CURTAIN CALL: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series Book 1 (Standalone) Page 10

  Kent tenses, and I hold back a chuckle, not sure if it’s due to the very obvious overtures of the attendant or the way he adjusts in his seat, scrubbing the back of his neck. I can’t think of anyone wound so tightly.

  “I love what you guys are doing. It’s incredible to see a dance company get so much attention. You’re like a rock star. I’ll need to get an autograph for my niece, if you don’t mind. She is going to be beside herself when I tell her Kent Morgan was on my flight.” She smiles, looking straight past me.

  Kent nods politely. “I’ll have my assistant send her a signed poster. Just let me know her address.”

  The flight attendant waggles a brow before she sways her hips down the aisle.

  “I’m sure you could get her phone number too.” I eye him while sipping on my coffee.

  She’s back in no time to hand him a piece of paper with her address, and, yep, there’s a phone number written on the bottom. I have to smile to myself.

  The flight attendant chats off Kent’s ear for a while, and Kent looks like he is dying on the vine. I can’t help but be amused. Does he get this kind of attention all the time? Probably. He doesn’t seem to enjoy it very much. Maybe I should help him out. I flip through the new releases, decide on a movie, and finish my cup of coffee. There’s no rush. When she’s still batting her eyelashes at him, I decide to pull the plug, for his sake. I place my hand on his thigh. His muscle squeezes under my fingers, and my cheeks instantly warm in reaction, but I suck in a breath and steady my gaze into his.

  “What time is it, honey?” I ham up my smile. The expression on his face makes the risk to my career so worth it. He tilts his head and briefly looks at my hand before our eyes lock together. His Adams’ apple dips low in his throat, and I blush—not the intended outcome—as he keeps eye contact. She gets the hint and excuses herself. But neither of us is looking at her, anyway.

  He draws in a breath and pulls his focus from mine.

  “You’re welcome.” I force a smile, sliding my twitchy fingers off his hard thigh and back into my lap. I clasp my hands together to keep the firing sensations stilled as I place my headset over my ears and lose myself in the drivel.

  The moon lights the driveway when we arrive at the beachside villa where we have clearly separated sleeping quarters. Our bedrooms are as physically far apart as possible. There’s a flower on the bed from housekeeping, and the white sheets are so luxurious I throw myself on them and temporarily forget the problems which make sleep unlikely.

  I kick off my jeans and reach my arms into something white and bohemian with a pair of strappy sandals. Kent is reading the paper in the living room when I walk in. He’s still in the same black blazer and slacks. He looks up at me with intensity. He obviously doesn’t know how to chill, and I wonder what it would take to snip the rubber band tied tightly around him.

  “Any meetings tonight?” I sit myself on an empty seat in the same room as him and cross my legs. His gaze draws in even tighter.

  He scrubs the back of his neck as though concentrating on whatever he is reading or thinking.

  “Good.” I walk to the front door. “Then I’m going out.” I step out into the humid air.

  Which way? I bite my lip. If my memory serves me correctly, the right had more people around. I follow a path lined by waxy-leafed bushes with pink azaleas when footsteps approach.

  I look back. Kent’s still in the black pants, but he’s ditched the blazer, and the white V-neck he had on underneath calls attention to his tanned skin. He looks more severe in the night when shaded by moonlight. He catches up to me, and I swallow, realizing he’s coming with.

  It doesn’t take long to find the beach, even though it seems like forever. Our silence could be sliced with a knife. But the tension around his eyes lessens as we follow the dark crest of the shore. I don’t know if it’s the setting or the repetitive movement that relaxes him. I wouldn’t exactly say he’s at ease. It’s hard to explain.

  “You never smile, you know,” I say, more as an observation.

  Then something surprising happens. His plump lips start to curve up at the corners, and it looks good on him. It changes his whole face. The jagged mountains of his cheeks turn into rolling hills. The lines soften on the side as his lip cocks slightly more. It makes my skin prickle and become more sensitive to the breeze.

  “Is that so?”

  Wow, is all I can say. It’s like he’s another person, and I can’t deny it’s attractive.

