Into Your Arms (A Contemporary Romance Novel) Page 4

  “Sara,” he murmured, and she pulled back.

  There was a pause.

  He started to apologize, but she shook her head.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Then she smiled and held out her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Nick. Sara’s a lucky woman.”

  He felt like a prick. “I’m not married, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not even dating anyone. I don’t know why I—”

  “Seriously, Nick, don’t worry about it. I hope you have a good night.” She smiled at him again. “Maybe you should give Sara a call.”

  The third Scotch seemed to hit him as he walked home from the bar, and he felt a little more than buzzed as he climbed the four flights of stairs and paused in front of his door.

  He stood there for a long time. Then he turned to look at Sara’s door, crossed the hall, and knocked.

  Chapter Three

  Sara glanced at the door and then at the clock. It was just after twelve, which was a little late for a visitor.

  It wasn’t likely to be Harry, who seldom came to her place. Emilio or another dancer friend might stop by at this hour, but they would have buzzed from downstairs unless they’d happened to arrive when another resident was coming or going, which at midnight wasn’t likely.

  She pulled her feet out of the Epsom salt bath, stepped on the towel laid out beside it, and padded silently over to the door to peer through the peephole.

  It was Nick.

  An electric feeling went through her. She was in a cotton camisole and pajama bottoms, which was more than she’d been wearing the first time they’d met but still wasn’t exactly—

  “Sara? Are you in there?”

  Unless she was planning to tiptoe away and pretend she wasn’t, she had no choice but to open the door.

  Which she did. “Hi.”

  He was dressed casually in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. Casual looked good on him—but then everything did.

  There was also something bright—not to say glassy—about his eyes that told her he’d been drinking.

  The other tip-off was the way his gaze drifted down to her chest. She remembered how careful he’d been to look at her face when she’d been in her bra the other day, and she knew that a sober Nick wouldn’t have looked at her body so openly.

  She cleared her throat. “Is everything all right?” she asked, and his eyes lifted to meet hers again.

  “Yep. I just came by to return your thermos.”

  She glanced down at his empty hands. “Are you hiding it somewhere?”

  “Am I…” He blinked. “Oh. I forgot the thermos, didn’t I?”

  “It would appear so, yes.”

  He looked so adorable and sexy standing there in her doorway. And the way he was looking at her made her knees feel weak.

  No good could come of this late night encounter. He was definitely a little sloshed, if not actually drunk. The responsible thing to do would be to say goodnight pleasantly but firmly and send him home to his own apartment.

  He leaned against the door frame and slid his hands into his jeans pockets. “I don’t suppose you have any more of that iced tea?”

  He looked so boyish as he asked the question that she didn’t have the heart to send him away. Besides, the tea would help him hydrate after the alcohol. She’d be doing a good deed.

  Which was the only reason she took a step back and opened the door wider. “I can probably scrounge you up a glass. Come on in.”

  She closed the door after him and headed for her kitchen. She thought he’d take a seat on the couch, and was surprised to find him right behind her when she closed the refrigerator door and turned with the pitcher in her hands.

  She almost dropped it, but Nick was there to steady it with one hand underneath and the other on the handle, covering hers.

  The contrast of his warm skin and the cold glass sent a dart of pleasure through her belly.

  “I’ve got it,” she said, her voice a little unsteady, but he didn’t move.

  She remembered that morning a few days ago, when he’d stood there after she’d taken her bags, just looking at her. When they were in each other’s space they seemed to get…stuck.

  Since he was somewhat inebriated, she figured it was up to her to get them unstuck this time.

  “If you could grab a couple of glasses from the cupboard over the sink, that would be great.”

  “Sure.”

  He moved away from her to open the cabinet, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She led the way into the living room and sat down on the chair, leaving the couch to him.

  She had Al Green on the stereo and the only light in the room came from her favorite lamp—the one with the stained glass shade. She was uncomfortably aware that the music and the soft lighting created an unintentionally romantic atmosphere, so she poured out the iced tea in as brisk and businesslike a manner as she could muster.

  “Here you go,” she said brightly, and Nick took the glass from her as he sat down on the couch.

  “Wow,” he said, noticing her feet for the first time. “You weren’t kidding about Swan Lake. It looks like you’ve been walking on broken glass.”

  That was one way to de-romance the mood.

  She tucked her feet under her, embarrassed. “Dancers have terrible feet. Don’t look at mine. I was soaking them when you came by,” she added, nodding towards the foot bath beside the chair.

  “Have you put this on yet?” he asked, picking up the tube of antibiotic ointment on the coffee table.

  “No, I—”

  “I’ll do it for you.”

  Let him touch her bruised, blistered, battered feet?

  “Um…”

  The chair was kitty-corner to the couch. Nick moved the coffee table out of the way, put his hands on the arms of her chair, and pulled it until she was sitting across from him. Then he held out his hands.

  After a moment she untucked her legs and stretched them out, letting Nick take her feet.

