an eyebrow at her, still waiting for an answer to his original question. She nodded.
“Why not?”
“You can glam up. I remember how you like a big event.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been on the other side of the curtain,” she admitted.
“I’ll take you for dinner afterward,” he said impulsively. The idea of wining and dining her held enormous appeal—sitting across a small table from her, sharing good food and fine wine, savoring the flicker of candlelight on her beautiful face. So what if it didn’t mean anything and would never lead anywhere? It was a harmless enough self-indulgence, as self-indulgences went.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Maybe I want to,” he said before he could edit himself.
Awareness crackled between them for a heated moment as they locked eyes. It was the closest he’d ever come to declaring his interest in her. The memory of those few hot moments in the darkness behind The Gypsy Bar hung heavily between them. Maddy broke eye contact, her gaze sliding over his shoulder.
Reality washed over him, cool and undeniable.
You’re her friend, remember, idiot? She doesn’t want you looking at her like that or taking her out for intimate dinners or anything remotely romantic.
He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets.
“Maybe we should just have something at home,” he said.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
He bit down on a grim smile. Yeah, he was full of good ideas lately. Just full of them.
MADDY STRAIGHTENED her spine as she climbed the stairs from the Metro station at Place D’Opera in the fourth arrondissement later that evening. Cool night air rushed at her as they stepped from the warmth of underground. She took a moment to absorb their surroundings—the stately buildings, the brightly lit cafés, the art-nouveau streetlights, the well-dressed Parisians rushing past. She swiveled on her heel and caught her first glance of the soaring white Opera Garnier, home to the Garnier Ballet, with its sweeping colonnaded front and gleaming gold statues ranged along the roofline.
“I always forget how beautiful it is,” she said as she craned her neck.
Max smiled indulgently and she gave him a dry look.
“That’s the problem with you Europeans. You have so many beautiful buildings you take them for granted,” she said as he led her across the street to the entrance.
“The way you Australians take your beaches for granted,” he said.
She glanced at the facade again and her heart seemed to shimmy in her chest all of a sudden. A strange tension had been building inside her through the whole of their train ride. It took her a few seconds to recognize it: almost, but not quite, stage fright. She tried to shake it off, but the feeling persisted as they entered the foyer and were dazzled by the huge marble columns and elaborate gilt work.
She flashed back to the first time she’d performed here, five years ago. She’d been twenty-four, touring with the Royal Ballet out of London. It had been one of her first solo roles, and she’d sent Max tickets to see her dance. All night she had imagined him in the audience, imagined that she was dancing especially for him. She’d only found out afterward that his father had been ill and he’d been unable to make it.
She could feel him watching her and she forced a smile.
“Lots of memories,” she said.
“Yes. When I was growing up, it was always my dream to dance here,” he said.
A dream he’d never achieved, she knew. He started up the first flight of marble steps that would take them to the dress circle. She couldn’t help but notice the tide of feminine interest that followed in his wake like a vapor trail.
No wonder.
She’d been hard put not to stare back at the apartment, either, when she’d come out of the bathroom in her rose print dress to find him waiting for her. His crisp white shirt, black velvet jacket and waistcoat and charcoal wool trousers fit him to perfection. His clear gray eyes were set off perfectly by the shadowy stubble on his jaw.
On any other man, the velvet would be a clear signal to lock up the Judy Garland collection, but on Max it looked elegant and refined and just right. Very French. Very sexy.
She stared after him for a long moment, aware that she was stalling. For some reason, she was loath to take her seat and watch this performance. Which was crazy. It was one of her favorite ballets and the production promised to be lavish and spectacular. Anna would be dancing, and the rest of the company were all highly experienced, excellent performers. She and Max were in for a treat.
So why did she feel as though she wanted to turn tail and run?
At the top of the stairs, Max stopped to glance at her. His expression was quizzical. He was wondering what the hell she was hanging around for. She made herself move.
“You okay?” he asked when she joined him.
Again she forced a smile. “Of course.”
They ascended to the dress circle level and an usher guided them to their row. Max took her coat from her and folded it carefully over the back of her seat. She smoothed the skirt of her rose print dress and sat, concentrating on their ornate surroundings in the hope that her inappropriate nerves would dissipate.
They were surrounded on all sides by well-heeled Parisians and gawking tourists. The low hum of conversation filled the lush, velvet and gilt theater. She dropped her head back to admire the colorful ceiling painting by Chagall. She’d always liked it, although she knew many considered it sacrilege that a painter had been allowed to decorate such a historical theater with a quintessentially modern piece.
The sharp notes of the violinists readying their instruments made her start in her seat. The performance was about to begin.
Her hands found the arms of her chair. She gripped them hard as the lights dimmed. She could feel Max watching her, puzzled by her stiff posture and obvious tension. She knew she should reassure him, but the words stuck in her throat.
The orchestra launched the prelude, the violins leaping above the deeper notes of the bass and brass. The curtain trembled, then rose. She imagined the dancers poised in the wings, ready to perform.
Then, suddenly, the first dancers exploded onto the stage in a flurry of movement, leaping across the space in gravity-defying grand jetés. Two men and two women, dancing in perfect time, dressed in lavish, traditional costumes.
It was beautiful, compelling, stirring.
Maddy slid to the edge of her seat, eyes glued to the stage as she followed their every move. She saw the precision of their turns, the power of their leaps, the practiced skill in their lifts and pirouettes. She held her breath for them, tensed her muscles for them.
Then the soloists came on, one man, one woman.
Her eyes filled with tears as she tracked the graceful power of their dancing. The female lead spun
