"Roberts, Nora - Stanislaski 08 - Dance of Dreams" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

how he had been constantly, mercilessly demanding. There had been nights she had
curled up in bed, too exhausted to even weep. But then he would smile or toss
off a compliment, and every moment of pain would vanish.
She had danced with him, fought with him, laughed with him, watching the gradual
changes in him over the years, and still, there was an elusive quality about
him.
Perhaps that was the secret of his attraction for women, she thought: the subtle
air of mystery, his foreign accent, his reticence about his past. She had gotten
over her infatuation with him years ago. She smiled, remembering the intensity
of her crush on him. He hadn't appeared to even notice it. She had been scarcely
eighteen. He'd been nearly thirty and surrounded by beautiful women. And still
is, she reminded herself, smiling in rueful amusement as she stood to stretch.
The cat, now dislodged from her lap, stalked huffily away.
My heart's whole and safe, Ruth decided. Perhaps too safe. She thought of
Donald. Well, it couldn't be helped. She yawned and stretched again. And there
was that early class in the morning.
Sweat dampened Ruth's T-shirt. Nick's choreography for The Red Rose was
complicated and strenuous. She took a much-needed breather at the barre. The
remainder of the cast was scattered around the rehearsal hall, either dancing
under Nick's unflagging instructions or waiting, as she did, for the next
summons.
It was only eleven, but Ruth had already worked through a two-hour morning
class. The long, loose T-shirt she wore over her tights was darkened by patches
of perspiration; a few tendrils of her hair had escaped from her tightly secured
bun. Still, watching Nick demonstrate a move, any thought of fatigue drained
from her. He was, she thought as she always did, absolutely fabulous.
As artistic director of the company and as established creator of ballets, he no
longer had to dance to remain in the limelight. He danced, Ruth knew, because he
was born to do so. He skimmed just under six feet, but his lean, wiry build gave
an illusion of more height. His hair was like gold dust and curled carelessly
around a face that had never completely lost its boyish charm. His mouth was
beautiful, full and finely sculpted. And when he smiledЕ
When he smiled, there was no resisting him. Fine lines would spread out from his
eyes, and the large irises would become incredibly blue.
Watching him demonstrate a turn, Ruth was grateful that at thirty-three, with
all his other professional obligations, he still continued to dance.
He stopped the pianist with a flick of his hand. "All right, children," he said
in his musically Russian-accented voice. "It could be worse."
This from Davidov, Ruth mused wryly, was close to an accolade.
"Ruth, the pas de deux from the first act."
She crossed to him instantly, giving an absent brush at the locks of hair that
danced around her face. Nick was a creature of moodsЧvaried, mercurial,
unexplained moods. Today he appeared to be all business. Ruth knew how to match
his temperament with her own. Facing, they touched right hands, palm to palm.
Without a word, they began.
It was an early love scene, more a duel of wits than an expression of romance.
But Nick hadn't written a fairy tale ballet this time. He had written a
passionate one. The characters were a prince and a gypsy, each fiercely flesh
and blood. To accommodate them the dances were exuberant and athletic. They
challenged each other; he demanded, she defied. Now and then a toss of the head