Page 4 of Damaged Protector

She merely sighed, so I continued. “I don’t need a woman. They’re nothin’ but trouble.”

And an annoying little voice whispered inside my head:

Famous last words…

Chapter 1

Four Months Ago

I moved across the wooden floor, my body in perfect rhythm with the music. As I began my second full hour of dancing, my skin glistened with perspiration.

I struck my ending pose, left arm up in fifth position, my right in second, and my face angled perfectly.

“Excellent, Miss Fitz.” The man gave two sharp claps, and I restricted my beaming smile into a placid one. That was high praise coming from Professor Bernard Moreau. He didn’t give out compliments willingly.

“Thank you, sir.”

“A few notes,” he said in his slight French accent.

Of course. There were always notes. This was my first evening working one-on-one with Professor Moreau, and I wanted to impress him. He didn’t take on very many private students, so I felt fortunate to be here.

Standing with my feet at a forty-five degree angle and my back rod straight, I inhaled what I called aroma de la ballet studio—rosin, wood, musk, leather, and sweat.

“Your allegro movements need to be quicker, more dynamic,” he said, slapping the backs of his fingers against his palm.

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you’re in À la Quatrième Derrière, your shoulders are uneven.” He lifted one thin eyebrow, and I suddenly wondered if he got them waxed.

Jesus, don’t smile, Mal.

“I had an injury to my left shoulder about six months ago, and I tend to favor it. I’ll be more conscientious in the future, Professor.”

“See that you do,” he said, lowering the censuring eyebrow. “Because I do appreciate a good derrière.”

His top lip lifted—showing a row of tiny white teeth—into what I assumed was a smile because he laughed, a series of short, staccato ha, ha sounds.

I was a bit taken aback by that comment. I expected derrière jokes from the preteens I taught, not from a fifty-something, world-renowned dance professor who had more degrees than a thermometer. But I followed his lead and let out a small return laugh, which sounded almost as awkward as it felt.

“Not that you have to worry about that, Miss Fitz.” He bobbed those skinny eyebrows once.

Yep, he definitely has them waxed. Or maybe threaded.

And did he just imply that I have a nice ass?

I mean, I do, but…

Ignoring the inappropriateness of the situation, I asked, “Would you like me to run it again?”

“Yes, please. I’m not fond of that middle section after the pirouettes, so I may change that.”

“Of course, sir. I’d appreciate any feedback. You’re the expert.”

He plucked at his salt-and-pepper goatee with his thumb and forefinger, a smug smile playing across his thin lips. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Oh, this guy likes himself.

With the push of a button, he started the music, and I performed the intricate choreography, taking into account his prior notes. My feet were accurate and crisp in the allegro section, and my shoulders were perfectly aligned.

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