  “Yep, you pretty much never smile. It’s disturbing, really.” I let in a breath of salty air. His eyes even twinkle, like the moon.

  “Guess I forget.”

  It’s dawning on me how young he looks, or is. He’s the youngest artistic director in the history of the company, probably any company. And it’s very apparent right now. And the fact that it makes me less intimidated is a relief, especially since I am here with him in this strange situation.

  “Smiling is not something you should have to remember to do; it kind of happens all on its own.” I smile myself and then tilt my head away. My gaze hits the shore. It’s lit up and dark blue.

  I go to undo the strap on my sandal, but lose my balance. Maybe this realization about the person I’ve been so intimidated by decenters me. I didn’t know a smile could do that to you. But it isn’t just a smile. His whole being opened, and he became human. I nearly fall back into him. Just because you’re a dancer doesn’t mean you aren’t clumsy.

  He helps me back onto my feet. The look on his face changes back to the old Kent Morgan. Tight. Hard. Pensive. His fingers lift off of me. He’s not smiling anymore, but I don’t think I am either. There’s only the distant sound of water lapping as I manage to undo the straps of both of my sandals and let my toes sink into the sand.

  “God, I needed that,” I say, and it sounds more orgasmic than intended, even if it is. Plus, I did live on the Pacific Ocean for many years. Sinking my bare feet into the sand had become a way of life. It’s so de-stressing—it was one of the first things I did after my mom passed—and it has been too long. His eyes shade darker in the twilight. There’s silence again, and I don’t know how to deal with it. So I walk down to the part of the beach where the sand is packed hard and damp under my feet.

  “You didn’t take off your shoes,” I say to him, and he looks like he is thinking about it, which is endearing. And when he does, it’s worth it, because that open quality comes back to him. He’s young again. It’s like he’s shed ten years of armor, and I barley recognize him.

  I am hyperaware of him as he stands next to me. We both look out over the miles of frothy ocean. There is something about being around him. Something about how vulnerable he makes me. I could be wearing a snowsuit and I would still be exposed, and to think I lay down my barriers and dance for him every day. Though sometimes I am convinced that you can hide behind movements too. He stands up, and our fingers accidentally touch. I clasp my hands, and he looks at me like he wants to tell me something.

  “I understand your drive,” he says. His eyes are dark, and the side of his jaw that faces away from the moon is shaded. “You worked hard for this.” There’s an ominous tone, which was not what I was expecting or hoping for. The armor is back. He looks out over the dense horizon. Since when did motivation become a dark thing? I watch him. He’s distant again. I want to tell him that we can just leave—if that’s what he wants. That Charles can’t control him or us. Though that seems wishful.

  He looks back at me. So much is veiled in his eyes, and so much more is to be said, so many more layers removed. I don’t know what it is or how to say it. Maybe it’s just this place, and being so far away from everything, that matters. Londyn said she never left Manhattan, and I can see her point. The buildings aren’t nearly so tall from here.

  “We should get back,” he says, and something wilts in my chest; it’s like I need to repair something, but I don’t know what it is yet.

  13

  I wake up in a sweat. I couldn’t s
leep thinking about what happened my last year with Raina and what the doctor told me. When I finally did fall asleep, I had crazy dreams. My pajamas are soaked, and I wonder if the air conditioning is on. I change into a pair of shorts and find my way to the nearest coffee machine. Coffee in hand, I walk the path to the beach, put the mug down, and start to run to the air, the waves, the chatter of birds, and the morning sun.

  I perform a few sun salutations, then tuck my chin to my chest for Pilates one hundreds.

  Kent is waiting when I return. He’s got that cologne on. But the look on his face is serious, ten times multiplied.

  After a shower and quick change, we drive into a gated harbor. There are people gathered on the dock beside a shiny white monstrosity set against the kind of aqua water that makes you believe in God if you didn’t before. I rub my eyes.

  We are instructed to take off our shoes. A pile of twenty-odd pairs of what could be Farragamos are littered on the concrete float. A handsome Filipino man in a white polo shirt and shorts helps me aboard. The inside is a sea of white fiberglass, leather, and teak. Kent presses his warm hand flat to my back. But it doesn’t last long before he removes it.

