Читать книгу Dead On The Dance Floor - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9

“Want to make me look good?”

“Pardon?” Shannon said.

She was definitely off today. First there had been the strange lesson with Quinn O’Casey, which she had wanted to scream through, her patience nonexistent.

Now Richard.

She didn’t need to scream when she danced with Richard. He was good. Excellent. A doctor, he had found that dance took his mind off the strain of his day. He wasn’t performing brain surgery on a daily basis, but something far more demanding—at least in the eyes of his customers, he had once told her humorously. He was a plastic surgeon. Trusted with looks—the most important thing in the world, to the players in the area. He’d “fixed” or repaired the old, the young, the famous, the rich. He was written up constantly in magazines and had even been touted as the “Botox king of the western world” by one popular publication.

Shannon wasn’t sure about his age but assumed he was around forty. He was in great shape, a golf enthusiast when he wasn’t in the studio or working. He maintained a great tan, had a full head of almost platinum blond hair and fine gray eyes. He was married, and his wife, a pediatrician, came in now and then, as well, but she wasn’t as enamored of dancing as Richard was. She preferred diving and spent most of her free time out on a boat. They seemed to have a perfect relationship. When they could be together, they were. When one had an opportunity that didn’t work for the other, they just went their separate ways. Mina Long was petite and, like her husband, fortyish, platinum blond, bronzed and in great shape. The only difference was that she had brown eyes. After all their years of marriage, Shannon thought with some humor, they almost resembled each other.

He was a nice guy, and she enjoyed teaching him. He learned quickly, and in the year since he had been coming to the studio, he had advanced rapidly. But then again, he could afford all the private lessons he wanted. Most people, with more moderate incomes, took one or two private lessons a week and attended group lessons whenever they could.

“Earth to Shannon.”

“Oh, sorry. Make you look good? You don’t need anyone to make you look good, Richard. In fact, you’ve gotten so good, I have to admit, I did just drift off in thought. Forgive me. That’s not at all a good thing for a teacher to admit.”

He smiled. “You’re still upset about Lara.”

“Of course,” she admitted.

“You do know I did everything that I could,” he said quietly. “I may be a plastic surgeon, but I was top of my class at med school and spent plenty of time interning in the emergency room.”

“Oh, Richard, of course, I know you did everything. It’s just still so…sad.”

“Yes. We’ll all miss her tremendously. I mean, you will miss her, right?”

“Of course.” Shannon frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“No reason.”

They had been waltzing. She stopped near the stereo, frowning as she looked at him.

“Richard, why did you say that?”

“Oh, Lord, now I’m really sorry.”

“Richard.”

“A little bird told me once—a while ago—that you and Ben Trudeau had been partners and a very hot duo—before Ben married Lara.”

“I see.”

“You were partners, right? I hear you stormed the floor in competitions, that no one even came close to being as good.”

“We won a few competitions, but that was ages ago. And I do mean ages.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Who told you about it?”

“Now, I swear, my lips are sealed.”

“It doesn’t matter, Richard. It’s not like it was a deep, dark secret or anything. I was just curious.”

“I told you, my lips are sealed. And hey, you didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

He sighed with a pretense of mock impatience. “Do you want to help me look good?”

“I did answer your question. You do look good.”

He shook his head, smiling. “There are some hotshots down from the board. I’m bringing them out to Suede tonight. Would you show up for a few minutes?”

“Richard, I was going to try to head home early. Someone will be down there, though. Rhianna or Jane.”

He shook his head. “You’re my teacher. We both know that even the top professionals work with their partner over and over again. I look best with you. Show up for one dance and one drink? I’ll get you out of there by ten-thirty, I swear it. Please?”

“Richard, don’t beg.”

“I am begging.”

“All right—you tell me what little bird told you about Ben and me, and maybe I’ll come.”

“That’s bribery!”

“You bet,” she said, smiling.

“I can’t tell you. And I don’t fold easy.”

“If you want me to show up…”

“Gordon,” Richard said.

“Gordon?”

