Dance: The Collected Series Read online

  “Oh my God!” I say, drawing her into another huge hug, the second in as many minutes. “I’m so freaking pleased for you!”

  And sure, this little studio isn’t halfway as prestigious as the Eldridge school, but helping other people is all Nat’s ever cared about. And I can’t even process the fact that it was Dylan who made it all possible ...

  “But what about your job at the restaurant?” I say.

  “I finally made my dream come true and told them exactly where they could shove it,” she grins.

  CHAPTER thirty-FOUR

  This is the house the way it should be. Tonight every seat at the huge dinner table is taken up by members of the Campbell family. They’re the kind of family I’d always wished for myself – noisy and loud, talking and shouting over each other, but full of love, too. It’s amazing to see them like this, and I actually feel accepted into a real family for what feels like the first time in my life.

  Dylan’s brother Spencer is just like he described – kind, caring and fiercely, scarily intelligent. I don’t know what he’s talking about half the time, most of it flying over my head, but even so I could listen to him talk all day, he’s just so interesting.

  Isabella meanwhile is as usual engrossed on her phone, so no change there.

  Dylan’s parents are fussing about; his mom clearly delighted to have all her kids back together again. She’s understated but expensive-looking, with the kind of delicate blonde highlights that must cost an absolute fortune, and demand weekly appointments at the salon. And his dad is looking great for his age; a George Clooney silver fox type. I can tell just where Dylan gets his looks from, and I mentally bank the information, pleased to know that Dylan is going to age just as well.

  And it’s all I can do to stifle a giggle when I glance over in the direction of Dylan’s cousin Violet and her daughter Chloe, as I think back about just how wrong I was when I saw that photograph of them.

  As James and his staff bring out our entrées, he catches my eye and gives me a wink.

  §

  After dinner, Gloria, Dylan’s mom, finally snaps at Isabella. “Bella! Get off that phone. You’ve been on it all day, as far as I can tell! Surely it can’t be that interesting? We’re all here together. That hardly ever happens. Isn’t that the most important thing?”

  “I guess,” says Isabella, throwing her phone onto the table in annoyance then giving her mom one of her signature eye rolls.

  Then Spencer joins in. “Come on, Isabella. When are you gonna care about something other than yourself and mindless celebrity gossip. There’s a whole world out there, you know ...”

  Next even Dylan gets involved, asking, “So? Have you decided on a major yet?”

  It seems like ganging up on Isabella like this is a family pastime.

  “Actually, Dylan?” she replies, straightening in her chair and looking him square in the eyes. “No I haven’t decided on a major. In fact, I’m leaving Brown at the end of this term.”

  “You’re doing what, young lady?” Gloria explodes, now white-faced with shock. “All that extra tuition! All the strings we’ve pulled to keep you there after you nearly flunked out! And you can’t even stick it out for one more year?”

  “I’ve never been happy there, Mom,” Isabella says quietly. “I never even wanted to go there in the first place. I only went because it was your Alma Mater.”

  Now their father, Bailey, joins in: “I hope you don’t think you’re going to sponge off us now?” he bellows. “You do remember that finishing college is a condition of your trust fund, don’t you?”

  And before she can even answer, Gloria joins in again despairingly. “We didn’t raise you to be a socialite, you know? That’s not what this family is about.”

  I look over at Isabella, and it’s clear that she’s enjoying this. She’s enjoying letting everyone work themselves into a frenzy before finally, in a small, quiet and calm voice, she announces, “I’m moving to London in the fall. I’ve got a place at RADA. As in, The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. As in, the best drama school in the world.”

  The whole family looks stunned, and the huge dining room is plunged into silence for a moment.

  “Acting?” says Dylan. “You’ve never mentioned that you wanted to act before ... I didn’t know you could act.”

  At this, Isabella shrugs and then a smile flickers at the corners of her glossy lips. “Ask Julia,” she says, nodding in my direction. “She helped me with my audition piece ...”

  The whole family’s eyes turn on me, and I swallow back my nerves.

  “She’s good,” I say timidly. “Really good.”

  Everyone looks totally taken aback, like they can’t quite take the information in. Apart from Isabella of course, who’s already back on her phone, texting away happily, as if nothing out of the ordinary has even happened.

  §

  That night, we go to bed, but not to separate bedrooms. Instead, I’m up here in Dylan’s room, both of us climbing beneath the sumptuous white cotton sheets like any normal couple. And maybe I’m a little giddy after all that good food and wine, but I just have to say it.

  “Dylan, I’m so happy. I love being here, as part of your family, as your ... you know, girlfriend. I think I was just protecting myself from hurt when I used to think that love was for other people. Because now I know I love you. I really do.”

  “I love you too, Julia,” he says without a moment’s pause, pulling me close to him, his hand cupping my chin, tilting my face to his, eyes blazing, skin glowing. “I feel exactly the same way. I don’t think I’ve ever let anyone get this close to me before, but I’m so glad I have.”

  I answer him with a kiss, my heart flooding with happiness, and for once in my life, for maybe the first time ever, things really do seem ... well, perfect.

