Dead On The Dance Floor

“I don’t know about you,” Ella said, shaking her head. “You were all upset when Nell Durken died, and she hadn’t been in here in a year.”

“Nell Durken didn’t just die. Her husband killed her. He probably realized he was about to lose his meal ticket,” Shannon said bitterly. Nell Durken had been one of the most amazing students to come through the door. Bubbly, beautiful and always full of life, she had been a ray of sunshine. She’d been friendly with all the students, wry about the fact that she couldn’t drag her husband in, but determined to learn on her own. Hearing that the man had killed her had been horribly distressing.

“Jeez,” Shannon breathed suddenly.

“What?” Ella said.

“It’s just strange…isn’t it?”

“What’s strange?” Ella asked, shaking her head.

“Nell Durken died because her husband forced an overdose of sleeping pills down her throat.”

“Yes? The guy was a bastard—we all thought that,” Ella said. “No one realized he was a lethal bastard, but…anyway, the cops got him. He was having an affair, but Nell was the one with the trust fund. He probably thought he’d get away with forcing all those pills down her throat. It would look like an accident, and he’d get to keep the money,” Ella said. “But they’ve got him. He could even get the death penalty—his motive was evident and his fingerprints were all over the bottle of pills.”

“Have you been watching too many cop shows?” came a query from the open door. A look of amusement on his face, Gordon was staring in at the two women.

“No, Gordon,” Ella said. “I’m just pointing out what happened to Nell Durken. And hoping the bastard will fry.”

“Fry?” Gordon said.

“Okay, so now it’s usually lethal injection. He was so mean to her, long before he killed her,” Ella said, shaking her head.

Gordon frowned. “What brought up Nell Durken?”

“Talking about Lara,” Ella said.

Gordon didn’t seem to see the correlation. “We’ve lost Lara. That’s that. She was kind of like Icarus, I guess, trying to fly too high. As to Nell…hell, we all knew she needed to leave that bastard. It’s too bad she didn’t. I wish she’d kept dancing.”

“She stopped coming in when he planned that Caribbean vacation for her, remember?” Shannon said thoughtfully. “They were going on a second honeymoon. He was going to make everything up to her.”

“And we all figured they got on great and things were lovey-dovey again, because she called in afterward saying that she wasn’t going to schedule any more lessons for a while because they were going to be traveling. And, of course,” Ella added pointedly, since Gordon was staring at her, his mouth open as if he were about to speak, “like a good receptionist, I followed up with calls, but I always got her answering machine, and then, I guess, after about six months, she kind of slipped off the ‘things to do’ list.”

“It’s horrible, though, isn’t it?” Shannon murmured. “I hope we’re not bad luck. I mean, an ex-student is murdered by her husband, and then…then Lara drops dead.”

“You think we’re jinxed?”

Shannon looked past Gordon’s shoulder. Sam Railey was right behind Gordon, staring in.

“Jinxed?” Gordon protested. “Don’t even suggest such a thing. Nell was long gone from here when she was murdered. And Lara…Lara is simply a tragedy.” He held up three fingers. “The Broward studio lost two students and an instructor last year.”

Shannon hid a smile, her brow quirking upward. “Gordon, the students were Mr. and Mrs. Hallsly, ninety and ninety three, respectively. It wasn’t such a shock that they died with a few months of one another. And,” she added softly, since she had been very fond of Dick Graft, the instructor who had died, “Dick had an aneurism.”

“I’m pointing out the fact that people die and we’re not jinxed,” Gordon said.

“Man, I hope not,” Sam said. “Because that would be two for us. And you know, things happen in threes.”

“Sam!” Gordon said.

“Oh, man, sorry. Hey, don’t worry, I’d never say anything like that in front of the students.”

“I should hope not,” Gordon admonished.

Gordon might have given the management over to Shannon, but if he were to decide that an instructor was detrimental to the studio, that teacher would be out in seconds flat.

“Hey,” another voice chimed in. Justin Garcia, five-eight tops, slim, with an ability to move with perfect rhythm, was on his toes, trying to look over the shoulders of the others gathered at Shannon’s door. “Psst.” He stared at Ella, still perched on the desk. “New student out front. I’d try to start the lesson myself, but he’s one big guy, and I think he’d cream me if I gave it a try.”