“Yes, I said Gordon, didn’t I?”

“Yes…and quickly. You folded like a bad poker hand,” she said, laughing.

“Right. So now you have to show up.”

“I will, I will,” she told him. “Right after I strangle Gordon.”

“Why? You just said that it wasn’t a deep, dark secret or anything.”

“But still…we’re not supposed to bring our personal lives into the studio.”

Richard let out a snort. “That gets ridiculous, you know.”

“It’s only professional.”

“Not professional—silly,” Richard said. “And you’re getting that prim look on your face again. I’ll let it go, but let’s concentrate on something wild and sexy. I want to be known as the salsa king of Miami, not the reigning Botox monarch, okay?”

She laughed.

“We’ll give them a show,” she promised.

“And, Shannon?”

“What?”

“What happened was terrible. But it wasn’t your fault in any way. We’re all stunned, and so sorry, but…please. It’s okay to grieve. Lara was tremendously talented, a force…. We’ll all miss her, maybe forever. But…well, you’ve got to move on. It hurts to see you so unhappy.”

“I’m fine. It’s just…the whole thing was so absurd. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Lara would drink on top of drugs before a performance.”

“You’ve got to accept it. It happened. You can’t keep questioning fate—you have to let it go, however much you don’t want to.”

“Thanks. Moving into psychiatry, are you?” she teased.

He put up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I quit. Come on, let’s play some salsa, huh? I really want to wow ’em tonight.”

She walked over to the stereo system. “Salsa it is.”

What did they wear to clubs these days?

Next to nothing, it seemed.

It was still early—for clubbing—when Quinn returned to the beach. Luckily it was a weeknight, and he was in time to get a meter right on the street and a seat at the sidewalk café across from Suede and Moonlight Sonata. He sat staring at the Deco building that housed the club and dance studio. He’d watched people arrive for dance classes—taking the stairs up to the second floor at the side of the building—along with the few who were already arriving for a night on the town. Several people had entered the lower level dressed in shorts and T-shirts with lettering that advertised “Suede.” Apparently they were employees. In between arrivals, the café was one of those perfect spots for people-watching.

A gothic group cruised by, one girl, two guys, all three with nose rings and enough silver in their ears to weight down a cargo ship. Despite the balmy quality of the weather, they wore dark jeans and long black jackets, along with makeup that left them looking like walking cadavers.

They were followed by an elderly couple, moving very slowly. Harvey, as the wife addressed the man, wasn’t holding the bagel bag securely enough, according to Edith, the woman.

Three bathing beauties strolled past him next. One had on a short jacket, which pretended to cover up the expanse of ample breasts displayed by the strings of her bikini top. The jacket, however, ended at her midriff. The bottom of her bathing suit was a thong. She was wearing three-inch heels, as well.

Interesting ensemble.

As night came on, so did more of the bold, the beautiful and the downright ugly.

A doorman came out to guard the entrance to the club.

A lithe Latin girl in see-through white entered with a tall dark man, followed by three obvious rockers, speaking so loudly that their English accents were clearly discernible across the street.

Quinn sipped a mineral water, somewhat amused as he turned a page in the notebook before him—compliments of Doug. His brother was meticulously thorough. This file described the teachers at the studio. Interesting group. He’d started with Gordon Henson, who had bought the business in the early seventies. He no longer taught, but in his day, he had apparently instructed some of the top champions in the world. He still showed up at the studio and did some overseeing of the day-to-day business. He had basically turned things over to Shannon Mackay, though. She had some students but also saw to the running of the studio. She was a native Floridian, born in Winter Haven, moved with her folks to the Miami area when she was three, had graduated from the area’s specialized high school, then gone to an arts school in New York City. She was five feet seven inches, one hundred and twenty-five pounds, a green-eyed, dark blond dynamo, with a capacity for pure professionalism. Doug, it seemed, had waxed a little poetic on the last.

That didn’t surprise Quinn.

