Heather Graham - Dead On The Dance Floor

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.

Shannon made a point of getting to the studio by nine the following morning. She had agreed to coach Sam and Jane at ten, and at eleven, Gordon wanted to go over more of the Gator Gala figures and plans.

Reaching the studio wasn’t difficult—she walked fifty percent of the time. Her house was just a few blocks away—thanks to Gordon.

Years ago, he had found the old place for sale. At that time, the block had been very run-down, and her house had come with horrible plumbing, no central air and the ugliest wallpaper known to man. The carpet could actually cause one to gag.

But the house had been the deal of the century. Small—there were only two bedrooms, and the yard was the size of a postage stamp—but she lived three blocks from the beach, and in the years since she had owned the house, the value had quadrupled. And it was hers. There weren’t that many private homes in the area, and she knew she was very lucky to have the space. And she wouldn’t have it, if it weren’t for Gordon. He’d loaned her the down payment.

Sometimes, when she realized that she’d been in the studio for probably eighty hours in one week, she liked to tell him that he’d gotten his investment back from her in blood and sweat. He told her that of course he had, he wasn’t a stupid man.

This morning, though, she was anxious to be in the studio—by the light of day. She was determined to convince herself that she was either overwrought or a little bit crazy—or both.

She climbed the stairs to the front door and waited, then inserted the key in the lock. Hesitantly she pushed the door open, then paused, listening.

Not a thing.

She entered the studio slowly, scoping out the polished wood floor and gazing around the room. Two sides were composed of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Facing the street, giant picture windows looked out on the day. The “conference room” was to the front, while the reception area and offices lined part of the wall nearest the door. Toward the rear were four doors, the first opening to the instructors’ room, the next opening to the men’s room, the third to the ladies’, and the fourth—with a counter section next to it—leading to the mini-kitchen. A small hallway between the bathrooms led to the rear door, where, just outside, there was a little patio shared by both upstairs establishments. To the left of the rear door was an expanse of wall with a door that led to the storage space. There was also access from the outside, since originally the storage space hadn’t come with the studio. Now, all of them had keys to it. Katarina kept a few costume dummies and supplies there, the dance studio kept records and various other items at different times, and while the club actually had much greater space downstairs, they sometimes needed a little extra now and then. There had never been any problems over sharing.

Across the patio were stairs leading up to a newly revamped third floor. Previously, it had pretty much been wasted space, but Gabriel Lopez had gotten permission from the corporate owners of the property to finish it and create an apartment. He and Gordon joked about it all the time—the apartment was terrific, and Gordon was jealous. He wished he’d come up with the idea. He had a great condo farther up on the beach—he just hated driving.

Shannon knew the studio and the building like the back of her hand. And that was why she had been so unnerved the night before.

With everyone else gone and the stereo silent, she had been in her own office, glancing over the student records. They all did their best to keep their students coming. The students were their livelihood. She had an excellent staff—dedicated professionals who were determined to really teach dance and give the clients their money’s worth for every minute on the floor—and everyone took responsibility for keeping the students happy. Still, when a student with a regular schedule suddenly became a no-show, something was wrong, and as manager, it was her responsibility to call that person, chat with them and make sure they hadn’t been offended in some way.

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