in return. I know you well enough to know you won’t accept money,” she said. His instant frown was more than enough to prove her point on that score. “And, let’s face it, my cooking skills aren’t exactly great. Please let me do something for you in return for your helping me out.”

“It’s a sweet offer, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. If you really want to help out, I’m sure we can think of something else you can do.”

She studied him, trying to understand his objection. He sounded so adamant, so immovable. Surely it would solve his problem as well as her own?

Or maybe he was just being polite. Maybe she was the last person he wanted to sketch.

“Is it because I don’t have the right body type? It sounded like you were looking for a dancer’s shape,” she asked.

“It’s not that.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, the picture of discomfort. “I don’t think it’ll work out, that’s all.”

He was over the conversation, she could tell, but she wanted to get to the bottom of this. She wanted to stay with him, but her pride wouldn’t let her accept his hospitality without some kind of quid pro quo in place.

“Do you think I’ll get fidgety, is that it? I promise I can stand still when I have to.”

“It’s not that.”

She fiddled with the hem of the T-shirt, disappointed. “Okay. If that’s the way you feel, I’ll find a hotel this afternoon.”

He looked annoyed. “Maddy. I said you could stay here, no strings. Don’t be stubborn.”

“I won’t leech off you. I want to help. You’re helping me, why can’t I return the favor?”

“I would have thought that was pretty obvious. You’ve seen my stuff.”

He gestured toward the row of statues. She glanced at them, then shook her head, baffled.

“Yeah. So?”

“My figures are all nudes, Maddy.”

She blinked, then looked at the figures again.

Right. They were all naked forms. Huh.

“Well, that’s no big deal, is it? It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before. God, I think you know me better than my doctor after we did that season of Wild Swans together,” she said.

Created by an avante-garde Australian choreographer, the ballet had been modern, intimate and daring. She and Max had worn thin body stockings and little else. By the end of the performance, they’d been so in tune with one another it had been hard to work out where his sweat finished and hers began.

“This is different,” he said stubbornly.

She studied him closely and realized that color traced his cheekbones. He was embarrassed. Or self-conscious. Or maybe a bit of both.

“Max, you’re blushing,” she said. Mostly because she knew that nothing would get his back up faster. He might have changed, but not that much.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re embarrassed at seeing me naked, aren’t you?” She found the thought highly amusing. Had he really become so conservative?

“I was thinking about your comfort, not mine.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. Because I’m perfectly comfortable taking my clothes off in front of you. You’re one of my oldest friends, for crying out loud. We used to live together, we’ve danced together. You even held my hair while I threw up after Peter’s birthday party that time. We have no secrets, Max,” she said.

He opened his mouth to object, but she waved a hand. “No. Not another word. You were planning to start this morning, yes?”

“Yes,” he said grudgingly.

“Great. Then I’ll have a shower and we’ll get started.”

She was still smiling when she closed the bathroom door on him.

Really, he was too cute. Worrying about her modesty. Totally wasted on her. Her body was the tool of her trade. She’d performed with dozens of male dancers throughout her career. Hands had caressed, gripped, slipped, pinched and God knows what else over the years. Standing naked in front of Max would be a piece of cake by comparison, and about as eventful for her as going to the supermarket was for other women.

It wasn’t until she was standing in front of him, about to bare all that the first stab of self-consciousness hit.

She hadn’t bothered dressing after her shower. She’d pulled on Max’s oversize bathrobe, laced up the scuffed pair of ballet slippers she carried in her dance bag and stepped back into the main apartment.

He’d set up a stool for himself alongside a small table filled with charcoals, pencils and Conté crayons. A space heater had been turned on to ensure she wasn’t too cold.

She took up position in front of him. Then she suddenly considered that maybe there was a difference between dancing intimately with someone while hundreds of people watched and standing completely naked in front of one man. Even if he was a friend.

Her fingers clenched around the tie on the bathrobe. Her stomach lurched with nerves.

She frowned, trying to work out why she was feeling…well, shy all of a sudden. She’d never been self-conscious about her body in her life. She knew she was in good shape, not an ounce of fat on her, her muscles lean and defined. Okay, she wasn’t exactly a knockout in the rack department, but that had never bothered her before. Big breasts would only have gotten in the way when she danced, and that had always been the most important concern in her life.

But this morning she found herself wishing that instead of her half handfuls she had a little bit more action going on up top. Lord only knew how many women Max had slept with. She’d hate for him to look at her and find her lacking. Unfeminine, even.

She sneaked a glance at the bronze figure she’d admired earlier. Bronze Lady definitely had breasts. A good B cup, maybe even a C. Most of the time, Maddy didn’t wear a bra at all. In fact, she had no idea what cup size she was these days. Which was something of a giveaway in and of itself.

Good grief, girl, get it together. Who cares if you have small breasts? Certainly not Max. You’re a dancer, with a dancer’s body. That’s what he’s looking for. Not tits and ass.

