Fever: A Ballroom Romance Book One

  Table of Contents

  Front Matter

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Rory’s once promising ballet career was destroyed by family tragedy and illness. She turned her life around and became a lawyer. Now at the start of her legal career, she lacks passion in her work and self-confidence in her abilities. But when she meets gorgeous, mysterious Russian ballroom dancer, Sasha, at a firm holiday party, her passions for life and dance are immediately re-kindled.

  Since being torn from his Siberian family as a child, Sasha’s life ambition has been to be world ballroom champion, a path he was destined for until his former partner pulled the plug on their partnership. She went on to win the world title, leaving him, without a partner equal in ability, forever in second place. The instant he lays eyes on Rory, he recognizes the depth of her passion and talent, and falls hard for her in more ways than one.

  But she also reminds him of great pain from his past. He must not only overcome his own demons but convince her to leave her demanding law career, and all that she has worked for in her adult life, to train with him full-time in order for their partnership – both on and off the dance floor – to work.

  This is part one in a continuing three-book series.

  ***

  Praise for writing by Tonya Plank

  Swan Lake Samba Girl (blog):

  “Tonya Plank is one of the blogosphere’s freshest, liveliest, least predictable, and most pleasing voices. Long may she samba!” Terry Teachout, author, All in the Dances: A Life of George Balanchine.

  “Tonya Plank [is] one of New York’s most precious assets…” James Wolcott, Vanity Fair online.

  Swallow (novel):

  “Hooks you from the opening pages with its breathless urgency and captures what it’s like to live in NY now, with money worries and ambition and myriad obligations breathing down your neck… give it a try.” –Vanity Fair Online, James Wolcott, January 15, 2010

  “Plank has a knack for combining philosophical opinions, hard-luck family stories, discount shopping triumphs, and gently slapstick humor into a book that makes readers laugh, think, and swallow hard in sympathy.” –ForeWord Reviews

  “Chatty and engaging. A great beach read.” Gotham Gal

  “I found it easy to read and finish this book, and I wanted to see what would happen in the end.” IndieReader

  “Unlike any novel I’ve ever read before, and I loved it from the first sentence to the last.” Blue Archipelago Reviews

  “…I was happy with the way the story turned out and delighted in watching the main character grow. I liked the message of the book also as I think it’s an important one for all of us.”– The Cajun Book Lady

  “Wow! This book was a revelation! Tonya Plank’s writing style is captivating and natural, Sophie is a very likable girl-next-door character, Swallow is truly a great surprise novel. would recommend it to everyone.” Ex Libris

  “Read it instead of seeing ‘Sex and the City.'” Christy Leigh Stewart (YouTube video)

  “Very unique and different, and a wonderful story that was a pleasure to read! I can’t wait to read more by Tonya!” Hanging Off the Wire

  “Essentially, Swallow is a coming-to-grips-with-who-you-are story. And it’s a good one.” Basil & Spice

  FEVER

  A Ballroom Romance

  Book One

  INFECTIOUS RHYTHM SERIES

  Tonya Plank

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and is not the author’s intent.

  Copyright © 2015 Tonya Plank

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address Dark Swan Press, 8721 Santa Monica Blvd, #335, West Hollywood, CA 90069-4507.

  ISBN paperback: 978-1-942289-00-5

  ISBN paperback: 1-942289-00-6

  ISBN Kindle: 978-1-942289-03-6

  ISBN Kindle: 1-942289-03-0

  ISBN Epub: 978-1-942289-06-7

  ISBN Epub: 1-942289-06-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906776

  Edited by Julia Ganis, Juliaedits.com

  Cover design by Marisa-rose Shor, Cover Me Darling

  For all the Latin ballroom dancers who, over the years, have inspired, entertained, intrigued, and captivated me.

  Chapter 1

  I first saw him at The Beverly Hilton. Witnessed him, is more like it. It was an early November holiday party thrown by my boyfriend’s entertainment law firm. I was secretly hoping I’d see some of the celebrities the firm represented. But no such luck. The room was filled only with boring lawyers. And, admittedly, I was one of them. I didn’t work at James’s firm, though. I’d just graduated from Hastings Law School in San Francisco and James wanted me to move down to L.A. with him. He was infatuated with L.A.

  Tuxedoed waiters had just brought us bowls of chocolate mousse. I nearly inhaled mine, hoping they’d soon open the dance floor. I’d been pretty bored for much of the evening, to be honest. James and Mitchell, the partner seated with us, talked of contract clauses and made veiled references to actors they couldn’t name to outsiders. Gossip isn’t really that fun when you don’t know whom it’s about, is it? I tried to make small talk with Mitchell’s wife, Cheryl, but we had so little in common. She spent her days getting beauty treatments, tanning, and lunching at places I was embarrassed to say I’d never heard of and well knew I couldn’t afford on my small-firm starting salary.

