Love Waltzes In (Dancing Under The Stars) (2 page)

Squinting at the bright lights, Selena Marcil slipped on her sunglasses, even though she was still inside the airport terminal. Sunlight wasn’t blinding her—it was the flashes of those horrible cameras. Her dance partner, Dima Volkov, strode in front of her, leaving her at the mercy of the photographers.

A man thrust his microphone in her face. “Selena, are you co
ming back to
Dancing under the Stars
next season?”

Her seven-year contract didn’t give her much choice. “If they want me back, I’ll be there.” That was all she could say. Selena was under strict orders not to reveal any details of the new season.

A female reporter dressed in a fitted suit pushed her way to the front of the mob. “Selena, is there any truth to the rumor that Dima had an affair with Poppy Mabel?”

Selena winced.
Dima’s personal life off the dance floor was none of her business, but she had a desire to protect him from the rumors. “No. But if the rumors were true, there would be no scandal. Both Dima and Poppy are single.” Her eyes flicked to Dima. He took a break posing for pictures with his fans and pulled her to his side.

“Poppy and me are the friends,” he said. “The only woman in my life that I’m committed with is Selena.” His accent always worsened when he was amped up.

Selena narrowed her eyes at him, but he couldn’t see through her sunglasses. The tabloids had photos of Dima and Poppy frolicking at a pool in Vegas and of him rubbing suntan lotion all over her body. He swore that he and Poppy, like all his other celebrity partners, were just friends. Selena wanted to believe him and knew the media took pictures out of context, but she still had her doubts if he was being honest with her. It didn’t matter to her who Dima dated; she just didn’t want his personal life overshadowing their partnership, especially with Blackpool only a few months away.

A young girl ran up to them, waving a promotional photo. “
Selema
! I just love you guys. I’m a competitive dancer also. You’re so amazing together!”

Selema
—the tabloids’ combined nickname for them made Selena smile. Selena and Dima’s identity was bound together, even though they hadn’t been romantically involved in years. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Amy.”

Selena signed the photo. “Keep practicing those rumba walks, Amy. I hope to see you compete someday.”

The girl squealed. “I just know you are going to win
Blackpool this year. I’ll be there!” Dima also signed her photo and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

They signed a few autographs, posed for more pictures, and a
nswered questions for their fans.

After the crowd thinned out, she and
Dima made their way to baggage claim.

“Welcome to San Diego,
America’s Finest City
,” said a man holding a big sign bearing Dima and Selena's names. Like they needed any more attention. He led them to the waiting limousine and lifted their bags into the trunk. When she’d first met Dima, he would never let another man carry his luggage. Now he barely lifted a finger to do anything.

Selena took a deep breath as the limo swiftly moved away from the airport. Not only was she here to defend her United States Pr
ofessional Latin-American Title, but also the cameras would be following her as they collected filler images for the new season of the show. If it were up to Dima, they would quit competing and capitalize on their celebrity status. But Selena insisted that they train and compete. This was their year to win Blackpool and Selena wasn’t about to let a television show get in the way of achieving her lifetime dream.

Dima
checked his iPhone. Years ago, she’d idolized him. She was the young amateur, and he'd been the sexy dance God. Dima was a ballroom legend. With his former partner Carrie, they’d finaled at Blackpool twice. Selena never believed she’d be lucky enough to dance with him. Dima was definitely gorgeous—tall, black wavy hair, rich brown eyes. His deep Ukrainian accent used to drive her wild, the way his beautiful lips would say the word pleasure,
ple-e-shore.
But these days, sometimes all she saw was a Hollywood player with a freshly waxed chest.

Grateful to take a break from the dreary Los Angeles smog, Selena became mesmerized by the clear ocean. Every time she visited San Diego, she was amazed at how much good clean air could do for the soul.

“
Selenichka,
listen.” Dima broke into Selena’s reverie to read out loud from his iPhone. “‘
Dancing under the Stars
gains a new mystery dancer?’” Dima glared at Selena then focused back on his phone, and read, “‘Who’s the newest male professional dancer to lace up his dancing shoes? Rumors have the cast in a frenzy wondering who will be the new dancer. Though normally the professional dancers come from the troupe, the newest member of the cast has been recruited from a different field.’”

“And?”

“Who it is?” Dima asked, raising his iPhone. “No one has told to me nothing. No one on circuit has mentioned that they were asked to be on show.”

Selena sighed. Today was not the day for speculating on r
umors. They had too much to concentrate on to get worked up about who the new professional on the show would be. “What do I think? I think it’s probably someone we all know, maybe from another country. Or from the UK version? And gossip columnists have nothing better to do than make this stuff up. If you’re so worried, ask Benny.”

“You’re right. I’ll ask to him.”
He texted a frantic message.

They were now on Harbor Drive. Cherry blossoms scented the air. As they approached the Coronado Bridge, a humongous Navy carrier slid underneath it. Selena couldn’t help but wonder if her ex-fiancé and dance partner, Bret Lord, was somewhere on that ship. After he became a Marine, they had lost touch, though a part of her heart always ached for him.

The limo pulled in front of the Sheraton San Diego. The bellman strode over to assist the driver with their luggage. Selena didn’t have time to wait for Dima to check them in. “I have to hurry to the spa, and then Benny asked me to run through some quick choreography for the show. I’ll text you later.” She kissed him on the cheek, jumped out of the car, and rushed into the hotel.

She wanted to turn and chase after the limo, hitch a ride to the beach. No more fresh air and cherry blossoms. From this moment until the competition, it would be all business. Competition eve was always a headache, with all the tanning, makeup, hair, fasting.

