Save the Last Dance Read Free Page A

happy.
    Had she done badly tonight? Had she let them all down? The thought made the panic racing inside her torso double its speed. And that internal momentum had a strange effect: just as she was on the verge of stepping into the circle of their conversation, a gap opened up to her right and, instead of ploughing forward and greeting her father, she took it.
    Bizarrely, she found that once she’d started going in that direction she couldn’t stop. Not until she’d left the crush of the party far behind, not until she’d run down the minimalist wooden staircase at full pelt, leaving her warm champagne glass on the flat banister at the top, not until she was standing in the foyer. She rushed past the cloakrooms to the large revolving door and moments later she was amidst the pillars and cobbles of Covent Garden, the cold night air soothing her lungs.
    But she didn’t run any further; she stood there, blinking.
    What was she doing?
    She couldn’t leave yet. She couldn’t escape.
    Her father would be waiting for her. There were senior staff and investors and a minor Royal waiting to greet her.
    No, her body said. Enough. And she was inclined to agree with it.
    Now that the adrenalin high from the performance had evaporated, she ached all over. She’d been up since six, had done class this morning and then had spent most of the afternoon making last-minute changes to a pas de deux with her partner, Stephen, that the choreographer had insisted were essential. And the performance that had seemed so light and ethereal on the outside had been gruelling beyond belief.
    She stood still for a few seconds, closed her eyes. Trap the breath then let it out slowly…smoothly.
    Unfortunately, a sense of duty was hardwired into a dancer’s psyche.
    When she had finished pushing the carbon dioxide out through her clenched teeth she opened her lids again.
    And then the ballerina turned, with all the grace expected of her, and let the revolving door coax her back inside, let its momentum almost propel her back up the stairs and into the crowded bar. Her glass, full of warm and flat champagne, was waiting for her on the banister and she retrieved it before pulling herself up tall and losing herself in the tangle of bodies.
    Allegra cranked open an eyelid and focused half-heartedly on the digital clock by her bedside. Definitely way too late still to be awake. Or should that be way too early to get up?
    Ugh. Who cared?
    She always got this way after an opening night—too tired, too excited, too aware of the reviews only hours away now in the morning editions.
    Knowing she’d only get even more grumpy if she lay there in the dark chasing sleep, she fumbled on the bedside cabinet for the TV remote and then pointed it into the darkness. A bluish light flooded the room. She squinted and drummed repeatedly on the volume button, hushing the garish advert for oven cleaner. She didn’t want to wake her father.
    She changed the channel a dozen times. And then a dozen times more.
    There really was nothing on at this time in the morning, was there? Unless you counted infomercials, ‘channel off-air’ graphics and lengthy documentaries about long-forgotten prog rock bands. She carried on changing channels until she lost count, and she was just about to give up and turn the TV set off when the image replacing the previous one caused her thumb to freeze above the button.
    A pair of crinkling brown masculine eyes. And a killer smile to match.
    She held her breath. Then she looked towards her bedroom door and quickly back again to the television. Without tearing her eyes from the screen, she pressed down hard on the volume button until the noise from the set was only just audible, turning the subtitles onto compensate. And then, finally, she let out the air she’d been holding captive in her mouth.
    Finn McLeod. My, he was gorgeous!
    All rugged male energy, with a glint of adventure in his eyes.
    His