Everyone he had seen in the studio was attractive. Well-dressed, well-groomed. The men wore suits, the women dresses or feminine pants ensembles. The girls were pretty, the men, if not exactly handsome, certainly presentable. But Shannon Mackay was a standout. Features delicate but precise, hair soft in a stunning color of sunlight, and eyes deep, direct and thoughtful. More, she seemed to radiate a sensual energy, her every movement unintentionally seductive, her smile somehow open and secretive in one. Beguiling.

She wore one of the Versace scents—he knew it because his mother loved perfumes and he’d learned the names. Shannon had the ability to touch gently but still steer and manipulate a student as she wanted. At his stage, he stood somewhat awkwardly apart from her when they danced. Close enough, though. She was something. Maybe that was why he had done so badly—it was difficult to concentrate when he was so close to her. Hell, yes, difficult to concentrate, but he just wasn’t cut out for dancing. Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be taking lessons long.

He wondered idly what he would have felt if he’d met her under different circumstances. Severely piqued interest, at the least. She had a chemistry that instantly aroused interest at an instinctive level. He would have liked to ask her out, listen to her voice, get between the light and shadow of her eyes.

She was as suspect as anyone else in a possible murder, he reminded himself.

A damned sexy suspect.

And yet…what if he’d met her elsewhere? He suddenly found himself pondering his last night with Geneva and wondering what exactly was wrong with him. They’d been together five years, and that night, she had just exploded. He was never with her, she’d said. Not ever really with her. Not even when they made love. He lived work, breathed work and had become his work. She’d been crying. He had wanted to assure her somehow, but every word she’d said had been true. To others, it had been a perfect relationship. He was FBI; she was an assistant D.A. Tough schedules, the same parties. She teased that she always looked great on his arm; she was bright and beautiful. But somehow, it was true. The work—and the way it didn’t always work—had begun to obsess him. He had been able to leave the office but never to let go. His workouts at the gym were no longer exercise but him beating up an enemy he couldn’t touch, a vague force that was beating him, creating an inner rage.

Over. Over and done with. He was further disturbed by the knowledge that he hadn’t felt any lonelier when she was gone. He had merely felt the strange darkness, the frustration, and, finally, the feeling that he wasn’t where he should be, that he was no longer effective. Time to change his life, maybe even come home.

Then there had been the Nell Durken case.

The bastard who had killed her was in jail. Largely because of his work, his records, and what he’d given the cops. A killer was caught. He would face trial.

But was he the killer?

The question nagged at him, and he gritted his teeth.

Back to the files. The business at hand.

Shannon Mackay. She ran the business, taught, didn’t compete. Apparently a broken ankle several years ago had caused her to step out of the arena of professional competition. She’d been at the top of her form, and the trophies she’d won were part of what gave the studio its reputation.

So what had she felt about Lara Trudeau? Doug’s files didn’t say.

He stared across the street, reflecting on his instructor. She’d been tense. His questions had made her nervous. Or maybe she was always tense. No…she was on edge, something more than usual.

Rhianna Markham, Jane Ulrich. Both pretty, unmarried, no solid relationships, no children. Rhianna was from Ohio and had a degree from a liberal arts college. Jane had never gone past high school but had worked three years as a dancer at one of the central Florida theme parks before coming south. Both were ambitious, wanted to advance in the professional world. Lara Trudeau would have been their competition.

Of course, every female competitor in the dance world would have been in the same position. Assuming that Lara Trudeau had somehow been helped to her demise, she had done so before a crowd of hundreds—a large percentage of them competitors. He could be barking up the wrong tree entirely.

But he had to start somewhere. If Lara Trudeau had been murdered, it had been by someone with whom she had a close relationship. To have her die the way she did, before a crowd of hundreds, a murderer would have had to plan very carefully. And it certainly did seem odd that a woman who had been a student at the school had died from an eerily similar overdose just weeks before, even if she hadn’t been at the studio in some time.

So…

Love. Hate.