  CHAPTER thirty-FIVE

  Three Months Later ...

  “Julia, are you ready?”

  The voice makes me jump, and I turn around startled to see Madame Lyon standing there in the doorway to my dressing room. I gulp. I don’t know if I am.

  “How long until curtain?” I say.

  “Five minutes.”

  I turn back to the mirror, just to give myself one final look over. I’m dressed in black leggings and a black leotard, my hair pulled back into a simple bun. My make up seems thick on my face; I’ve never properly worn stage makeup before and it feels like I’m plastered in it, but they’ve promised me that from the audience you can hardly even tell I’m wearing any. My gaze travels from my own reflection across to the huge bunch of roses and lilies, the open card reading: I’m so proud of you. D x, and I swallow back my nerves and push myself to my feet.

  “Julia,” Madame Lyon says softly, halting me in the doorway by gently placing her hands on both my shoulders and looking me square in the eye. “There’s no need to be nervous. I wouldn’t have chosen you to dance the lead if I didn’t think you could do it, you know.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling my heart flush with pride despite the nerves that are still crackling like sparks all through my body.

  And then I turn and follow Madame Lyon through the maze-like corridors of the theatre, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I feel a hand grab me by the shoulder and spin me around.

  To my shock, I’m face to face with Maurice Ryman, and since I last saw him, he’s really gone downhill: sweaty and unshaven, with dark circles underneath his eyes, his clothes rumpled. The whole look suggests that he’s been sleeping in his car.

  “Julia,” he says, grabbing my other shoulder too, the sharp smell of alcohol on his breath, making me wince, as he holds me firmly in place. “I’m so glad I caught you. This whole thing’s been a dreadful misunderstanding. You know that, right?”

  I’m too shocked to speak, but it doesn’t matter. He continues babbling manically.

  “You’ll speak to Madame Lyon, won’t you? Tell her this whole thing was a silly mistake, just crossed wires, all in your head. Right?”

 
How fucking dare he.

  I can’t believe the nerve of this man. All in my head?!

  “You’re right,” I spit back. “There has been a mistake. I made a massive mistake when I didn’t realize from the get go just what a total slimeball you really are. And you are never,” I pull his left hand away from my shoulder, “ever,” I pull his right hand away, too, “touching me again.”

  He nods. And now he’s the one who’s been stunned into silence.

  “And what are you even doing here, Maurice?” I add. “Last I heard, you were dismissed.”

  Just then I hear Madame Lyon’s voice. “That’s right. He has been dismissed.”

  She must have heard the commotion. I look behind me and there she is, standing, arms crossed, a steely expression fixed on her face, glaring at Maurice as if he’s no better than the dirt on her shoe.

  Then her eyes meet mine and she smiles. “And don’t worry, Julia, he’ll be leaving, right this moment, before I call security.”

  She takes me gently by the arm, and begins to lead me back down the corridor.

  “Good work,” she says quietly. “I was worried that you might have let him get to you.”

  “No way,” I reply. “He’s not worth it. And anyway, I’ve got a really great teacher who taught me to believe in myself. And if she says I’m good enough to be here, then who am I to argue?”

  She pulls me in for a hug, but then a moment later lets go, checking her watch, her eyes widening.

  “Come on, there isn’t time!” she gasps. “A dancer must always be punctual, and you are going to be late!”

  We run past the other dancers, all warming up, past the costume girls and the lighting technicians, until we’re there in the wings, right by the very side of the stage.

  “Ready?” a stagehand asks and I give him a nod, then step out onto the large empty stage. The huge red curtain is still down, shielding me from the audience, but I can hear them, murmuring, waiting for the performance to begin.

  Just then, the stage lights dim to blackness, and the first long low note sounds from the orchestra, plunging the whole room into silence; the only sound now is the beating of my heart.

  The curtain raises, and from my position, there in the center of the stage, I can just about make out the audience. It looks like hundreds of people. And it must be. After all, tonight’s recital has completely sold out.

  I’m so proud of you.

  I can hear him speaking the words. And I just know he must out there, somewhere in the audience, rooting for me.

  A spotlight flashes on, illuminating me, and I stay fixed in position, waiting, my heart drumming.

  Another long, low notes sounds, and I remain completely frozen, waiting for my cue. And then it strikes – the first beat of the drums.

  A moment’s pause.

  And then I begin to dance.

  §

  “Julia, that was absolutely incredible,” Dylan says, bursting into my dressing room.

  I’m still sweaty and flushed after the performance, and I haven’t even had time to change or remove my makeup yet, but I don’t care. I jump up and throw myself into his arms, kissing him madly, happiness and excitement and relief all mixed into one incredible rush of feeling, so intense it’s almost like a drug.

  “You really liked it?” I say, my head still spinning, the whole thing feeling so unreal.

  It actually went okay! I really, really did it, didn’t I?

  “I loved it,” he says just as excitedly. “You were born to do this.”