  “You really do suffer for your art,” he said as he squeezed a little ointment onto her left foot. She flinched instinctively when he started smoothing it over a blister she’d popped earlier, but his touch was so soothing that she relaxed.

  “I suppose so. But it’s no worse than what any other professional athlete has to deal with.”

  “Huh. I never thought of dancers as athletes, but you are, aren’t you? I have a friend who plays pro ball, and he says by the end of the season everyone’s limping through games. And when I boxed in college, I always felt a little beat up.”

  They were quiet for a moment, and she studied Nick’s bent head, his dark hair tousled and sexy-looking. His hands were big and warm and gentle, and little tingles of pleasure traveled up her legs as he rubbed the ointment into all her nicks and cuts.

  “How long will you be here?” she asked suddenly, and he glanced up. “I mean…in New York. You’re subletting, so I wondered. Are you planning to move here permanently, or—”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m only here for a few months, on a consulting project. After that I’ll be heading home to Washington D.C.”

  Don’t feel disappointed.

  “Oh. Well. How’s your project going?”

  “Not great.” He smiled wryly. “I’d rather not talk about work, if you don’t mind.”

  “Is that why you were drinking tonight? To unwind from a rough day?”

  His hands stilled for a moment, and she wondered if she shouldn’t have asked that question. Was it too personal? Of course the man was currently rubbing her feet, which was a fairly personal thing to do, but that didn’t mean she could ask anything she—

  “I was drinking to prove that I still can.”

  Okay, not the answer she was expecting. “What do you mean?”

  He took a Band-Aid from the box on the coffee table, placing it carefully over the popped blister on her heel.

  “The consulting job isn’t the only reason I came to New York. I’m also here for my brother.
He’s going through treatment for alcoholism.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s rough.”

  He opened another Band-Aid and put it on another raw spot. “He and I were always a lot alike. So when this happened…” He hesitated. “It’s making me look at some things in my own life. Including my drinking. I don’t think I have a problem with alcohol, but that’s what everyone thinks, right? So I stopped at a bar on the way home and tested myself out. I ordered three drinks, and then I came home.”

  “Does that mean you passed the test?”

  He’d finished tending to her feet but he still held them in his hands. Now he started massaging them almost absently, stroking his thumbs across the sensitive skin of her arches. A lovely, restless feeling bloomed inside her.

  “I don’t know. I guess so.” His hands moved to her ankles, and her stomach muscles tightened. “It was a dumb thing to do. I’d been spending some time with Kevin and I felt kind of…shaken. Maybe that’s the real reason I wanted a drink.”

  He looked up at her suddenly, and her face turned red. Would he be able to tell how much his touch was affecting her? “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I didn’t mean to come over here and burden you with my crap.”

  Of course he didn’t notice her reaction to him. He was focused on something much more important.

  “It’s not a burden,” she said. “You needed to talk, and I’m glad I was around.” She thought for a moment. “I didn’t go through anything as intense as what your brother’s dealing with, but I did get dependent on painkillers once, about ten years ago. I went to twelve step meetings for a while, and they helped me kick the habit. It was hard, though. Really hard. You should be proud of what your brother’s doing.”

  “I am. I’m incredibly proud of him. It’s just…tough. To watch him go through this. Growing up, I always looked up to him. He was always so successful at everything he did. Seeing him like this is hard.”

  His hands were moving again, sliding up from her ankles to the lower part of her calves. Her stomach clenched, sending flutters of pleasure through her whole body.

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t think people define success the right way.”

  Nick cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “Well…you said your brother was always successful, right? But that was only on the outside. Inside, he was unhappy. But now that he’s dealing with that, and dealing with his addiction, most people won’t see him as successful anymore. They’ll see him as a failure. But as a human being, maybe he’s more successful now than he ever was before.”

  Nick’s hands went still again. “Kevin said something like that,” he said slowly. “That underneath all his money and success, he felt empty.”

  “So even though he’s going through a rough time now, he might be in a better place.”

  “Maybe. It’s hard for me to see it like that, though.”

  He looked at her a moment longer before glancing back down at her legs. “Your feet are so small,” he murmured. His palms stroked downwards, over her shins, and then he wrapped his hands gently around her ankles.

  His grip tightened as he met her eyes again. The silence between them felt alive.

  His hands on her skin were warmer now, or maybe that was just her. Heat seemed to tease at her from every direction.

  She wondered what he was thinking. Did he feel the same wild desire that had taken hold of her, pulsing through her like a riptide?

  He’s drunk. He’s worried about his brother. He’s vulnerable.

  He’s only in New York for a few months.

  And I’m dating Harry.

  She had to say something to break the silence.

  “So…what about your parents?”

  He looked surprised. “My parents?”

  “I was just wondering if they were in New York, too. To help your brother.”

  He shook his head. “Our father passed away two years ago, and our mother…” he paused. “She’s out of the picture.”

  “Out of the picture?”

  “Yeah. She took off when we were kids.”