The male instructors. Ben Trudeau. The ex-husband. Always a good suspect. Late thirties, tall, attractive, talented, a bit hardened, and, like Lara, growing old for the field of competition. He’d taken a steady teaching job rather than just coaching. Sam Railey, Jane Ulrich’s partner, deeply loyal, determined that they would rise to the top—they had come close together, many times. Justin Garcia, salsa specialist, newest teacher at the studio.

Then there was Lara’s partner, Jim Burke. Not a full time teacher at the studio but a coach, as well. Again, a tall, striking man of thirty, lucky to be chosen to be Lara’s partner. Now alone. With Lara, he flew like an eagle. Without her…he had no partner. He was back to square one. No matter what his talent, Lara had been the driving force of the pairs, the true prima donna of the dance floor. Jim Burke seemed an unlikely candidate as a murderer.

Gordon Henson?

Quinn shook his head. It wasn’t difficult finding motives for most of Lara’s acquaintances and associates. Gordon had gotten Lara started; he gave her space, taught her to move. Had she spurned him, rejected him, made fun of him…threatened him?

He looked across the street again. He had only glanced through the files on the teachers and he had half a dozen scenarios already. He hadn’t even begun to study the student lists.

It was now beginning to get busier over at Suede. He checked his watch. After ten. He was surprised to realize that the waiter at the little café had politely let him sit here, nursing a water, for so long. He started to rise, then paused, watching.

Shannon Mackay was coming down the steps from the side entry to the studio. She had apparently left in a hurry and rushed halfway down, looking behind her as she did so.

Then she stopped, took a deep breath and squared her soldiers.

For a minute she simply stood there. At last she turned and slowly walked back up. She took out a set of keys and made quick work of locking the door, then started down the steps again.

She walked slowly at first. Then, as she neared the bottom, she began rushing again. She reached the sidewalk and took another deep breath. She stared back up the steps, then shook her head.

The doorman at Suede saw her as she stood on the sidewalk. He called out a greeting, and she swung around, greeting him in turn.

Then she disappeared into the club as he opened the door for her.

Very curious behavior, Quinn thought.

He left the café, making sure to leave a generous tip. He would undoubtedly be wanting his table back in the days to come. He stopped by his car long enough to toss in the files he’d been reading, then headed across the street.

The doorman at Suede was jet-black, a good six-three, and pure muscle. He looked at Quinn, frowned, sized him up and down, and decided to let him pass.

Inside, the music was loud.

The bar was to the rear of the building, the dance floor about ten feet from the entrance. The place advertised live music and lived up to the advertising. The room was handsomely appointed, with the walls painted to imitate a sunset. Floor lighting gave the place just enough illumination to make the tables navigable, while spotlights gave a burst of life to the polished dance floor. A Latin trio was playing, and the beat was fast. Tables surrounded the floor on either side, and despite it being a weeknight, most of the tables were filled, though the place wasn’t overcrowded. Scantily clad women on the dance floor gyrated at shocking speeds, some looking good and some not.

Toward the rear of the place, to the left of the bar, he caught sight of Gordon Henson. The thick thatch of white hair on his head was caught in the light, drawing attention to him. Skirting around the dance floor, Quinn saw that his brother was in attendance, along with Bobby Yarborough, one of his classmates from the academy, and Bobby’s new wife, or at least, Quinn assumed it was his wife. He’d never met her. Shannon Mackay was next to Doug, on her other side a tall man in a white tailored shirt and sport jacket, who, in turn, was next to a small woman of about forty, perfectly elegant, but with features so taut they screamed plastic surgery.

Doug, looking across the floor, saw him and, with some surprise, called his name. “Quinn!”

Quinn continued across the room, excusing himself with a quick smile when he nearly collided with a waitress.

“My brother with the two left feet,” Doug teased, rising to greet him with a handshake.

“Hey, now, that’s not really true,” Shannon said, defending him. The words, however, seemed to be a natural reaction; she smiled, but she seemed distracted.

“That’s right. You had your first lesson today, so you’ve met Shannon and Gordon, and of course, you know Bobby.”

