Dancing with Danger

Praise for Fiona Harper

‘The author never strikes a false note, tempering poignancy perfectly with humour.’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Classic Fiona—funny with fantastic characters. I was charmed from the first page.’

—www.goodreads.com on Invitation to the Boss’s Ball

‘It’s the subtle shadings of characterisation

that make the story work, as well as the sensitive handling of key plot points.’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Fiona Harper’s Christmas Wishes, Mistletoe Kisses

pairs a simple plot with complex characters, to marvellous effect. It’s both moving and amusing.’

—RT Book Reviews

About Fiona Harper

As a child, FIONA HARPER was constantly teased for either having her nose in a book, or living in a dream world. Things haven’t changed much since then, but at least in writing she’s found a use for her runaway imagination. After studying dance at university, Fiona worked as a dancer, teacher and choreographer, before trading in that career for video-editing and production. When she became a mother she cut back on her working hours to spend time with her children, and when her littlest one started pre-school she found a few spare moments to rediscover an old but not forgotten love—writing.

Fiona lives in London, but her other favourite places to be are the Highlands of Scotland, and the Kent countryside on a summer’s afternoon. She loves cooking good food and anything cinnamon-flavoured. Of course she still can’t keep away from a good book, or a good movie—especially romances—but only if she’s stocked up with tissues, because she knows she will need them by the end, be it happy or sad. Her favourite things in the world are her wonderful husband, who has learned to decipher her incoherent ramblings, and her two daughters.

Dancing with Danger

Fiona Harper

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Also by Fiona Harper

Swept Off Her Stilettos

Three Weddings and a Baby

Christmas Wishes, Mistletoe Kisses

Blind-Date Baby

Invitation to the Boss’s Ball

Housekeeper’s Happy-Ever-After

The Bridesmaid’s Secret

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Tammy, a woman of both inner and outer grace, and an amazing friend. Thank you.

CHAPTER ONE

THE noise of the helicopter’s rotor blades made chit-chat impossible. Just as well, really, because Finn had no idea what to say to the tiny woman sitting next to him. Her eyes were wide, her knees clamped together, and her claw-like fingers clutched onto her seat belt as if it were a lifeline.

What on earth had Simon done?

I’ve found a fabulous replacement for Anya Pirelli, his producer had said. Just you wait! A real coup!

Finn knew sales patter when he heard it and after seeing the goods on offer he wasn’t sure he was buying. She certainly wouldn’t have been his choice for a celebrity guest star.

She was tiny, this woman. A ballet dancer, Simon had said. If they were standing she’d barely reach his shoulders. Nothing like the Amazonian tennis player, with her sporty curves and long blond hair, who was supposed to have been sitting beside him.

No, this woman was so thin she was hardly there. Would probably blow away in a stiff breeze …

Thinking of high winds, he turned to look past the pilot’s head through the windshield. The meteorological report had said the storm would hit in the small hours of the morning, but it seemed that the fickle tropical weather had decided to kick up a spectacular welcome for them. A greyish-purple cloud hung on the horizon and the sea below the helicopter was rapidly turning dark and choppy.

The pilot was also frowning and he turned to Finn and shook his head before focusing once again on the darkening sky.

Unfortunately, Finn knew exactly what that meant. He unbuckled his seat belt and reached for his rucksack. Twenty quid said the ballerina baulked at this latest development and he’d be making his way to their temporary desert island home with only Dave the cameraman for company.

Seriously? Had Simon really thought this woman—this girl, almost—was suitable for a gritty survival skills TV programme? He caught Dave’s eye. They both looked at the tiny, clenched woman sitting between them, then back at each other. It seemed Finn wasn’t the only one who thought Simon’s efforts at scraping the bottom of the celebrity barrel for Anya’s replacement had been unsuccessful.

The camera operator began to move, too, making sure he had all his equipment with him. A fuller crew would be arriving by much more civilised means later, but for now they only needed Dave, who was used to haring around after Finn and doing daft things. Despite his grumbling to the contrary, Finn was sure Dave secretly loved it.

The tiny ballerina was watching them as if she’d never seen anyone load a rucksack before. She was completely still, and the only parts of her that moved were her eyes, which darted between him and the cameraman.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked. But Finn didn’t hear the words; he just saw her mouth move.

He pointed emphatically to the dark clouds hovering over the island getting ever larger on the horizon and yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Storm’s closing in. We have to move now.'

Her mouth moved again. He was pretty sure she’d just echoed his last word back to him.

