Читать книгу The Way He Moves - Marcia King-Gamble - Страница 11

“YOU DANCE LIKE A NATIVE,” the redhead said coyly. She’d commandeered Marc’s arm and practically dragged him onto the dance floor. With each sultry move her oversized breasts grazed his chest, but he still didn’t know her name, nor was he particularly interested in finding out.

“You could say I am a native,” Marc answered smoothly, executing an underarm turn. “My mother was Argentinean, so I learned to dance practically before I could walk.”

“Argentinean.” She looked at him, awed. “I thought you were a good ole boy from Texas. I checked out your boots.”

He wasn’t sure how to take that. Was it a come on?

“I’m from Canada. Alberta’s where I was born, but I’ve been working in Texas for a couple of years. The boots are my tribute to Texas, but we’ve got lots of cowboys in Alberta, too.”

“Cool!”

Marc couldn’t wait for the dance to end. He had no desire to discuss his personal life with a stranger. He tried taking the lead since he could almost hear her counting the salsa beat in her head, but she wouldn’t let him.

Quick, quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow. Although not exactly proficient in salsa, she faked it, using a lot of hip and breast movement to make it look authentic.

“I’m Heddy,” she said, her lips close to his ear.

“Heddy? That’s an unusual name.”

“It’s actually Heather Maxwell but I hate Heather.”

“Heather’s a beautiful name,” Marc murmured.

From the moment he’d arrived at the party, she’d attached herself to him. She’d even accompanied him to the Guest Relations Desk to straighten out a problem with his onboard charge card when his purchase didn’t go through. She seemed pleasant enough but not terribly bright. Right now she was providing a welcome distraction, helping him get his mind off the real reason he’d been forced to take this sudden vacation.

A hand tapped his shoulder. He jumped. He was still jittery and on edge, and rightly so, given everything he’d been through.

“May I cut in?” a well-groomed, dark-haired man asked. He eyed Heddy.

“Of course.”

Ignoring Heddy’s frantic headshakes, Marc quickly turned her over to the man and left the dance floor.

As he made his way across the room, Marc noticed a group of people gathered around someone. His first thought was that it must be one of the celebrity instructors putting on a solo performance. Curious, he slowed his pace, hoping to see one of the greats, but as bits of conversation floated his way, he realized he’d been mistaken.

“It must feel great finding the pendant,” a woman’s high-pitched voice shrilled. “You’re bound to get lots of attention.”

“With looks like that, you don’t need a pendant,” another voice called out. “Hand it over, girl. Some of us need it more.”

“Did the cruise staff tell you what kinds of perks you’ll get if they find you wearing the pendant?”

Marc couldn’t hear the responses to the questions but guessed the fuss had something to do with the treasure hunt mentioned in the embarkation pamphlet. He’d passed on hunting for the pendant. Finding love wasn’t in the cards right now; his primary focus was staying alive.

He was on this ship for two reasons—first, because he’d been ordered by his boss to disappear, and second, because there was nothing he enjoyed more than dancing. Dancing was a great stress reliever. And for the next fourteen days he could take lessons with the best.

There had been threats on his life recently, followed by a dozen or so near mishaps. Marc was ordered to take a vacation and forced out of his beloved Colombia. Leaving the country he loved and his high-profile position at the Canadian embassy only added to his stress, but at least the dance-themed cruise would keep him from thinking about it for a while.

He’d grown up taking dance lessons. Both of his parents had been accomplished dancers. High level government officials, they’d expected their children to know how to dance, and their social life revolved around various ballroom events. His mother, a South American socialite, and his father, also from a socially prominent Canadian family, thought it would instill confidence and at the same time keep them occupied.

At first, Marc had been resentful about having to go to dance classes when his friends were out playing sports. But as he got older he began to appreciate having this skill. Dancing had made adolescence far less painful. While his schoolmates had difficulty crossing a room to ask a girl to dance, he found it easy. And once he was on the floor he became another person, totally uninhibited. This made him a popular and sought-after date.

He stood now at the fringe of the crowd, curious to see who the crew members were filming. Whoever it was must be enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame and eating up the attention.

He caught a glimpse of turquoise clothing and wavy black hair and knew it was a woman. She must be hot since there was a disproportionate number of men in the crowd.

The music in the background swelled, and a female voice took over the microphone. The interview was over.

“It’s lady’s choice. Gals, it’s your turn to grab yourself a man.”

A stampede ensued as women pulled visibly reluctant partners onto the dance floor. Marc wanted to see the woman in the turquoise dress so he hung back. When she turned around and he saw her face, he stared. It couldn’t be, but the flicker of recognition in those violet eyes told him it was Serena. No one had eyes quite like hers. He was transported back to another time, another place.

They were in a dance club, elegant and imposing, with winding staircases and a polished oak floor. He’d been taken there by a business colleague and his wife, people who weren’t serious dancers but just out to have a good time. When Marc had spotted Serena on that dance floor, he’d known that she was the one.

He’d positioned himself in such a way that when the dance ended, he was in her path. He’d asked her to join him in a Viennese waltz, and one dance had led to another. They fell in step easily. The perfect fit. Quickly, too quickly, the evening had passed.

A look of revulsion now replaced the startled expression in Serena’s eyes and she was staring at him as if he were some kind of rodent.

Marc had learned to school his expressions and keep his emotions under wraps. In his business you had to. He’d hoped and prayed for months that Serena d’Andrea would get in touch with him, and when that hadn’t happened, he’d become resigned to never seeing her again. The irony of it was that she was now aboard this cruise ship with him. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He would not endanger her life.

