Page 14 of Lovers' Dance

Dante, my sweet Dante, wouldn’t let me. We’d been friends forever, used to talk about how we would take the world by storm, how we would be classed as two of the top ballet dancers and people would line up to see us perform. Dante could’ve done it; he was exceptional, literally embodies beauty when he performed. He was becoming extremely well known beyond the New York circuits, held so much promise, but he gave it all up for me. I remember that night we were going to the movies, and he suddenly hugged me tightly and said, if they wouldn’t take me, then they couldn’t have him, that we would go somewhere else where I could achieve my dream. And the decision had been made to move here because of my ties to England. Turned out things here were exactly the same as the States. That was a little over three years ago.

We decided to start our own ballet company. Fuck the haters. We wanted people, any colour but especially black, to have the opportunity to learn ballet, to not be excluded because you weren’t white or you’re expected to stick with sports because that’s what black people are good at. We integrated all different types of dance into our choreography, to show our dancers it doesn’t have to be just one, but that all dance is beautiful. And everyone with the ability, no matter your race, can live their dream of dancing. At least that’s what we’re working towards. Geoffrey Kincaid had helped us buy this place, had sorted out the legalities to help us realize our goals. He never charged us a penny, saying my dad would’ve done the same if their roles had been reversed.

I broke out of my trip down memory lane and focused on now. If we had to raise the fees, many of the poorer kids who took dance lessons would have to give up. I didn’t want that to happen.

“I’ll tell her no this time. You’re right. I can’t afford to send her more money,” I finally said.

Dante didn’t respond. He gave me a resigned look and rubbed my shoulders. It was more than apparent he had no faith in me turning down my aunt Cleo. Most of the money I inherited had been sunk into this place. I owned my small terrace, but the unhealthy status of my bank account had me toying with the idea of selling the place. I could convert one of our storage rooms into a living space. Nothing wrong with sleeping standing up. I didn’t really need a kitchen, did I?

“I’m working on something new,” Dante said. I welcomed his change of topic. Thinking of Aunt Cleo was depressing.

“Are you? Do you want my help?”

Dante pulled me into a quick friendly hug and my heart went pitter-patter. When would he fall in love with me? I was getting tired of waiting.

“You know I’m always better when we dance together.” He grinned at me and tugged on my ponytail. “I hate when your hair is straight. You rock your curls so well.”

I screwed my face up at him. “It’s called a Brazilian blow dry and it’s not permanent. I’ll be back to rocking a ’fro in a couple of months. It’s summer. My head gets hot.”

Dante laughed and smacked my ass. “You don’t got no real ’fro. Those curls of yours got slave master genes in them. ’Fro, my ass.” Then he got serious as he said, “Go get everyone back in here. We need to practice hard. Hopefully, we can generate enough buzz over this one to have people banging down our doors.”

I stepped away from Dante, my ass tingling. “Where are we dancing this time?”

“Hyde Park. I’m getting it set up. Don’t worry, Madi. We’ll be stars before you know it.”

I rolled my eyes and went to get the others. If only…

Matt was bringing his yacht into harbour. There was someone he paid to sail it, but he enjoyed handling the beast. He and his usual group of friends were having a short break in Saint-Tropez. He had needed a vacation, and the summer days always seemed brighter on the Riviera than in England.

“Matt. Oh, there you are, I’ve spent the last twenty minutes searching for you, darling.”

The bikini clad woman sauntering over was a beauty. A typical golden-tanned blonde, blue-eyed bombshell beauty. Everyone had great expectations for the both of them. Louisa Gilliford was wealthy, pampered and completely aware of the effect she had on men. Their families had been friends going back three generations, and Matt knew his parents were hoping he would finally pop the question to the only woman they felt suitable enough to carry the Bradley name. They had given up hope on his older brother, Adam, and were now focusing their attention on him. His sister, Hannah, the eldest, had done them proud by marrying the son of their father’s closest friend and extending the Bradley lineage with two terrors. Matt loved his teenaged twin nieces, but they were hard work. He felt Hannah’s marriage to Stuart seemed a bit incestuous. For Christ’s sake, they had grown up together. Then, again, Louisa had always been around, too, and he was currently enjoying everything she had to offer.

“Mwuah.” She kissed his cheek and dimpled up at him. He couldn’t see her eyes behind those ridiculously large shades.

“Louisa, did you change swimsuits?” His gaze wandered over her sun-kissed body. The black bikini looked good on her.

“Of course, darling.” She pulled her shades down halfway down her nose and winked coquettishly at him. “You were rough with the last one.”

Matt shook his head and chuckled. Louisa usually amused him. They’d been on and off over the last seven years, coming close to getting engaged once. Matt hadn’t been ready then; he doubted he was ready now. Yes, Louisa was fun, yet he was finding himself becoming bored of her company.

“What are you two lovebirds doing up here?” Nathan, Matt’s best friend, was coming in with his long-standing girlfriend, Bella, another sun-kissed beauty with her brunette hair high up in a bun and ridiculously large shades perched on her nose. Without the two of them here, Matt doubted he would have bothered arranging this mini-break.

“Please don’t crash this one, Matt,” Bella teased and he growled at her. Nathan clapped him on the back. “It’s true, mate. The paparazzi would love to get another picture of you destroying millions of pounds worth of nautical engineering.”

“Sod off.” Matt elbowed him back, then motioned for a member of staff to get the captain. He’d promised his mother to avoid any possible embarrassing media attention. Once the captain had taken over, they joined the others on the lower deck for drinks. The champagne had been flowing nonstop and the hired staff catered to every one of Matt’s guests’ needs.

“It’s getting worse,” Paul drawled as the engine of Matt’s latest purchase wound down. They were moored, but he was reluctant to go ashore right now. He enjoyed being on the water.

“What’s getting worse?” Louisa asked, topping up her suntan lotion. Matt went over to help. He was a gentleman, of course. Copping a feel was fringe benefits.

Paul gestured to the crowd of people up and down the port. “A lot more undesirables around than last time.”

Matt glanced over to the crowds. He didn’t notice anything wrong and pointed this out to his friend.

Louisa chuckled in delight. “Oh, darling, you don’t have to be PC. You’re amongst friends, and we’re all thinking the same thing. Really, darling, there’s nothing wrong with admitting the numbers of people who don’t need a tan are increasing. Marseille in my opinion is ruined. I hope St Tropez doesn’t end up the same.”

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