  “Thank you so much for coming,” I say between kisses, still so glad that he was there to see my very first performance.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  “Hey,” I say, “give me a moment to get changed and then there’s so many people I want you to meet ...”

  “Of course,” he says, his face changing, growing serious for some reason. “But first, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Okay ...” I say, uneasily, pierced by a stab of worry.

  This doesn’t sound good ...

  He turns to close the door to my dressing room, shutting out the excited after-show chatter spilling in from the corridor.

  “You’d better take a seat,” he says, still in that same serious tone.

  This really doesn’t sound good ...

  I drop unsteadily into my chair by the mirror and Dylan drags up another chair so that he’s facing me. He takes my hand gently in his and looks me in the eyes. I can’t take much more of this. I just want him to say it, whatever it is.

  And then he does. And it’s not at all what I was expecting.

  “I want you to come to London with me.”

  At first I feel a rush of excitement, but then a moment later I’m crashing back down to Earth.

  “When?” I ask. “For how long?”

  “I’m leaving in a couple of weeks. I’m setting up the London office. It’s really happening. I’d be there for a year, at least. And I want you there with me, too. I know this is your big night, and I don’t want to take any of the focus away from that. But I’ve been warned that there’s going to be a big announcement about the deal in tomorrow’s papers, and the last thing I’d want is for you to find out second hand. So? What do you say?”

  “Oh Dylan,” I say, feeling my heart begin to pound.

  Am I really about to say this?

  Because I know this decision is about to break my heart. After all, we’ve only just found each other, and found out what we can be to each other when we stand together as equals. But if I follow him halfway across the world? We won’t be equals, will we? I’ll just be some trophy girlfriend, maxing out his credit card on Bond Street, staving off my boredom with designer clothes and fancy facials.

  I’ve learnt what love is. But I’ve also learnt who I am, too. And I know the only way that this will work is if I stay true to myself and to my dream.

  I feel broken inside, as I know just what I have to say next:

  “Dylan, I can’t.”

  There’s this dreadful silence that feels like it lasts forever, and then he just nods, like he knew that that was what I was going to say all along.

  “The school,” I explain sadly, fighting back the tears, squeezing his fingers so tight, trying to make him understand just how important this all is to me. “I’ve still got another two years left here. And I just can’t throw that all in now. I’m so sorry. I wish I could but ...”

  And then the strangest thing happens, throwing me once more into silence and confusion. Because he smiles, his eyes flashing with a mischievous glee.

  “Why the hell are you smiling?” I say, feeling tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “You’re moving to London. It’s over. We’re breaking up. What is there to smile about?”

  “I’m smiling because I thought that’s what you might say,” he replies, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and drawing out a cream colored envelope.

  He hands it to me.

  “What’s this?” I say, my head spinning.

  “Why don’t you open it and see.”

  I tear open the envelope with shaky fingers. Inside are three sheets of folded paper. It looks like some kind of official business document, some kind of ...

  “It’s a contract,” he explains, his smile growing even wider. “Read it.”

  I start to read, my eyes scanning quickly down the page. He’s right. It’s a contract, kind of like the one he first drew up for me. Only as I read, I realize that this contract isn’t about what I have to do. This is a contract for him.

  A few lines in particular jump out:

  The undersigned agrees to call Julia Tate every single day on the phone.

  The undersigned agrees to ensure that his private jet is on standby at all times so that Julia Tate may visit him in London, England whenever she wishes.

  Both parties agree that they shall see each other every weekend, either in London or New York.

  “Oh my G
od, Dylan,” I say, totally taken aback.

  I leaf through to the final page, where he has already signed his name. And below that there’s another dotted line, waiting for my own signature.

  “Well?” he says. And now he’s the one looking nervous, as he waits for my reply.

  I let him stew for a moment, just to give him a taste of his own medicine. Then I say it.

  “It’s a deal.”

  BOOK TWO

  Let’s

  DANCE

  Again

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER one

  “I’d pay a million dollars just to touch you right now,” Dylan growls, his voice tight with desire, sending a shiver of anticipation right through me.

  “I’m afraid, sir, you just aren’t allowed to do that,” I reply with a teasing shake of my head and a playful little smile.

  I turn away for a moment, swaying in time to the music, pulling the crisp white cotton dress shirt seductively upwards, slowly uncovering the black lace tops of my stockings, then a moment later the bare skin of my thighs. And then I give him just the quickest flash of my ass before I let the hem of the shirt fall down again.

  Pro tip: no matter how much you spend in Victoria’s Secret on sexy-ass lingerie, nothing will get a guy hotter than the sight of his girl wearing one of his own shirts.

  I spin back to face him. Damn. As always, the sight of him knocks the air right out of me. And now he’s looking even more flustered than before. He’s spread his legs spread wide, so that I can see the bulge of his rock hard cock straining against the confines of his tailored suit pants, that hungry look of desire I know so well blazing from his jet-black eyes.

  There’s this feeling I get, when I look at him and I know I’m turning him on; well, it turns me on, too. It’s like this crazy vicious circle of lust and it feels like it’s about to explode and take both of us with it.