  I’d just swallowed my last spoonful of mousse, eyes focused on my empty bowl, when the chandeliers dimmed. Oh good, something was about to happen.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a lush male voice said over a microphone, “we have a special surprise for you tonight.” Whispers filled the room. “Before we open the dance floor, the current national ballroom champions would like to perform for you. First in the U.S. and second in the whole world, please welcome…!”

  I couldn’t make out the names, partly because they were foreign-sounding and partly because James’s deep voice continued to vibrate next to me. The man loved to talk.

  The room went dark for a few seconds. A low, pulsing drumbeat sounded from afar. James’s relentless baritone was really aggravating me. I smacked him on the arm. He jumped and I could see, even in the dark, his confusion.

  “Sorry, Rory,” he said with an embarrassed laugh and a shrug.

  I felt bad, and gently put my fingers to my lips, without turning toward him.

  The beat—from a conga drum—grew louder and closer. The spotlight shone down on a figure at the far corner of the floor. He wore form-fitting black clothing, his back
toward us. He moved his hips to the pulse of the drums, which was getting heavier and faster. He walked backward, toward the center of the floor, taking these tiny steps, placing one foot behind the other, rocking several times back and forth and circling his pelvis around.

  James said something in my direction, perhaps to me. But I was too mesmerized to pay attention to him. I nodded, figuring that would be answer enough for whatever he wanted.

  The faster the beat went, the faster the dancer moved his hips and pelvis, and the more quickly he got to the center of the room, taking those small steps. He soon stepped and shook with such speed, his body was a blur. He looked like an upright snake. I’d never seen anyone move like that before. Then I noticed a woman doing the same, coming from the other corner. She had long, platinum hair, tied back into a long French braid. She had large eyes, lashes that practically reached her forehead, full lips, and high cheekbones. Her dress was hot fuchsia, and seemed to be made almost entirely of mesh, save for two patches of fabric covering her nipples, and a bikini bottom. Wow, she had guts. That looked like a costume malfunction waiting to happen. And yet she was dancing with the same confidence as he, snaking toward him at the speed of light. Soon, they turned to each other and took long steps to meet in the middle of the floor, hips gyrating even more.

  He was the most intriguingly beautiful man I’d ever seen. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, had jet black hair, slicked back, slightly longish and ending about an inch below the nape of his neck, large dark blue eyes, a well-defined nose, sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. His spandex shirt had a wide, plunging V-neck, revealing very well-defined pecs. His skin was a glowing light bronze. He reached out and grabbed her, whisking her around, and, bending his knees, seated her on his lap. Now their hips rolled in unison. Instinctively, I sat up in my seat and straightened my back, elongating my spine and holding my arms out into the most elegant port de bras I could do, sure no one was watching me. When I did so I realized how restrictive my suit was. I’d danced ballet all throughout my childhood and teen years and once had dreams of becoming a pro. But wow, this looked so much more fun. Not to mention sexy. I squirmed in my seat.

  As I fixed on those dark, soulful eyes, it seemed like he peered right back at me, into me, his piercing gaze sending an electric current up my spine. But I knew very well he couldn’t see me. I’d known, very briefly, what it was like to be on a stage with lights shining down on you and how you’re unable to see anything in the audience. I knew this was what gave a dancer charisma, or that nearly impossible-to-attain thing called presence, that allowed the dancer to connect with the audience in a way that made it seem like he or she was dancing just for you. But in a nanosecond his intense expression lightened into a smile, revealing dimples that made him ooze with boyish charm.

  He suddenly straightened and gave his partner a swift little bop to her butt with his pelvis. This was apparently her cue to move, as she took off in a long-stepped, fast-footed snaky walk away from him. He followed behind her, his hip and pelvic movements so much fuller and sexier than hers. I felt like I was going to fall out of my chair, watching him walk like that. He caught up with her and grabbed her from behind. He then beautifully shadowed her with his body by wrapping one arm around her waist and, with the other, grasping her hand and holding it high above her head. Together they bent over at the waist, brushing their arms over and out, then lifted themselves up and arched back—way back—then down again, the whole time moving their hips and feet in these tiny circles, around and around.

  The drums stopped and the music changed to Spanish guitars playing slower, dramatic, gypsy-sounding music that soon sped up and began to take on a more playful bullfighter flair. My dancer slowly raised a large, red cape off the floor and held it high above his head. He arched his back and lifted his chest, making the shirt fall open even farther, revealing more of those bronzed pecs, along with major eight-pack abs. I could also spot the outlines of some kind of tattoo, which looked like it snaked all the way around his back, wrapping slightly around each shoulder.

  Hmmmm.

  Using only the strength of his right arm, he whirled that cape high above his head in a full figure-eight motion. It was like a flash of fire in the black sky. The material looked heavy and I thought he must be damn strong to be able to move it so fully and precisely like that with only one arm.

  As the music slowed, so did his arm. The cape came down and he tossed it aside.

