Corpse de Ballet by Ellen Pall Read Free Book Online Page B

a blond, apple-cheeked, round-faced girl of nineteen or twenty whom Juliet had vaguely noticed hovering uncertainly some yards away from her. At last she darted up.
    Apologetically, “Did I hear someone say you’re Angelica Kestrel-Haven?” she asked. Her voice was wispy and small, her brown eyes bright.
    Juliet nodded.
    â€œOh, I love your books!” The girl dropped what little she had of the dancer’s hauteur and gushed with adolescent eagerness, “I’m Teri Malone. I’m in the corps. Oh, would you talk to me some time about writing? I love to write.”
    Inevitably (and despite the fact that, in her experience, most people who loved to write were not doing it correctly), Juliet said it would be a pleasure. The ballerina bobbed what Juliet realized, after a moment’s thought, was a curtsey before glancing at the clock, squeaking, “Oh, God!” and dashing away again. Watching her vanish, it occurred to Juliet that the world of ballet and the world of historical romance were probably adjacent at several points.
    Ruth, meanwhile, had been assailed again by the fiercely groomed publicist (her name was Gretchen Manning, Juliet later learned), who had clicked in on her pristine high heels with a freshly revised draft of the press release for the choreographer to look over. Ruth turned helplessly to Juliet, shook her head apologetically and allowed herself to be corraled.
    â€œI’ll get this out of the way and shower and we can go have lunch,” she said, as Manning waited impatiently in the open doorway. “Stay here; I won’t be ten minutes. Anton, you won’t mind if Juliet stays and watches you work on your solo,” she rather informed than asked that splendid young man.
    Juliet had not even noticed it, but Mohr had remained in the studio as the others left, stationing himself by a barre, where he was practicing something jumpy. He now favored her with a languid glance of consent in which she read a world of sensual awareness.
    â€œPatrick,” Ruth instructed finally, leaving in Manning’s wake, “look after Juliet.”
    Ruth’s assistant dutifully gave Juliet a smile, made a gesture of welcome, then turned his attention to Anton. They were by now the only three people in the room. The pianist had left, but Patrick had a boom box on a small table and half a dozen tape cassettes of various bits of music. He was looking through them, frowning at the labels, when Mohr began an experimental series of turning glides into the middle of the studio floor. He jolted to a stop.
    â€œPlease, you must have the floor mopped,” he said. It was the first time Juliet had heard him speak. He had a slow, reedy voice and a thick German accent. His tone was severe.
    â€œOh, hell!” Patrick shook himself as if he had been criminally remiss and darted out the door.
    Left suddenly alone with the unfamiliar, thoroughly physical Mohr, Juliet experienced an unsettling flash of girlish awkwardness and had to force herself not to stare at her knees. The dancer came nearer to her. His green, heavily lidded eyes flickered over her face. At the same time as his easy self-assurance irritated her, she was amused to notice her own breath quicken. Really, she thought, how on earth could such people work professionally with each other? How could anyone maintain a businesslike demeanor around a creature such as this?
    â€œYou like ballet?” asked Anton Mohr.
    â€œVery much,” she answered.
    â€œI also like ballet, but not so much. I prefer dance, modern, contemporary. Ballet is very tedious for a man.”
    â€œIs it?”
    He smiled, revealing strong, perfect, gleaming teeth. “Pick her up, put her down. Go here. Pick her up, put her down. Go there. And always noble.” He struck a pose, a parody of nobility that made Juliet laugh. “But with Ruth, this is better. She gives me the opportunity to make something.” He put his hand,