“Doug’s brother,” Ella said, jumping up.

Doug was definitely one of their favorite new students. He’d come in to learn salsa for a friend’s wedding and started out as stiff as a board, but within a week, he’d fallen in love with Cuban motion and wanted to learn everything.

He was a cop and he would laugh about the fact that his fellow officers teased him.

He was definitely appreciated by the studio’s many female students—not to mention his teacher, Jane Ulrich. Jane loved the dramatic. With Doug, she could leap, spin and almost literally fly. She was an excellent dancer, and he had the strength to allow her to do any lift she wanted to do. He was tall, blond, blue eyed and ready to go, everything one could want in a student.

Ella pushed past the men, hurrying toward the front of the studio, where she could greet their new student and get him started on paperwork.

Shannon, rising, was startled when Ella burst her way back in almost instantly, her eyes wide. “Damn, is Jane going to be sorry she had that dental appointment. Get up! You gotta see this guy.” Ella flew out again.

“Makes mincemeat out of me,” Justin told Shannon with a shrug.

Curious, Shannon followed the group on out. By then, Ella was greeting the man politely, and the others were standing around, waiting to meet him.

They didn’t usually circle around to greet their new clients.

Doug’s brother. Yes, the resemblance was there. They were of a similar height. But where Doug had nice shoulders and a lithe build, this guy looked like he’d walked out of a barbarian movie. His hair was dark, his eyes a penetrating blue. Nice face, hard, but even lines. In a cartoon, he might have been labeled Joe, the truck driver.

Just before she could step forward, Sam placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back against him. He whispered teasingly to her, “Too bad it’s against policy to fraternize with our students, huh?”

“Sam,” she chastised with a soft, weary sigh. It was policy, yes, though Gordon had always preferred not to know what he didn’t have to. She had maintained the same Don’t tell me what I don’t need to know attitude.

As she stepped away from him, she heard Justin whisper, “Policy? Like hell. For some of us, maybe, but not for others.”

Even as she extended a hand to the Atlas standing before her, Shannon wondered just what his words meant.

Who, exactly, had been fraternizing with whom?

And why the hell did this simple question suddenly make her feel so uneasy?

She forced a smile. “So you’re Doug’s brother. We’re delighted to have you. Doug is something of a special guy around here, you know.” She hesitated slightly. “Did he drag you in by the ears?”

The man smiled. Dimple in his left cheek. “Something like that,” he said. “He has a knack for coming up with just the right come-on.” His handshake was firm. “I’m Quinn. Quinn O’Casey. I’m afraid that you’re going to find me to be the brother with two left feet. You’ve got one hell of a challenge before you.”

Her smile stayed in place, though the uneasy sense swept through her again.

One hell of a challenge.

She had a feeling that he was right. On more than one level.

What the hell was he really doing here? she wondered.

“Ella, could I get a chart for Mr. O’Casey, please?” she said aloud. “Come into our conference room, and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

The conference room wasn’t really much of a room, just a little eight-by-eight enclosure. There was a round table in the middle that seated five at most, surrounded by a few shelves and a few displays. Some of the teachers’ trophies were there, along with a few she had acquired herself, and several indicating that they had won in the division of best independent studio for the past two years.

Ella handed Shannon a chart, and the others, rather than discreetly going about their business, stared. Shannon arched a brow, which sent them scurrying off. Then she closed the door and indicated a chair to Quinn O’Casey.

“Have a seat.”

“You learn to dance at a table?” he queried lightly as he sat.

“I learn a little bit about what sort of dancing you’re interested in,” she replied. Obviously, they were interested in selling dance lessons, and the conference room was sometimes referred to—jokingly—as the shark-attack haven; however, she’d never felt as if she were actually going into a hostile environment herself. She prided herself on offering the best and never forcing anyone into anything. Students didn’t return if they didn’t feel that they were getting the most for their money. And the students who came into it for the long haul were the ones who went into competition and kept them all afloat.

“So, Mr. O’Casey, just which dances do you want to learn?”