Selena closed her eyes and smiled. The calming effect of lavender filled the reception area. The hotel spa was her standard primp spot for competitions. The staff was thorough and professional. Even better, they were nice. Selena could stand a good dose of nice before she walked into that den of dancing wolves. A competition dance floor was no place for the weak or the unprepared. “Selena Marcil, here for my ten-fifteen appointment.”

“Oh yes, Ms.
Marcil. We’re so thrilled to have you here.” The receptionist consulted her computer screen. “You’re scheduled for a facial, a Brazilian bikini wax, a brow wax, a Mandarin Orange Body Polish followed by a custom sparkle spray tan, and then you’ll receive a mani and pedi while Alberto touches up your roots and tightens up your hair extensions.” She abandoned the screen and leaned forward, her eyes wide. “You know, Ms. Marcil, I just love
Dancing under the Stars
—really, it’s my favorite show. You ballroom dancers must lead such glamorous lives.”

Selena pressed her lips into a forced smile. “Yes. We’re so blessed.” She sat on the sofa. She didn’t see her life as glamorous. She lived in the gym and the studio, sometimes dancing up to eight hours a day. Every weekend was spent in a hotel in some random state competing. Her diet consisted of egg whites, vegetables, soup, and salad. Selena couldn’t even eat fruit.
Too much sugar. And she hadn’t had a weekend off in two years. The paparazzi stalked her. No man had the guts to date her, knowing that his picture would be a TMZ headline if they were ever caught together. Selena couldn’t even take her trash cans out of her house in her sweats for fear that she’d get photographed. She hated all the nonsense she had to endure to dance. Selena was exhausted—mentally and physically. Often she wondered if she had chosen the right path many years ago. Especially when she longed to hold her own baby in her arms.

But enough of the self-pity.
Selena did love her life. How blessed was she? The older generation of ballroom dancers had spent every penny they earned on competing. The show allowed her to pursue her dream of winning Blackpool and not having to worry about money. For years, she had struggled. Her mother had worked three jobs and cleaned dance studios at night in exchange for her lessons. Selena was finally in the position to support her family. Her first big splurge had been buying her mom a condo and starting a college fund for her sister. Now Selena could make twenty thousand dollars just for appearing at a party. She and Dima had even started their own charity, bringing ballroom classes to inner city kids. She was so appreciative of the opportunities the show had given her. How lucky was she to make a living out of her true passion—Selena lived to dance. She chastised herself for even feeling ungrateful for a second when so many people struggled. But deep in her heart she knew what she had given up to have this life could never be replaced.

Selena had only opened the magazine to page one when the r
eceptionist called over to her. “Ms. Marcil, Larissa is ready for you.”

Selena sucked in a deep breath before standing.
Let the games begin.

In the back room, she stripped off her peach-colored terry sweat suit, put on a smock, and lay on the paper-covered table.

Larissa entered the room and gave Selena a smile. “I just got tickets to the competition tomorrow. I can’t wait to see you win.”

“Thank you for supporting us.”

The hot wax dribbled onto Selena’s skin. “Are you thinking of retiring? I read in
Star Magazine
that you want to start a family.”

Larissa ripped the hair above Selena’s eye, but the face Selena made had nothing to do with the pain.
Star
, of course. “I hope to, someday.” Selena yearned to take a break and start a family. She was confident that she’d be able to balance her career and children but she hadn’t been on a date in years. Selena’s goal was to win Blackpool, the most prestigious dance competition in the world. People outside of the industry didn’t realize that no one could ever have a normal relationship in the ballroom world. Dancers had three options for dating: they could either date their partner and combine their floor and relationship problems, like what happened with her and Dima; they could date a dancer who was not their partner and the worse dancer of the two would be jealous of the others’ success; or they could date a non-dancer, who usually would have a hard time understanding the partner relationship and the travel demands. How would she explain to a prospective boyfriend that she spent ten weeks twice a year training celebrities? In the show’s off-season, she spent every weekend in a hotel in different states or countries with Dima at some random competition? Add in her celebrity status with cameras following her everywhere, and it was too much drama for most men to handle.

So, basically, it was hopeless.

A lump gathered in her throat.
No nerves.

Larissa paused, a new glob of pink wax on the stick in her hand. “Well, you guys just look so good together. Watching you two dance is amazing. It’s too bad about all the rumors going around. It can’t be easy on a couple…right?”

Maybe that was why she couldn’t get a date. Everyone still thought she was involved with Dima. “We aren’t a couple. We just dance together.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You both look so great together.” Larissa cleaned up Selena’s other eyebrow. “Okay, honey, time for your bikini.”

Selena sighed and spread her legs.

Three hours later, primed and plucked, Selena looked in the mirror at her blotchy face and debated putting on her makeup b
efore leaving. Forget it; it would just sweat off in rehearsal. Though her natural hair color was a beautiful espresso brown, it currently was bleached blond, which shined great on stage under the bright lights but in plain sunlight resembled straw. Dima forced her to dye it because he thought it would make a better contrast to his own dark hair. She pulled her long locks back into a tight ponytail, grabbed her oversized purse filled with her dance shoes, and exited the spa. Putting her sunglasses on, she headed over to the small ballroom to meet the producer.

“Selena Maria
Marcil.”

The deep voice stopped her from taking another step. Only one person would use her middle name.

But it couldn’t be him. Maybe she had fantasized so many times that he had found her that she was now imagining his voice. There was no way that Bret Lord could be inches away from her.

She slowly turned.

She couldn’t move. For the past ten years, she’d wondered what he looked like now. She’d dreamt of him but never could see his face.

He wore khaki pants and a white polo shirt that hugged his ripped chest. A few hairs peeked out of the neckline, teasing her. Surrounded by all these groomed dancers and Hollywood pretty boys, Selena hadn’t seen a real man’s chest in years.