  Charles shows up with dewy skin and dressed straight out of Martha’s Vineyard.

  “Anderson.” Kent sucks in a breath, and Charles turns to me.

  I’m not sure what happens next. But Charles nods. “Come, there are people who want to meet you.”

  I look back at Kent, who’s predictably tense.

  “I’m sure they would rather meet Kent Morgan,” I say.

  Charles, wearing a genteel smile, introduces us to select guests and tours us around his yacht without sacrificing one polite introduction.

  I look back at Kent, whose eyes are on jagged alert. Maybe he’s out of his element too. Like a boomerang, since last night his face has gone from extreme tension to relaxation and back again.

  “This is my first time on a yacht. My first time in the Caribbean too.” I walk cautiously next to Charles in my bare feet.

  “So many firsts.” Charles smiles and pats my back. Kent’s jaw ticks. I look his way, because his focus has remained on me. A man in a white polo shirt and boat shoes offers us prosecco, and Charles toasts us both before making an announcement.

  “It’s my honor to introduce my special guests today: renowned choreographer and artistic director of the famous Driven Dance Theater, Kent Morgan, and his newest discovery, Branwen O’Hara.” Charles clears his throat and Kent presses his lips into a tight smirk. “We have big plans for this innovative dance company, don’t we, Mr. Morgan?” He lifts his glass to Kent and I, and I lift mine back up to him because it seems like the polite thing to do.

  When I look at Kent, his eyes burn into mine. He pulls a glass from his lips and looks over his shoulder. Charles is watching, and Kent’s eyes narrow. He tips back his drink and throws a look in Charles’ direction.

  “Enjoying?” Charles clears his throat. I can’t take my eyes off Kent ever since the smile last night; he’s become so much more complex to me.

  “Immensely.” Kent glares at me.

  “Wonderful,” I say. Though I’m sure there are question marks in my eyes.

  “Great.” Charles clears his throat, and Kent and I break eye contact. “Because I forgot to show Branwen my favorite part of Drusilla.” He smiles and holds out his hand for me. I place my hand in his palm, because I’m supposed to.

  Charles leads me through a back section filled with a small kitchen, and then down a set of stairs. Kent’s eyes are on me.

  He steps back so I can walk ahead, and smiles when I turn around. I’m trying to figure out what he wants to show me, and who Drusilla is.

  We pass a large room with a bed and a nautical themed duvet, and my neck tenses all the way down to the fingers squeezed into his palm. We keep walking past a few more closed doors. I expect a lady named Drusilla and dressed in sequins to magically step out and open one. At the end of the short hall, he stops in front of a large painting, which I recognize, and I chalk up any of the dark thoughts I might have had to paranoia. What did I think? That he was going to jump me once he had me alone, or that he would have me play out a warped fantasy with Ms. Drusilla? Please. These things don’t actually happen in real life, do they? I let out a breath. He looks at me, and I let out a nervous laugh. When Lexi said this company is so going to corrupt you, I guess she wasn’t referring to sleeping your way to the top after all. Sheesh.

  The painting is a Mondrian and comprised of stark white, like the walls at Driven, in contrast with sharp black lines. “Incredible,” I say. And now I get it. This is the painting that inspired the piece that first brought Kent Morgan to the public eye.

  “You didn’t have anything to do with Kent’s original work, did you?”

  Charles smiles. “That’s a long story.” I sip on my bubbly drink, which is almost gone. “But one worth hearing.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I say.

  “I would be happy to fill you in over dinner.” He looks at the painting as though deep in thought and changes the topic. “Tell me about your aspirations.” He gives me his full attention, and I sense this is my opportunity to explain why I should be well cast in the next production.

  “Thank you for asking.” I pull in a breath. Charles’s chest lifts as he inhales. “You’ve probably guessed that working with Kent has been the greatest opportunity of my career. And believe me, I’m aware that I am new to Driven. However, I was a principal dancer with a well-known company before Mr. Morgan hired me.” I let out an awkward laugh and lick my lips, dry from nerves. “And…” I pause for air. “I understand his work; I even feel like I was born to bring it to life. You know when something just clicks?” I let out a breath. “I’m gushing,” I laugh at myself. “It’s just that it’s hard to explain, and I might not be the best with words.”