Marc nodded, acknowledging her.

Serena’s violet eyes traveled the length of him, but she maintained a respectable distance. At last she spoke.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Do we know each other?” The lie rolled easily off his tongue.

Serena’s lips quivered slightly. She was thrown.

“Marc LeClair?” she asked, uncertainly.

“Sorry. I’m flattered and wish I were him. My name is Gilles Anderson. You are?”

“Serena d’Andrea,” she answered in the smoky voice he remembered.

She was so beautiful. He’d fallen hard and he still hadn’t recovered. Marc gave Serena a slow, lazy smile. He tried not to let the memories take over. It had been six months since he’d last seen her but it felt like yesterday.

Serena’s winged eyebrows came together. She fingered the silver pendant and carefully looked him over.

“Gilles, were you in Buenos Aires about six months ago?”

He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not. I’ve been on business in Dallas, Texas, for the last year or so.”

“What about Colombia then? Did you live there?”

Another slow shake of his head signaled his puzzlement. “Can’t say I have, though it’s on my list of places to travel. Maybe after I get back home to Canada and tend to some business, I’ll be ready to set off again.”

“It’s nice to meet you…Gilles,” Serena said extending a hand. Her voice was heavy with skepticism. “How about we dance and get acquainted?”

He didn’t know where this was going, but no way was he getting on a dance floor with her—at least not for a sexy Latin salsa—without blowing his cover. They’d spent two weeks in Buenos Aires getting as close as any two people could. They’d danced and alternately made love, sometimes doing both simultaneously. Serena knew all of his moves.

“I’m going to have to pass, I’m afraid. Besides I’m hopeless when it comes to rhythm dancing.”

“I’ll take the lead,” she offered, coming right at him, her arms open.

“If he doesn’t want to dance, I’d be happy to,” a male voice said behind them. Without waiting for an answer, the man took Serena’s hands and began tugging her onto the floor. She didn’t look particularly happy but she went.

It had been a close call. The woman Marc had dreamed of and fantasized about for months, the woman who haunted his memories was here. Talk about poor timing.

The redhead was back.

“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She held out a freshly made drink, which he took from her.

“Thanks.”

“How come you’re not dancing?” she asked, swiveling her hips. “I would have thought you could have any woman you want. You’re the hottest guy on this ship.”

Marc took a swallow of the clear-colored liquid. “What is this?”

“Rum and coconut water. The bartender’s from the islands. I told him to make us one of his favorite local drinks.”

Us? She was moving too fast for him, but she just might be what he needed to take his mind off Serena.

“We should dance,” Heddy said, coming even closer, her gigantic breasts almost nudging his chest.

“Okay, how about when the music changes and things slow down.”

“Perfect.”

There was a wide smile on her face now. From his answer she probably figured he was interested in her. Marc felt a twinge of guilt.

After a few more songs the music changed and several enterprising couples began to cha-cha-cha. Setting down his almost empty glass, Marc gestured for her to do the same. Heddy carried her glass with her and they began a one handed cha-cha-cha.

They’d been dancing for several minutes when a shrill scream tore through the music. People began scattering.

“Stop him,” a high pitched female voice shouted.

“Stop that thief. He tried to mug that woman.”

“Oh, my God he was choking her.”

A man plowed through the crowd, shoving people aside. He was heading directly toward them. Marc grabbed the half-filled glass that Heddy still held and flung the liquid into the man’s face. He stumbled and went down like a brick, arms splaying to brace his fall. The object he held hit the floor and began to roll.

Marc straddled the man, grabbed one of his arms and twisted it behind his back, almost wrenching it from its socket.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, applying pressure to the arm.

“Please, please, don’t hurt me,” the man whined. “I didn’t steal anything.”

Two passengers helped Marc keep the thief prone, until men wearing polo shirts with the Alexandra’s Dream logo took over.

“Security,” they barked, identifying themselves.

A pair of corded arms physically loosened Marc’s grip. He was breathing hard from the exertion of keeping the thief still.

The security man’s buddy placed a gigantic boot-clad foot on the small of the man’s back.

“You were great,” a woman in an elaborate ball gown gushed, her hand grazing Marc’s forearm. “What if he’d had a weapon?”

“Way to go, bud,” another man said.

Marc was still dazed, unable to believe that something like this could happen on a cruise ship. People were gawking, shocked, watching the thief as he was pulled to his feet and cuffed.

A man in ship’s whites, a stethoscope draped around his neck, pushed through the crowd. He was escorted by another security type. They headed for a woman seated in a lounge chair and surrounded by cruise personnel who were holding passengers back from the area.

Serena! Marc’s heart pounded in his chest. Was she all right? There would be hell to pay if she was hurt. A woman squatting next to her held her hand, offering water periodically. A crew member held a cold compress to the side of her neck and a tall, broad shouldered man who looked to be in charge had an anxious look on his face.

It must have been her jewelry the thief was after. He’d ripped the necklace off without caring whether he hurt Serena or not. Marc should have broken the bastard’s arm. He swallowed the bile that was slowly rising in his throat and fought to get his emotions under control.

The doctor removed the compress, revealing an ugly bruise on Serena’s neck. As the medic’s fingers probed the area, a man with a hip-rolling walk approached one of the security officers, muttering something in his ear. He was allowed access to the injured woman. He squatted down and folded something into her palm.

Serena opened her hand and brought the item closer to her. It shone under the artificial lighting, just like the tears in her eyes.

If Marc ever got hold of that bastard, the guy would live to regret what he’d done. Only a coward would hurt a woman.