  Sara had a sudden vision of a young Nick, with the same black hair and blue eyes, calling out for a mother who wouldn’t come. Her heart clenched in her chest, but she was careful to keep her expression neutral. Nick, she knew instinctively, wouldn’t appreciate a big show of sympathy.

  “That sounds rough,” was all she said. “How old were you?”

  “Too young to remember her,” he said with a shrug. “I was two, and Kevin was five.”

  Only two years old.

  “What about your parents?” he asked, taking his hands away from her feet as he settled back in the couch. “Are you close with them?”

  She hoped he couldn’t tell how much she missed his touch. “Not really. My mother lives in Georgia with my aunt, and I see her once or twice a year. My Dad lives in Chicago and I hardly see him at all. We talk on the phone once in a while.”

  “They’re divorced?”

  She nodded. “Since I was nineteen.”

  Her parents weren’t exactly her favorite subject, and she hoped Nick wouldn’t ask her anything else.

  He studied her in silence for a moment. Then he leaned forward and trailed the tip of his index finger down her right leg, from her kneecap to her toes. “That’s enough about family for one night. What else should we talk about?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. She’d have to be blind not to see the invitation in those blue eyes. Her skin burned where he’d touched her, and all she could think about was how much she wanted to respond.

  But she couldn’t. All the objections she’d voiced to herself still held true.

  Somehow she found the will power to stand up. “Actually, I should probably get to bed. I’ve got class tomorrow morning, and…” her mind went blank, and she couldn’t think of an end to the sentence. She cleared her throat instead. “Thank you for…my feet.”

  He rose, too. “It was my pleasure.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” she said, walking towards her door and hoping he would follow. She’d gotten them up, which was a good start, but she needed to get him all the way out of her apartment before she’d feel safe from herself.

  “Why is that hard to believe?” he asked. He had followed her, and now he stood with his hand on her doorknob.

  “Because my feet are hideous.”

  He shook his head, his eyes holding hers. “You have the most beautiful feet I’ve ever seen.”

  Sara had gotten her fair share of compliments over the years. Some had been simple, some had been flowery. But this, for some reason, was the nicest thing any guy had ever said to her.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling at him.

  Now get the hell out of my apartment before I hit you over the head…again…and drag you to my cave.

  “I’m the one who should thank you. For letting me knock on your door at midnight and babble about my problems.”

  “Anytime.”

  Go. Now. Please.

  “Good night, Sara.”

  “Good night.”

  When the door finally closed behind him, she leaned back against it and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  It felt like the first time she’d breathed in hours.

  * * *

  In class and rehearsal the next day she felt exuberant, inspired, exhilarated. Her allegro sparkled, and each step in her adagio seemed to melt into the next.

  “Did you get laid last night?” Emilio asked as they were walking from class to the rehearsal studio.

  “Nope,” she answered with a grin, unable to greet the question with the eye-roll it deserved.

  “You don’t do drugs, so it can’t be that. What the hell happened to you? You could barely hobble out of the theater last night, and now you look like you’re floating on sweet clouds of bliss. Explain yourself.”

  She just shook her head. “My feet feel better today.”

  “What did y
ou use on them? That weird stuff Kat found in the herbal shop downtown?”

  She shook her again. And then, like a teenager who can’t keep her mouth shut about the cute guy she’d sat next to at lunch, she heard herself say, “Nick rubbed them last night.”

  “What?”

  They’d just arrived at the rehearsal studio, and Emilio’s voice echoed in the empty room.

  “Nothing else happened,” she added quickly, but Emilio was staring at her like she’d told him she’d quit New York Ballet Theater to join the Rockettes.

  “Sara. You never let anyone touch your feet. I’d actually be less shocked if you’d slept with him.”

  Sara started to answer, but at that moment Dani Haynes, their choreographer, came in—followed by an unexpected guest.

  “Hello there,” Miles Thackeray said with a friendly nod. “I hope you don’t mind if I observe.”

  “Of course not,” Sara and Emilio said at the same time, glancing at each other. Miles was the world-famous director of NYBT, and often dropped in on rehearsals—but usually with some advance notice.

  Sara could see that Dani was as surprised as her dancers were—and twice as nervous. Of course, the last time she’d seen them perform this duet they’d been pretty rotten. Hopefully they’d be on their game today.

  “Thank God we did all that extra rehearsal,” Emilio whispered to her as Dani talked to Miles about their progress and what she was going for with the piece. After a minute he interrupted her.

  “Yes, yes, that’s fine. What I’d like now is to see it.”

  “Of course,” Dani said, flustered. She glanced at her dancers, and then at the rehearsal pianist, who’d just arrived.

  Sara and Emilio took their opening positions and Dani nodded at the pianist, who began the Erik Satie piece Dani had told them she’d always dreamed of choreographing to.

  As soon as they began dancing, Sara knew the mojo she and Emilio had found that day at her apartment was still with them. The duet felt like magic, like first love, like transformation.

  Like joy.

  They held their last position a few beats after the last piano note had faded into silence, and then they straightened up and looked at Dani and Miles.