Heather Graham - Dead On The Dance Floor

“I wasn’t worried,” he said. “Just…well, sorry about the loss, of course. And curious.”

Obviously, people would be upset. And yes, curious. In the world of dance, Lara had reigned as a queen. Though most people might not have known her name—any more than Shannon might have known that of the leading Nascar racer—such a death still made the newspapers and even a number of news broadcasts. Several stations had been there filming when she had died.

Sure, people were going to be curious.

Gordon had given a speech to her; she had given one to the teachers, and she’d also written up a little notice for the students. She didn’t know why she felt annoyed at explaining the situation to this particular man.

“We were all curious,” she said evenly. “Lara Trudeau was amazing. She wasn’t into alcohol or drugs, prescription or otherwise. None of us knows what happened that day. She was brilliant, and she, and her talent, will be missed. But dancing is hardly dangerous. Obviously, it’s a physical activity. But we’ve had a number of heart patients here for therapy. It’s dangerous to sit still and become a couch potato, too.” She was suddenly angry, feeling as if she was personally under attack, and didn’t understand why. She was about to get up and assure him that she would return Doug’s money for the guest pass, but then he spoke.

“Rhythm,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“I think I said the wrong thing. I’d like to be able to go to a club like Suede, the one right below you, and not look like a total horse’s a—idiot. Salsa, right?”

“They do a lot of salsa. Mambo, samba, merengue…Tuesday nights they have a swing party.”

“But they waltz at weddings, right?” He gave the appearance of seriously considering his options.

“Yes.”

“Do I have to pick certain dances?”

“No, but it would be nice to know where you’d like to start.”

“Where do you generally start?”

She rose. “At the beginning. Come on. If you’ve no real preferences, we’ll do it my way.”

“You’re going to be my instructor?” He was surprised, but she didn’t think he was pleased.

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“No, I just…Doug said you didn’t take new students.”

“I don’t usually. But the way it works is, unless there’s a problem, the teacher to sign on a new student becomes their regular instructor.” She hadn’t meant to actually take him as her student, but now…she meant to keep him. There was just something about him that…

A voice in her ear whispered that he was the most arresting man she’d met in a long time. Best-looking, definitely most sensual, man.

Yes, yes, all acknowledged from the start.

But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t his appearance, which was, admittedly, imposing.

There was something else.

It was ridiculous that she was feeling so paranoid.

But the man bore watching. That feeling of wariness would not go away.

Maybe.

That was her thought thirty minutes later.

Maybe she hadn’t been teaching enough lately. Maybe she couldn’t teach and keep an eye on him at the same time. Her patience just wasn’t where it should be. There was no chance of anyone stepping in and actually leading him—placing a hand on his arm had assured her of that. It was like setting her fingers on a solid wall. It didn’t help that he was stiff, no matter how much she tried to get him to relax.

He actually seemed to be confused between left and right.

They were doing a box step, for God’s sake. A simple box step.

“No, Quinn, your left foot goes forward first. The same foot we’ve used the last twenty-five times.” Was her voice showing strain? Once upon a time, she’d been known for her patience.

He hadn’t lied when he said he had two left feet.

“We’re just making a square—a box. Left foot forward, right side…a box.”

“Yeah, right. A box. So how many teachers are there here, actually?”

“Are you afraid that I can’t teach you, Mr. O’Casey?”

“No, no, I just wondered. You’re doing fine. I was just curious as to how many teachers you have.”

“Ben Trudeau is teaching full time now.”

“Trudeau?” he said.

“He used to be married to Lara. They’ve been divorced for several years. He was mainly doing competitions and coaching, but he decided a few months ago that he wanted to take up residence on the beach. He’s an excellent teacher.”

“He must be devastated.”

“We’re all devastated, Mr. O’Casey.”

“Sorry. I can imagine. She must have been something. So accomplished, and such a friend to everyone here, huh? Doug told me she taught here sometimes.”

“She coached,” Shannon told him.

“Must be hard for all of you to have the studio open and be teaching already.”

“Work goes on.”

“So all the teachers have come back?”

“Yes.”

“Who are the rest of them?”

“Justin Garcia and Sam Railey, and Jane Ulrich, who teaches your brother, and another woman, Rhianna Markham.”

His foot landed hard on hers once again.

“Sorry—I told you I had two left feet,” he apologized.

Shannon drew a deep breath. “We do want to get you to where you can converse while you’re on the floor, but maybe if you didn’t ask so many questions while we were working, it might be better.”

“Sorry. Just want to get to know the place, feel a little more comfortable here.”

“That’s what the practice sessions and parties are for,” she murmured.

“Parties?”

“And practice sessions,” she said firmly. “Beginners come on Monday, Tuesday and Friday nights, sometimes even the other weeknights if we get busy, and learn more steps in groups. Then you hone those steps with your teacher.”

“Do students have to come?”

“Of course not. But individual sessions are expensive. The group sessions are open to all enrolled students. You learn a lot faster and make a lot better use of your money by attending the group classes.”

“And the parties? When are they? Are they for all the students?”

“Wednesday nights, eight to ten, and yes, beginners are welcome. You should come.”

“I will.”

His foot crunched down on hers once again. Hard. She choked back a scream. How much longer? Fifteen more minutes. She wasn’t sure she could take it.

She looked around. Jane still hadn’t returned from her appointment. Rhianna was working with David Mercutio, husband of Katarina Mercutio, the designer who shared the second floor of the building with them. She was wonderful—specializing in weddings, with one-of-a-kind dresses for both brides and wedding parties. She had also learned the special requirements for ballroom-competition gowns, and had made some truly spectacular dresses. Just as it was great for the studio to be right on top of the club, it was a boon to have Katarina right next to them.

David was a regular who came twice a week to work with Rhianna. He had also known and worked with Lara. He and Rhianna were deep in conversation as they twirled around, working on a tango. She knew they were probably discussing Lara. Sam Railey, however, didn’t have a student at the moment. He was putting his CDs in order.

Quinn O’Casey’s really large left foot landed on her toe once again.

“Sam!” she called suddenly, breaking away from her partner.

“Yeah?” he looked up.

“Can I borrow you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

Shannon headed toward the stereo, waiting for the tango to play out, removed the CD and replaced it with an old classic—Peggy Lee singing “Fever.” Sam walked over to partner her as she spoke to her new student. “Right now, you’re just trying to get the basic box. But if you think of the steps to the music, it might help you.”