She forced her hands into action, unknotting the tie and almost throwing the robe open in her haste to get the moment of exposure over with.

She took a deep breath and made herself look up to make eye contact with Max. The sooner they normalized this situation, the better.

But he was busy with his supplies, selecting a pencil and sorting his charcoals into order.

Okay. Good. She had a few seconds to get her shit together without him watching her every move.

She slid the robe off her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. The air was cool on her naked skin and she could feel her nipples tightening. She smoothed her hands down her hips and rolled her shoulders.

“Did you want my hair up or down?” she asked.

Max looked up at last. His gaze swept over her body. She couldn’t read a single emotion on his face and she fought the instinct to cover herself with her hands.

“Up. I need the line of your neck and shoulders,” he said. Then he returned his attention to his supplies.

She stared at him for a beat. Then she gathered the length of her hair and twisted it until it formed a loose knot on top of her head. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, as though she was waiting in the wings, ready to run onstage and perform.

What had she expected him to say or do at first sight of her naked body? Break into applause? Go slack-jawed with admiration? Spout poetry?

She couldn’t believe she was being so ridiculous. Juvenile, even.

When she focused on Max again, he was watching her, his expression still unreadable.

“How do you want me?” she asked.

He took a few seconds to answer.

“Let’s start with first position, and move on from there.”

She set her heels together and turned her feet out, joining her hands together in front of her and lifting them till they formed a gentle oval in front of her hips.

“Perfect,” he said quietly.

She kept her eyes fixed on a point on the far wall. She could hear the soft rasp of pencil on paper as he began to sketch.

Five minutes passed, then ten. The room grew warmer. She let her gaze drift toward him. He was bent over his sketch pad, his hand moving quickly across the page as he split his attention between her and what he was creating. She wanted to talk, to ask him something to dispel the uncomfortable awareness she was feeling, but he was so inwardly focused she knew conversation wouldn’t be welcome.

She forced herself to think of something else. Automatically her mind reverted to fretting over Andrew and her forced retirement from the company. There was no comfort to be found there, she knew. Instead, she started to make a mental list of her contacts in the various Paris-based ballets. She’d toured the country twice in her career and danced with several French soloists. Nadine, Jean-Pierre, Anna—they were just a few of the fellow dancers she could call on to ask for the favor of hooking her up with specialists. This afternoon, she would—

“Okay. Let’s try some variations,” Max said.

She blinked and let her body relax. “You’re the boss.”

“Third position this time,” he said, eyeing her body assessingly. His regard was slow, steady. “En pointe, for as long as you can hold it.”

“How long do you need?” she asked. She could hear the ego in her voice. He smiled.

“Not long,” he said.

He started sketching, then stopped. “Can you look up for me?”

She lifted her chin. He frowned.

“Try angling your head a little more to the left.”

She shifted. His frown deepened.

“It’s not quite right…”

He stood and moved toward her. She stiffened, quelling the odd urge to retreat. Almost as though she was afraid of him, of his touch. Which was crazy. This was Max, after all. Her friend.

She could feel the heat from his body as he stood in front of her, studying the angle of her head. With her hands raised high above her, her weight supported on her toes, she was as tightly strung as a bow. And very exposed.

He reached out and nudged her chin up with his finger. A little higher. A little more to the left.

“That’s good,” he said.

His gaze swept the rest of her body and she felt a quiver of awareness deep in the pit of her belly. That odd instinct to retreat hit her again.

Then he was turning away, striding back to his sketch pad.

She took a deep breath, then another.

“You okay? Warm enough?” he asked as he took up his pencil.

She realized her breasts had puckered again, her nipples once more begging for attention. She fought a wave of self-consciousness.

“I’m fine,” she said. “You just do your thing.”

He took her at her word. She heard the scratch of pencil on paper and closed her eyes briefly. She felt rattled, off balance.

She forced her gaze to the back wall, concentrating on a crack in the plaster.

This is Max, she reminded herself. Your friend. He held you while you slept last night. He’s always been there for you.

Slowly, by small degrees, she relaxed. There was no reason for her foolish awareness. Not with Max, of all people. He was like a brother to her. Always had been, always would be.



MAX TIGHTENED HIS GRIP on his pencil as he attempted to commit the curve of Maddy’s hip to paper. His gaze kept sliding from the subtle arc of her waist down the flat planes of her belly to the curls at the juncture of her thighs. A neat little patch, waxed into submission, just enough curls there to hint at the secrets they concealed.

His hard-on throbbed. He still couldn’t believe he’d let Maddy bulldoze him into this situation. But she’d been so determined to have her way. And he hadn’t been strong enough to resist the temptation she’d offered. Back in the days when they’d lived together, he’d sketched her. Lying on the couch, asleep. Dancing, the expression on her face full of joy. Laughing, her eyes closed, her head thrown back.





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