Free Lead and Follow by Katie Porter Page A

away.
    “No, I don’t think so,” she said softly. Although the reasons were becoming hazy, especially as Dima ran his gaze over her.
    Rather than press, he shrugged with a suit yourself frown. “Take five, chères .”
    Dima met Lizzie in the middle of the practice floor. He handed her a water and closed tense fingers over her shoulder—just where Remy had kissed. Intentional? He’d locked down his hot-as-fucking expression. Hard to think she could know so little about him after fifteen years.
    “Nice work,” he said with frustrating nonchalance.
    Where had that growl gone? The one when he’d stolen her from Remy and the one he’d pressed between her breasts at the song’s conclusion?
    “Thanks.”
    “How’s the knee?”
    Lizzie glanced down, as if she might see visible proof of what she assessed from the inside. It didn’t feel bad, only…a little underused. Physical therapy was doing its job, which included stretches and strength training—not lightning-fast steps. She had a long way to go, but this had been a delicious start.
    “Not too bad. I think I’m done for today though. Sally will have my head if I come in worn out for my appointment.”
    Dima stood too close, breathing through his nose. “I’ve missed your laugh, little one.”
    He touched her cheek before backing away, clearing his throat. Lizzie only watched, mouth agape, as he stalked back to his duffle.
    God, he was messing with her head. Something was working behind those mesmerizing eyes. Maybe he meant to show poor, injured Lizzie how good settling could be. Fun was fun, and grinding against Dima’s hard thigh had certainly been that. However, it wasn’t her career. Their career. If he wanted to call it quits on the circuit, he’d do it without her. No way was she washed up at twenty-eight.
    But to tour without Dima? That thought sent shivers up her back. She took a quick gulp of water.
    She stayed, though. As Remy put Dima and Jeanne through their paces for another hour, Lizzie sat back and nursed disquieting thoughts. Although she was tempted to join in again, she’d made her point—and got herself worked up in the process. The sex vibe angling between her and Dima since the evening before was crossing her mental wires.
    He and Remy started into a good-natured shouting match. Lizzie had studied Russian since her fourteenth birthday, when she realized that Dima and their Kiev-born coach were talking about her. A smattering of French and German had come later—the languages of the international dance community. She was busy laughing along with their insults when Jeanne threw up her hands.
    “I’ve had it!” She grabbed her bag and stomped out of the room.
    Remy shook his head. “She ain’t gonna last.”
    “I wouldn’t either with you two sniping at me,” Lizzie said.
    “I doubt that, chère . Enough for today though, non ? Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. My mama would be heartily displeased if she learned I spent the morning grinding with you folks rather than making confession.”
    That made Lizzie laugh, easing some of her anxiety. She waved goodbye to the Cajun and caught Dima’s arm on the way out. He didn’t break stride as they walked down the central corridor. Declan’s apartment took up the west side of the second floor, with the practice rooms just opposite.
    “When do you perform this one?” she asked.
    “Two weeks. Friday night opening.” His eyebrows pinched into a frown. His concentration face. “I don’t think she’ll be ready. Too much ground to make up.”
    “Of course she will. She’s got you.”
    “Sarcasm?”
    Teaching a Russian teenager about sarcasm had taken a long time, and even still, he tended to miss more subtle jabs. “Not at all.”
    They were just coming to the steps when the exit door opened to reveal Paul.
    Dima pulled up short. Lizzie didn’t hesitate. She gathered the bartender up for a hug that stopped short of the bump and grind she’d practiced that afternoon.