  “Olé!” shouted one of the guitarists. The music sped up, and the dancer took a deep breath, lifted his chest, eyed his partner, and, with a vigorous snap of his fingers, went dashing toward her. When he met her, he whisked her into the air, her legs flying up and around him, before lowering her into a deep, dramatic dip. He was gentle, yet strong and precise. So trustworthy. After releasing her, he backed away, then ran back to her and did a huge turning jump high in the air, landing in a deep lunge, hand on his knee, chest up and out, a smug smile on his face. What an enormous, brilliant tour jeté! My favorite male athletic feat from ballet. What a truly endearing bravura show-off this guy was!

  Just then, the music changed into a soft, slow violin piece. Very romantic, and actually quite ballet-like. I loved it. I wanted so badly to stand up and dance with him, my legs ached. He slowly bent down and held out his hand. She took it and he lifted her, not to her feet but all the way up to his waist, as she spread her legs into a forward split. He made her look weightless, like she was walking on air.

  As soon as he set her down, she stood on one leg, lifting the other high in back of her, while he lunged onto one knee like he was proposing. I could do that arabesque penchée; I loved those in ballet. One thing I’d always had in class was hyper-flexibility. My years of dance training—my life before college and law school—flooded my thoughts. The dream I’d had to give up after Daddy died and I got sick. I felt my face get hot. The dancer rose to his feet and spun his partner around him, whipping her into multiple turns. Another step I could do in my sleep, and fast, very fast. I’d learned how to hold my head back and stabilize my equilibrium so I could spin faster, without spotting, like an ice skater. I found myself bouncing in my seat, I wanted so badly to get up and dance with him.

  He quickly pulled her into him as if he needed her, couldn’t live without her. What woman in that room didn’t want to be her? Then, he slowly dipped her, and she arched her back and reached away from him, lifting her leg high up behind him, pointing her toe beautifully for definition. But the most poetic step happened at the end, when he lowered himself to his knees and held his arms out as far as he could to each side, and she lowered her body, back first, draping herself over his shoulders. He rose and carried her, like Apollo and Terpsichore, or Romeo and Juliet.

  When she was back on her feet, she took a few steps away from him, and he followed her, longingly. When he caught up to her, he swept her up and carried her, cradle-like, offstage, disappearing into the same dark corner he’d emerged from earlier.

  The room was dark and heavy for several seconds, before the chandeliers slowly began to light up. The dancers again emerged from the corner, ran back out onto the floor, took a couple bows, then skipped off through a side door. There was an empty pit in my center.

  “You didn’t like it, Rory?” James asked me.

  “What?” His voice made me jump.

  “You’re not clapping, like everyone else,” he said, laughing and motioning about the room. People were really applauding.

  I guess I hadn’t joined them. I hadn’t even heard them. I’d been transported somewhere else. I didn’t even know if I could have moved at that point.

  “Oh yeah, yes, I did,” I muttered, not really wanting to talk, to be brought back to reality.

  “Well, don’t sound so enthused.” He smirked.

  I wondered where the dancers had gone, whether they were coming back. A blue funk began to settle over me as I saw myself back in our small house in Mebane, North Carolina, sitting at the table, reading over and o
ver again my letter of acceptance from the prestigious School of American Ballet to their summer program in New York City. A week later at that same table, Mom telling me no, I wouldn’t be going. Times were hard with Daddy gone, and I’d developed anorexia spectrum disorder. Moreover, I’d be transferred from North Carolina School of the Arts, a dance-oriented high school, which I currently attended—and loved—to a “normal” high school. I’d be with normal healthy people, and would go to college and use my brain because, “Contrary to what your father thought, women actually have them.”

  “Hey, hey, no talking business here!” an older man shouted, reaching behind James. He slapped the table so hard, it jolted me away from my memory, which wasn’t a bad thing, given it wasn’t such a great one. “Not at our holiday party!” he added, giving the table a smack with each word.

  “You’re so right, sir. I’m so sorry,” said James with a chuckle.

  I hadn’t realized he and Mitchell had even been talking. James’s constant voice was like white noise to me at this point. That nonstop talking was one of the first things that drew me to him. I was shy and with James I never had to worry about uncomfortable silences. The man laughed heartily. Mitchell grinned too. Then they all sat, silently. Lawyers didn’t always have a lot to say to each other that wasn’t law related.

  “Honey, you want another glass of wine?” James said.

  I’d already had too many, but I figured it would give James something to do. “Um, sure.”

  “Got it!” he said, nearly leaping out of his chair.

  “Okay, folks, now it’s your turn,” said a man on the microphone. I hadn’t even realized a small band had been setting up onstage after the dancers left. “I think you’ll like this one.” He sliced his hand through the air at his bandmates and they began playing Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon.”

  “What? Your boyfriend’s gone and left you all alone? I can’t believe that guy!”

  I knew the voice, and didn’t want to turn around. It belonged to Philip, a fellow associate at James’s firm, whom I’d met at a prior party, who really enjoyed talking in detail about watching nude scenes in various clients’ films—all of whom remained unnamed, of course—to determine whether the nudity clauses in their contracts were violated.