  “That’s why you dance.” He smiles.

  “Perhaps, but what I am trying to get at is it’s a huge privilege to be in this company. Kent Morgan—need I say more?” I look at him; he’s intrigued. “I’m sure you played your part in that…” I am getting a little into this when I notice Kent standing behind us, watching in that intense way he does. He cocks a brow in my direction, and shit, he even smiles. My face feels like it’s been doused with gasoline and set on fire.

  “Charles was just showing me Mondrian.” I lower my lashes. “And he asked about my aspirations.”

  My eyes slice into his before Kent’s eyes take mine.

  “And… Charles invited us for dinner. It would be an opportunity to fill him in on everything we’ve been doing in the studio.” I cough.

  “Right, yes, just let me call Paul and tell him we have another guest.” Charles pulls out his phone and then disappears. Kent and I are left to stand in silence. He hasn’t moved his protective gaze from me, which ironically makes me feel weak. Charles returns.

  “I tried, man,” he sighs, “but the cook is temperamental. He’s lucky to be the best chef on this half of the continent, or I’d have stripped him of his stars and ensured him a future of shucking oysters ages ago. Anyway, he’s stuck on it being a two-plate dinner.” Charles presses his lips together, and Kent’s jaw muscles flex. “Next time, buddy.” Charles shoots Kent a flat smile and turns to me. He places his hand on my shoulder. “See you tonight: we’ll finish our chat. You two enjoy the rest of the cruise.” He makes his way up the white winding stairs.

  “We’re leaving.” Kent nods for me to walk ahead. He’s not happy. I’m not sure what I did, exactly.

  Two men in sun-bleached whites escort us off the vessel when it docks. I notice the black writing on the white yacht: Drusilla. Now I get it. I chuckle to myself in relief. We both do up our shoes. I say my quick goodbyes, while Kent looks annoyed. We walk down the promenade and into the yacht club parking lot. He opens the door to the passenger seat of the car. I slip my legs in when he shuts the door.

  Kent’s eyes are on the road as we drive away from the mar
ina. His knuckles whiten over the stick. I lean my head back into the seat and sneak a glance in his direction.

  He smirks to himself. It’s tight this time. I’m not sure what his problem is. Charles seemed nice enough, for a rich eccentric.

  “So, let me get this straight. Is Charles the reason Driven has a budget that blows all other companies out of the water?”

  “There is only one reason this company is where it is.” Kent curls his lip as he looks straight forward. It seems I’ve said the wrong thing. He shifts gears, making his bicep bulge. He is extremely beautiful when he’s brooding, not just when he is smiling. And there’s no denying it anymore: my attraction to him grows stronger every day. I don’t want it to—he is my director—or even believe it possible. And it isn’t just about his perfect physical expression; it’s much deeper.

  “We are here because everything successful in this world eventually becomes a corporation that has absolutely nothing to do with making art, but the reason—there is only ever one reason—which occurs before everything becomes a distorted projection of… ego.” His eyes are fixed on the road.

  Deep. I get it. He’s choked about the money folks always calling the shots. It’s a constant issue, and Driven seemed to take it to a new level. But there’s more. There has to be. Then again, I’m getting tired of his cold and cryptic routine.

  “Look, it wasn’t my idea to come on this trip, so you don’t have to make it so obvious that you wish I weren’t here.”

  I let myself out of the car the second it comes to a full stop and fumble with an electronic key on the front step to the villa.

  “Branwen.” Kent jogs up the steps behind me.

  I ignore him, push open the door, and head straight to my room. I need to think.

  Kent is right: this is bullshit, starting with my director’s mysterious persona and the mixed signals. I walk on eggshells to be whatever it is that he expects me to be. I guess that’s normal, but in his mind, I can’t even meet a board member properly, even though I tried my best to be gracious and polite. Then he goes and looks at me like that, as if we’ve both been stripped bare. I promised myself after Raina that I would never let another director manipulate me again. But this is Raina all over, just different.