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

Despite herself, Ruth laughed. "What flavor?" she demanded and was pleased when
he gave her a blank look. "Yogurt," she reminded him. "What flavor yogurt,
Davidov."
In short order Ruth's arms were ladened with cartons of yogurt, spoons, glasses
and a large bottle of Perrier. There was the sound of chatter from the canteen
below her mingling with Nick's playing the piano from the hall above. She
climbed the stairs, exchanging remarks with two members of the corps and a male
soloist. The music Nick played was a low, bluesy number. Because she recognized
the style, Ruth knew it to be one of his own compositions. No, not a
composition, she corrected as she paused in the doorway to watch him. A
composition you write down, preserve. This is music that comes from the heart.
The sun's rays fell over his hair and his handsЧlong, narrow hands with fluid
fingers that could express more with a gesture than the average person could
with a speech.
He looks so alone!
The thought sped into her mind unexpectedly, catching her off balance. It's the
music, she decided. It's only because he plays such sad music. She walked toward
him, her ballet shoes making no sound on the wood floor.
"You look lonely, Nick."
From the way his head jerked up, Ruth knew she had broken into some deep,
private thought. He looked at her oddly a moment, his fingers poised above the
piano keys. "I was," he said. "But that's not what I want to talk to you about."
Ruth arched a brow. "Is this going to be a business lunch?" she asked him as she
set cartons of yogurt on the piano.
"No." He took the bottle of Perrier, turning the cap. "Then we'd argue, and
that's bad for the digestion, yes? Come, sit beside me."
Ruth sat on the bench, automatically steeling herself for the jolt of
electricity. To be where he was was to be in the vortex of power. Even now,
relaxed, contemplating a simple dancer's lunch, he was like a circuit left on
hold.
"Is there a problem?" she asked, reaching for a carton of yogurt and a spoon.
"That's what I want to know."
Puzzled, she turned her head to find him studying her face. He had bottomless
blue eyes, clear as glass, and the dancer's ability for complete stillness.
"What do you mean?"
"I had a call from Lindsay." The blue eyes were fixed unwaveringly on hers. His
lashes were the color of the darkest shade of his hair.
More confused, Ruth wrinkled her brow. "Oh?"
"She thinks you're not happy." He was still watching her steadily: the pressure
began to build at the base of her neck. Ruth turned away, and it lessened
immediately. There had never been anyone else who could unnerve her with a look.
"Lindsay worries too much," she said lightly, dipping the spoon into the yogurt.
"Are you, Ruth?" Nick laid his hand on her arm, and she was compelled to look
back at him. "Are you unhappy?"
"No," she said immediately, truthfully. She gave him the slow half smile that
was so much a part of her. "No."
He continued to scan her face as his hand slid down to her wrist. "Are you
happy?"
She opened her mouth, prepared to answer, then closed it again on a quick sound
of frustration. Why must those eyes be on hers, so direct, demanding perfect