‘Now,’ he said, nodding.

She was lucky. If he’d been on his own he’d have jumped into the water, the helo still moving. But it was too dangerous for a novice. They would have to jump, but onto the wetter end of a wide beach. Not quite the luxury of a slow and steady descent on ropes as he’d planned. But there was one thing he could rely on in his life, and on his TV show—hardly anything went to plan. And that was just the way he liked it.

Finn prodded the ballerina’s seat belt buckle. She just clutched onto it harder, almost glaring at him.

‘Two minutes,’ he mouthed, and pointed sharply downward.

None of her features moved, not even her tightly puckered eyebrows, but her expression changed somehow. Something about the eyes—which he noticed were the colour the sea below them would have been if not for the storm. Bright, liquid-blue. The concern in their depths melted into panic.

Now, Finn wasn’t an unsympathetic man, but he didn’t have time to puppy-walk this girl. The helicopter needed to be well out of range by the time the storm hit. He just didn’t have the time to spoon-feed her the confidence she needed. The only course open to him was one of tough love.

‘Undo your buckle,’ he yelled, miming the action with his fingers. She hesitated, but he couldn’t have that. He yelled again, even as compassion tugged at him—told him to ease up. He batted it away, knowing from his days in the army that if he showed any kind of sympathy she might waver. Or freeze. Or panic.

He couldn’t have any of those things. The lives of the chopper crew could depend on it.

Fear was still swirling in her eyes, and she didn’t tear her gaze from his, but her fingers fumbled with the buckle and eventually it came free.

Good girl.

He shut that thought down before it showed on his face. He’d tell her later, when it was over. He used the same method of walking her through all the steps ready for their insertion as they hurtled towards their destination. He yelled; she obeyed. It was all good.

It seemed like an age before the helicopter was hovering only ten feet above the beach they’d be making their home for the next week. He jumped out of the open-sided helicopter without thinking, letting his knees bend, and rolled before standing up again. A Dave-sized thud beside him told him there was only one passenger left to disembark.

He turned back to the helicopter. She was standing in the doorway, her knuckles whitening on the edges. She didn’t look as if she was in a hurry to let go. Too bad.

‘Jump!’ he yelled, and thrust his arms up and forwards.

Almost instantly he was hit full-force by a flying ballerina. She must have flung herself out the moment he’d spoken, and he’d expected to have to yell at least once more. It took him totally by surprise, causing him to lose his footing, and they both went crashing to the ground. He was only half aware of the blurred shape of the helicopter moving away and the roar of its blades quietening.

He lay there, breathing hard. Damp sand cooling his back and a shaking ballerina warming his front.

‘S-sorry,’ she stammered. She didn’t move, though. Must be too shocked. Or mortified.

She needn’t have worried. Finn liked surprises. They produced a delicious little cocktail of adrenalin and endorphins that he’d decided he rather liked. Even when surprises came in the shape of flying ballerinas. He suddenly saw the funny side, and chuckled deep down in his torso.

‘What did you say your name was?’ he asked the unblinking pair of azure eyes just centimetres from his own.

‘Alle—’ she croaked out. And then she tried again. ‘Allegra.'

Finn grinned at her.

‘Well, Allie—Allegra—whoever you are …’ He lifted her off him with surprising ease and dumped her on the sand beside him. He really would have to anchor her to a tree if the wind picked up, wouldn’t he? Then he jumped to his feet and offered her his hand, grinning even wider. The sky was steel-grey and from the taste of the wind now whipping her long dark ponytail into her face he knew torrential rain was only minutes away.

‘Welcome to paradise,’ he said.

CHAPTER TWO

Forty-eight hours earlier

ALLEGRA stood rigid in the wings as the corps de ballets rushed past her and onto the stage of the Royal Opera House. Breathe, she reminded herself. Relax. You’ve done these steps a thousand times in rehearsal. Your body knows what to do. Trust it.

Too late for more rehearsal now. She’d be on stage in a matter of minutes.

Even so, she couldn’t stop herself marking the opening sequence on the spot, her arms and legs carving tiny, precise arcs in the air as they mirrored the full-blown sequence of turns and jumps in her head.

Frustrated, she stopped herself mid-movement, pulled her cardigan off and dumped it somewhere she’d be able to find it later before resuming her position in the wings. As she listened to the orchestra and watched the corps de ballet set the scene, she arched one foot then the other, pressing her shoes into the floor until there was a tight but pleasing stretch in her instep.

Pretend it’s just the dress rehearsal. Just another run-though.