Quinn nodded, reaching out to shake Bobby’s hand. Bobby grinned broadly. “Hey, Quinn. You haven’t met my wife, Giselle.”

“Giselle, nice to meet you. Congratulations on your wedding.”

Giselle smiled. “Thank you. It’s amazing. I thought it would never come. Now, I feel as if we’ve been married forever.”

“Ouch,” Bobby said.

She squeezed his arm. “I meant that in the best possible way.”

“Hmm,” Bobby mused, feigning a frown.

“Quinn, these are the doctors Long,” Doug continued. “Richard and Mina.”

He shook hands with the couple. “How nice. Do you work together?”

The petite blonde laughed. “Good heavens, no. Richard is a dermatologist and plastic surgeon. I’m a lowly, hardworking pediatrician.”

“She’s far more noble,” Richard said, grinning.

“You’re the artist,” his wife teased back.

His arm, casually around her shoulders as they sat in the expansive booth, tightened affectionately. “We simply thank God we don’t work together. That way, we get to enjoy the time we do share.”

“Great,” Quinn said.

“Here, please, sit,” Mina Long said, inching closer to her husband.

“I don’t want to crowd you.”

“Oh, please, don’t worry,” Richard said. “We’re only here for a few minutes longer. We have to join some other friends across the room. In fact…we were about to dance?” He wasn’t looking at his wife but across the table at Shannon.

“That’s the music you want?” she asked.

“That’s it,” he told her.

“Excuse me, then…?”

Bobby and Giselle moved out, allowing Shannon to slip from the booth. She brushed past Quinn, who excused himself, moving backward again to allow her more room.

“Sit, bro,” Doug said, as the others slid back in. “So how did you like your lesson?”

“It was…great,” Quinn said. He watched as Shannon took the floor with Richard Long. A moment later, they were moving with astonishing grace, taking up the floor, entwined in seemingly impossible ways, and doing it so well that many of the people on the floor moved back, cheering.

“That’s salsa?” Quinn said.

“Samba,” Gordon told him.

He looked across the table at Mina. “And do you dance, too, Dr. Long?”

“Oh, yes.” She laughed pleasantly. “But not like Shannon.” She grinned. “Richard and I dance together at social functions, of course. But frankly, he prefers Shannon—and I prefer Sam. Sam Railey. He’s my teacher. Two amateurs naturally dance better with two professionals.” She leaned closer across the table. “I’m afraid Richard is showing off tonight. We have to join a few of his professional associates in a minute.”

“Ah, I see,” Quinn said.

She smiled again. It would have been a great smile—if it hadn’t appeared that her entire face might shatter. “You will see. Wait until you get into it more. Hey, have you seen your brother dance?”

“Believe it or not, I haven’t.”

Mina Long looked at Doug. “I’m not exactly Jane or Shannon, but we can give your big brother a bit of show, if you like?”

“Absolutely,” Doug agreed. “Sorry,” he said apologetically to the others again.

“Hey, we might as well dance, too,” Bobby told his bride.

“Might as well?” Giselle said with a groan. “See, Bobby, it is as if we’ve been married forever.”

Bobby laughed. “Sorry. My beloved wife, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

“Good save,” Doug muttered, and they all laughed.

“Pretty darned good, yes,” Mina agreed, and she took his hand, heading for the dance floor.

“How did you enjoy your lesson?” Gordon Henson asked Quinn.

“You know, quite frankly, I went because Doug bought me the guest passes and he was so into it himself. But I was surprised. I did enjoy it,” Quinn said, his eyes on his brother and Mina.

His brother, he noted, was good. Bobby and Giselle, both beginners, weren’t as smooth but obviously enjoyed themselves.

“Those two only came in to take some classes before their wedding. They keep coming back,” Gordon told him. Then he leaned against the table. “So, what do you do, Mr. O’Casey?”

Quinn didn’t have a chance to answer him. A man approached the table, calling out cheerfully, “Gordon! I’ll be damned. They actually got you in here?”

The man was tall, dark, good-looking, casually dressed in an open-neck black silk shirt, tan trousers and a dark jacket. His eyes were dark, too, his face deeply bronzed.

