intimidated by the presence of the audience. A collective ‘ahhh’ went up from the rows of people behind Luis as they shuffled into position, sucking their fingers and looking out beyond the stage lights with huge, solemn eyes.
The music began—Dance of the Little Swans. Luis wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the clichéd predictibility of it, or weep for the protracted torment. Instead he arranged his face into what he hoped was an expression of appreciation and watched as the children raised their arms and began to bend their knees in a series of careful pliés.
One little girl at the back stood still, frozen in anguish. The other children rose up onto their tiptoes and pirouetted shakily, but the only movement she made was that of her wide, terrified eyes which kept darting to the safety of the wings. The girl next to her was unimpressed by her failure to perform and nudged her heartily in the ribs.
Laughter rippled through the audience. At the front of the stage the other children were stolidly going through their routine, pointing toes, making sweeping movements of their arms and casting occasional furious glances at their classmate at the back. Luis watched her. Maybe it was because he’d just been thinking about his little niece, but something about the girl onstage reminded him of Luciana, even though she looked nothing like her. No doubt a psychiatrist would enjoy explaining that it was just another manifestation of guilt. The child before him had shrunk backwards a little so she was standing outside the spotlight’s glare, but other than that she hadn’t moved, and from his place of honour in the front row he could see the glisten of tears in her eyes and the tremble of her bottom lip.
And then it struck him. It wasn’t just his tormented mind playing tricks on him; it was her attitude of patient suffering, of dignified misery, that reminded him of Luciana. He had seen the same expression on the face of his little niece, sensed the same silent anguish in her in the little time he’d spent with her, and it had made him feel every bit as helpless as he did now.
It wasn’t a good feeling.
A movement in the wings caught his eye. Keeping to the shadows, an older girl ran lightly across the back of the stage and dropped to her knees beside her. For a moment Luis was too relieved to register properly the narrow, very straight back, the glossy dark plait that hung heavily between her shoulder blades, but then she stood again and it was impossible not to notice the length of her extremely shapely legs encased in thick black tights.
She was wearing a short black skirt and a fitted T-shirt, emblazoned across the back of which were the words Pink Flamingo.
Ten months ago he had made a vow to his brother and buried his appetite for women and excess alongside Rico in the family vault on Santosa. Now Luis felt his dormant interest flicker almost painfully back to life. Leaning over to Tomás he whispered, ‘Isn’t the Pink Flamingo a gentlemen’s club?’
‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’
No, of course not. But Luis did, and he was intrigued to know what a girl who worked in a lap-dancing club was doing helping out at a children’s ballet show. Bending down, still with her back to the audience, the Pink Flamingo girl took the little dancer’s hand and whispered something in her ear. Relief spread across the small, pinched face as the older girl turned around and began to join in the steps of the dance.
Deus, she was stunning. Towering above the tiny children on the stage she looked every bit the haughty, graceful swan amongst a gaggle of fluffy, ungainly cygnets. Beside her the little girl who had looked so lost a moment ago was now smiling tremulously, growing in confidence and stature by the second.
He watched the precise movements of her slender legs, the upright set of her shoulders and head, and felt a prickle of unease at the back of his neck. Dragging his gaze upwards to her face he blinked, frowning suddenly and leaning forwards in astonishment and disbelief.
It was incredible…impossible…
It was Emily Balfour.
Chapter Two
‘EMILY—are you in there?’
Kiki’s voice echoed off the tiles in the gloomy ladies’ loo. Slumped against the door of the middle cubicle, Emily gritted her teeth to disguise their chattering and tried to sound normal as she answered.
‘Yes, I’m here. Won’t be a second.’
‘Well, make sure you’re not. You just got yourself a royal audience, honey. The prince is coming backstage and he’s specifically asked to meet you so you’d better get out here quick.’
Emily opened the door and looked at Kiki with huge, anguished eyes. ‘I can’t, Kiki. Really—I mean, I’m hardly dressed for meeting royalty and I’ve only worked here for a couple of months anyway so—’
‘Hey.’ Kiki’s kind face was creased with concern. ‘Forget about what you’re wearing. What’s wrong, baby? You look dreadful.’
A quick glance at her reflection in the mirror above the sink told Emily that Kiki was absolutely right. Her face, always pale, was now the eerie white of an extra in a vampire movie, a fact which was emphasized by the way her dark hair was held severely back in her plait. She attempted a wan smile. ‘Thanks. I’m fine. It was just being on stage…dancing in front of an audience, with the music and everything, and—’
Kiki made a sympathetic noise. ‘Nerves, eh?’
No, Emily was going to say. Not nerves. More an absence of nerves. An absence of anything. She was just going through the motions as if she’d been programmed—why couldn’t she feel it any more?
‘Anyway,’ Kiki continued a little breathlessly before she had a chance to speak, ‘the Prince was very impressed. He wants to meet you, and your dance group. I’ve got them all lined up on the stage, and they’re really excited so hurry up.’
‘OK, I’m coming.’ Emily ran her hands under the tap and splashed cold water on her face to try to bring some colour to her cheeks. ‘Which prince is it anyway?’ she said into the depths of the basin.
But it was too late. Kiki had already gone, and the only answer was the bang of the door behind her. Left alone, Emily stared at her reflection in the mirror, not seeing her pinched face but looking instead into the bleakness of a future without dancing. God, less than a year ago when she’d danced the part of Sleeping Beauty in the Royal Ballet School’s final production, no one would have been surprised at the idea of her meeting royalty backstage after a performance. But as a soloist at Covent Garden, not in the capacity of an unpaid teacher in a struggling community arts centre.
But that had been when she could dance. In the few brief, brilliant months when the technical skill she’d built over all those years of training had come together with something else—the indefinable, dangerous something Luis Cordoba had unlocked in her when his beautiful mouth had covered hers in the darkness beneath the trees.
She let out a long breath, turning away from the mirror and smoothing her T-shirt down. A lot had happened in a year.
She pulled open the door and went back to join the children. She’d kicked her shoes off when she went onto the stage and the rough parquet floor snagged at her tights as she hurried back along the corridor. Great, she thought despairingly. That was all she needed. She was so behind with the rent on her horrible bedsit that buying a loaf of bread felt like wanton extravagance at the moment. Tights were as beyond her budget these days as a designer ball gown.
She