She tried very hard to do just that but the adrenalin skipping through her system called her a liar.

Not just a rehearsal, but opening night.

No familiar role, either. Neither for dancers nor audience.

This was a brand new role created just for her. Created to prove the child prodigy, the ‘baby ballerina’ hadn’t lost her sparkle after seven long years in the profession. This new ballet, The Little Mermaid, was supposed to silence the critics who’d been prophesying for years now that Allegra Martin would burn brightly and then, just as quickly, burn out.

They’d been saying that since she’d turned twenty and now—three years past that sell-by date—she was sensing the creeping inevitability of that prediction every time she put on her pointe shoes. She almost dreaded sliding her feet into them these days.

Not tonight. It couldn’t be tonight. Her father would be devastated.

To distract herself from these unwanted thoughts, she checked her costume. No stiff tutu for this role. Her dress was soft and flowing, ending just below her knees. Layers of chiffon in deep blue, aquamarine and turquoise. And her dark hair, instead of being pulled into its habitual bun, was loose and flowing round her shoulders; only two small sections at the front were caught back to keep it off her face. She resisted the urge to fiddle with the grips, knowing it would probably only make things worse.

The orchestra began a new section of music. It wasn’t long now. She should try and focus, slow her butterfly-wing breaths and let her ribs swell with oxygen. She closed her eyes and concentrated on pulling the air in and releasing it slowly.

Behind her eyelids an image gatecrashed her efforts at calm and inner poise. A pair of dark masculine eyes that crinkled at the corners as an unseen mouth pulled them into a smile. She snapped her own eyes open.

Where had that come from?

Now her heart was beating double speed. Damn. She needed to get her thoughts under control. Less than a minute and she’d be making her entrance. She shook her head and blew out some air.

And then it happened again. With her eyes open.

But this time she saw the smile beneath the eyes. Warm and bright and just a little bit cheeky.

It must be the stress.

Weeks of preparing for this moment had finally got to her. She’d heard other dancers mention the strange random thoughts that plagued them before a performance, but it had never happened to her before. No sudden musings on what she was going to have for dinner that evening or whether she’d remembered to charge her mobile phone.

But why was she thinking of him?

A man she didn’t even know.

What was he doing here, invading her thoughts at such a crucial moment? It was most unsettling. The last thing she needed right now. And she really meant right now. The violins had just picked up the melody that signalled her entrance.

Thankfully, her body had been rehearsed so hard the steps were almost a reflex and it sprang to life and ran onto the stage, dragging her disjointed head with it. There was a moment of hush, a pause in the music, and she sensed every person in the audience had simultaneously and unconsciously held their breath.

They were watching her. Waiting for her.

It was her job to dazzle and amaze, to transport them to another world. And, just as she lifted her arm in a port de bras that swept over her head, preparing her for a series of long and lilting steps across the diagonal of the stage, she wished that were possible. She wished that she could escape into another world. And maybe stay there. Somewhere new, somewhere exciting, where no one expected anything of her and she had no possibility of failing to make the grade.

But tonight, while she made the audience believe she was the Little Mermaid, while they saw her float and turn and defy gravity, she would know the truth. She would feel the impact of every jump in her whole skeleton. She would hear the knocking of her pointe shoes on the stage even if the orchestra drowned out the noise for the audience. She would feel her toes rub and blister inside their unforgiving, solid shoes.

No, she knew the reality of ballet. It might look effortless from the outside, but from the inside it was hard and demanding. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t pretty or nice. A fierce kind of beauty that asked for your very soul in return for greatness, and then devoured it without compunction.

She had chosen this path and there was no escape. There was no other world. It was all an illusion.

But she would fool them all. She would dance like a girl who was full of sadness, trapped in a state of endless longing, wishing for a reality that could never be hers. And she would dance it well. She wouldn’t even be acting, because it was the truth. Her truth.

No escape. No matter how much you wanted it.

Truth like the pain of a thousand knives.

‘It was marvellous, darling. Absolutely stunning.’

Allegra air-kissed the woman whose name she couldn’t remember and smiled back. ‘Thank you. But, really, the credit has to go to Damien, for giving me such wonderful choreography to work with.'

Bad form for a principal dancer to hog all the credit. She was merely the vessel for someone else’s genius, after all. The blank canvas for someone else to paint their vision on.

‘Nonsense,’ the woman said, waving her glass of champagne and spilling a drop on the arm of one of the other guests. Neither one noticed. But Allegra saw it all. She saw every last detail of the after-show party in crisp, exquisite, painful detail.