“Yeah, they dragged me down,” Gordon said, half rising to shake the newcomer’s hand.

“Gabe, this is Quinn O’Casey, Doug’s brother, a new student. Quinn, meet Gabriel Lopez, entrepreneur extraordinaire! Suede is his club.”

“How do you do?” Quinn said, shaking hands with Lopez.

“Great, thanks. And welcome. You ever been in here before?”

Quinn shook his head. “Never. I’m a total novice.”

“You’ll like it. I get the best musicians, even during the week. We keep up the floor, and our kitchen turns out amazing food.”

“So far, so good,” Quinn said.

“You haven’t been on the dance floor yet?”

Quinn grinned. “No. And you won’t see me on it for a very long time, I assure you.”

Lopez had slid into the booth next to him. “My friend, you’ll be surprised, don’t you think, Gordon?”

Gordon nodded. “Dancing gets in your blood. You hear the music, you have to move.” He shrugged, staring at the floor. “Maybe you don’t get to be a Shannon Mackay right away, but look at Doug. Six months, and he’s quite impressive. Most importantly, he’s having fun.”

“Yeah, he really enjoys it. And hey, what a setup you two have here,” Quinn said, including Lopez. “You learn upstairs, you dance downstairs. Couldn’t have been planned better.”

“True,” Gordon agreed. “And it wasn’t even planned.”

“This wasn’t a club before?”

“It’s always been a restaurant—with an excuse for a dance floor,” Lopez said. He shrugged. “When I came down, a year or so ago now, I saw the potential in the place. The other owners weren’t making use of the gold mine they had.”

“We have a great relationship,” Gordon explained. “We have the same people come in to take care of the floors, and we both get a deal that way.”

“They send me their students all the time,” Lopez said.

“And we have a place to send our students, so that they have a good time and want to take more lessons,” Gordon said, then pointed toward the ceiling. “The other tenant in the building is a designer and costumer. She’s great, too. Katarina. When someone is looking for a dress—for a night out on the town, or for a competition—they just go right across the hall. You couldn’t get a better setup.”

Lopez nodded and stood. “Well, back to business. Welcome, Mr. O’Casey.” He cocked his head, smiling. “Are you a cop, too? With your brother and his friends around now, we feel safe all the time.”

Quinn shook his head. “No, sorry, I’m not a cop. I’m into boats. Charters, diving, fishing,” Quinn said. Absolutely true, just not the whole story.

“Ah, I see. Well, then, you’re a lucky man, too. There’s nothing in the world like the sea.”

“Nothing like it,” Quinn agreed.

“Enjoy your night,” Lopez said.

“See you, Gabe,” Gordon said.

Lopez walked away, toward the kitchen.

“He’s a great guy,” Gordon said.

“Seems to be,” Quinn agreed.

“Hey, you want to see your brother really look good?” Gordon asked. There was a note of pride in his voice.

Quinn looked back to the floor. The couples had all switched around. Doug was dancing with Shannon Mackay, and there were only a few people on the floor now. The music had changed, as had the dance. It was sweeping and incredibly graceful.

“Bolero,” Gordon told him briefly.

The dance was beautiful. And Doug was good, made all the better by the elegance of his partner.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move so…”

“You mean your brother?” Gordon teased.

Quinn shook his head, grinning. “Ms. Mackay.”

“She’s the best,” Gordon said.

“Hey, Quinn, can we slip back in?”

His head jerked up. Bobby and Giselle had returned. Panting. Quinn hadn’t realized he had been almost transfixed, watching the dancers.

“You’re not doing the bolero?” he asked the pair.

Bobby snorted. “Every time we try it together, we trip each other. I’m actually kind of hopeless.”

“You’re not!” Giselle protested.

Bobby made a face at Quinn. “You should see her in group class. She subtly—lovingly—tries to make sure she’s in front of some other guy all the time.”

“I do not. I would never.” She shrugged sheepishly at Quinn. “We change partners every few minutes anyway. What good would it do?”

Doug came up to the table, drawing Shannon by the hand. “Well?” he asked Quinn. It was strange. Doug had been totally serious about his suspicions regarding Lara Trudeau’s death, but right now, he was like the anxious little kid brother Quinn had known all his life, wanting his approval.

“You two blew me away,” he said.

Doug was pleased. “Now it’s your turn.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Quinn said, laughing.

“No, no, you’ll be fine,” Bobby encouraged. “It’s a merengue. You can’t mess it up.”

“Trust me, I can.”

“Come on, Mr. O’Casey,” Shannon said to him. “It’s step, step, step. March, march, march. I know you can do it.”

She was extending her elegant hand to him, those eyes of hers directly on his, challenging. It was as if she didn’t believe for a second that he had really come for dance lessons.

He shrugged. “All right. If you’re all absolutely determined to make me look like a fool…”

“You’ll never look like a fool—not with Shannon,” Gordon said.

“Doesn’t look like they’re just doing march, march, march to me,” he told her ruefully as they stepped onto the dance floor.

“They are—they’re just adding turns.”

She was in his arms, showing him the hold. “Just follow my movements. Men always—always—lead in dance,” she told him, “but since you haven’t done this yet…left, right, left, right…feel the beat?”

He did feel the beat. And more. The searing touch of her eyes, probing his. The subtle movement of her body, erotic along with the music.

“March, march,” he said.

“You’re doing fine.”

“Thanks. And how about you?”

Her brows hiked. “I’m impressed. You really do have a sense of rhythm. We can try some of those arm movements if you want. Just lift them…and I’ll turn, then you turn. Merengue is a favorite, because no matter what, it’s march, march.”

“I’m not wiggling like those guys.”

“Because you don’t have your Cuban motion yet. You’ll get it.”

Cuban motion, huh? She certainly had it. The way her hips moved was unbelievable.

He lifted his arms as she had instructed. He was a little too jerky, but she could deal with it.

“Now you,” she told him, and he repeated her motion.

Step, step, march, march. Okay…

“Was something wrong earlier tonight?” he asked her.

“What?” She frowned.

“I saw you coming down the steps. You looked…uneasy,” he said.

“You saw me? You were watching me?” Her tone was level, but he heard a note of outrage. “Are you following me or something, Mr. O’Casey?”

He laughed, keeping the sound light. “No, sorry, and I didn’t mean to imply such a thing. I went over to the place across the street for a hamburger before coming here,” he said. Okay, so the hamburger was a lie.

“Oh.” She flushed. “Sorry. I just…It’s an uncomfortable feeling, to think you’re being watched.”

“No, no…sorry. It’s just that…you looked scared.”

Maybe women weren’t supposed to lead, but she pressed his arms up and moved herself into a turn, shielding her eyes from his for a moment. Facing him again, she said, “Gordon was already down here. I was locking up alone. One of the books fell or something right before I walked out. It startled me.”

His hamburger story was a lie, and her falling book story was a lie, as well. Something much bigger had definitely frightened her.

“Unfortunately, Miami deserves its reputation for crime. You do need to be careful if you’re locking up alone,” he told her.

“The club is open every night. There’s a doorman on Thursday through Sunday. We park in the lot in the back, but it’s right across from a convenience store. There probably couldn’t be a safer place. And there are only three of us in the building—the club, the studio and the design shop. I know everyone.”

“But you can’t know everyone who comes into the club,” he said.

“No, of course not. But still I’ve always felt safe. Not only that, but I’m tougher than I look.”

“Really?” He had to smile.

“Don’t doubt it,” she told him, and there was definitely a warning in her voice. “Trust me. I can be tough.”

“A tough dancer,” he mused.

“That’s right. I love the studio—and I hate lies.”

“Do you, now?” he demanded. He thought that he saw the slightest hint of a flush touch her cheeks before she drew away from him.

“The music has changed. You’re not ready for a mambo,” she told him.

And turning, she walked away, leaving him on the floor.