She saw the Victorian steel and glass arches of the tall hall that had once been part of Covent Garden’s famous flower market, the white vertical struts and pillars so straight, so uniform that it felt they were penning her in. She saw the herds of people milling, champagne classes pinched between their fingers, half of them trying to gawp at her while not getting caught. Most of all she saw the tempting patches of midnight-blue beyond the glass and white-painted iron-work of the roof.

If colours could talk, she mused, blue would be an invitation.

Come to me …

She wrenched her eyes off the night sky with difficulty and focused them back where they were supposed to be. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, bestowing the woman with a gracious smile. ‘I see my father over there … ‘

The woman glanced over her shoulder to where her father was half-hidden by the ostentatious champagne bar filling the middle of the room and then smiled widely back at Allegra. ‘Of course, of course. Such a talented conductor and a wonderful man … And it must be fantastic to know that your father is close by on an opening night. What a marvellous sense of support he must give you.'

Allegra wanted to say, No, actually, it isn’t. She wanted to say that sometimes, having a parent so invested in one’s life was anything but comforting. She wanted to shock the woman by telling her how many times she’d wished her father was a builder or a schoolteacher. Anything but a conductor. Or how much she wished he’d sit in the back of the stalls occasionally, as the other parents did, rather than standing only a few feet beyond the footlights. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel weighed down by his gaze, weighed down by all the hopes and expectations of not just a parent but also her manager and her mentor.

She didn’t say anything, of course, but smiled softly in what the woman probably took for gracious agreement, then used the excuse of her fabulous father to make her departure.

Of course, the press loved the father-daughter angle—devastated widower conducts as ballerina daughter tops the bill, just as he’d done for her tragic mother when she’d been alive. They ate it up.

In her darker moments she silently accused him of loving it, too, of wanting double the glory. Double the adoration. But it wasn’t that, really. He just wanted things to be the way they’d been before, wanted to claw back time and resurrect the dead. Impossible, of course, so he’d had to settle for second best. Even so, Allegra hadn’t failed to see how he’d come back to life when she’d grown old enough to fill her mother’s shoes, dance her mother’s old roles.

But not tonight. This one was all hers. No comparisons could be made. She would stand or fall in her own right when the reviews came out in the morning.

She supposed that since she’d used her father as an excuse she’d better go and say hello, so she forged through the crowd, ignoring the people who tried to catch her eye. And there were plenty. She was the star of the show. It was her evening, after all.

But she didn’t want to talk to them. Not the ones she knew in the company who either envied or idolised her, nor the ones she didn’t know, who saw her as some strange creature imbued with magical powers. Gifted—or should that be cursed?—with a talent they daren’t even dream of having. They looked at her as if she was somehow different from them. As if she were an alien from outer space. Something to be studied and discussed and dissected. But not human. Never human.

What she wouldn’t give for one person on this planet to see past the tutus and the pointe shoes.

More than once she had to change direction when a gap between bodies closed up. Eventually, she just stood still and waited. Chasing the holes in the crowd was impossible; she would wait for the tide of bodies to shift once again and let the gaps come to her. Her stillness, however, was just another way to mark herself out from the other guests.

All around her people were celebrating. It had taken an army of people months to prepare for this night, and now they’d pulled it off their relief and joy was spilling out of them in smiles and laughter and excited conversation. But Allegra felt nothing. No joy. No bubbling. Nothing inside desperate to spill out of her.

Except, maybe, a desire to scream. It was funny, really. For a few years now she’d wondered what would happen if one day she did exactly that. What would they all do if the habitually reserved Allegra Martin planted her feet in the centre of the room and split the hubbub with a scream that had forced its way up from the depths of her soul?

The look on their faces would be priceless.

She treasured this little fantasy, because it had got her through more stuffy cocktail parties, lunches and benefits than she cared to count. Only it didn’t seem quite as funny any more, because tonight she felt like making the fantasy a reality. She really felt like doing it for real. In fact, the urge was quickly becoming irresistible, and that was scaring her.

She had to start moving again, keep walking at all costs, even if she ended up momentarily heading away from her father, because she feared that if she paused, that if her two feet stayed grounded for long enough, she might just do it.

Despite her meandering progress across the Floral Hall, she had almost reached her father now. He hadn’t noticed her silent zig-zagging approach, however, because he was deep in conversation with the Artistic Director. She heard her name mentioned briefly above the din of the party. Neither man looked 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.