“Which dances?”

The dark-haired hunk across from Shannon lifted his brows, as if she had asked a dangerous question and was ready to suck him right in.

“We teach a lot of dances here, including country and western and polka. People usually have some kind of a plan in mind when they come in.”

“Right, well, sorry, no real plan. Doug talked me into this. Um, which dances. Well, I…I can’t dance at all,” he said. “So…uh, Doug said something about smooth, so that’s what I want, I guess,” he said.

“So you’d like a concentration on waltz, fox-trot and tango.”

“Tango?”

“Yes, tango.”

“That’s what you call a smooth dance?”

“There are quick movements, yes, and sharpness of motion is an important characteristic, but it’s considered a smooth dance. Do you want to skip the tango?”

He shrugged. “No, I haven’t a thing in the world against tango.” They might have been discussing a person. He flashed a dry smile, and she was startled by his electric appeal. He wasn’t just built. He had strong, attractive facial features, and that dimple. His eyes appealed, too, the color very deep, his stare direct. Despite herself, she felt a little flush of heat surge through her. Simple chemistry. He was something. She was professional and mature and quite able to keep any reaction under control—but she wasn’t dead.

He leaned forward suddenly. “I think I’d love to tango,” he said, as if he’d given it serious thought.

And probably every woman out there would love to tango with you, too, buddy, she thought.

She had to smile suddenly. “Are you sure you really want to take dance lessons?” she asked him.

“Yes. No.” He shrugged. “Doug really wanted me to get into it.”

Shannon suddenly felt hesitant about him. She didn’t know why—he was so physically impressive that any teacher should be glad to have him, as a challenge, at the least.

A challenge. That was it exactly. Just as he appealed to her, he created a sense of wariness in her, as well. She didn’t understand it.

She sat back, smiling, tapping her pencil idly against the table as she looked at him. She spoke casually. “Your brother is a police officer. Are you in the same line of work, Mr. O’Casey?”

“Quinn. Please, call me Quinn. And no, I’m not a cop. Although I was a cop once.”

He didn’t offer any further details.

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m with a charter service down in the Keys.”

“Fishing? Diving?”

He smiled slowly. “Yes, both. Why? Are only certain men involved in certain lines of work supposed to take dance lessons?”

She shook her head, annoyed to know that her cheeks were reddening. She stared down at the paper. “No, of course not, and I’m sorry. We just try to tailor a program toward what an individual really wants.”

“Well, I guess I just want to be able to dance socially. And I’m not kidding when I say that I can’t dance.”

Those words were earnest. The dimple in his cheek flashed.

She smiled. “Doug came in with the movement ability of a deeply rooted tree…Quinn.” His name rolled strangely on her tongue. “He’s made incredible progress.”

“Well, he just kind of fell in love with it, huh?”

Her smile deepened, and she nodded. “You don’t think you’re going to fall in love with it, do you?”

He shrugged, lifting his hands. Large hands, long fingered. Clean and neat, though. Of course. Fishing and diving. He was in the water constantly. Face deeply bronzed, making the blue of his eyes a sharp contrast. “What about you?”

“Pardon?” she said, startled that they had suddenly changed course.

“When did you fall in love with it?”

“When I could walk,” she admitted.

“Ah, so you’re one of those big competitors,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. I’m an instructor.”

He arched a brow, and she felt another moment’s slight unease as she realized he was assessing her appearance.

“I bet you would make a great competitor.”

She shrugged. “I really like what I do.”

“I guess competition can be dangerous.”

His words sounded casual enough. She felt herself stiffen. “Dangerous? Dancing?”

He shrugged again. “Doug told me someone had a heart attack and died at the last big competition.”

She shook her head. “What happened was tragic. But it was an isolated incident. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it before. We’re all shattered, of course…but, no, competition isn’t usually dangerous.” She was tempted to say more but pulled back, telling herself not to be an absolute idiot. She certainly wasn’t going to spill out her own discomfort before a man she’d just met, even if he was Doug’s brother. Doug was a student, a promising one, but even he was far from a confident. “I would assume, Mr. O’Casey, that boating and diving are far more dangerous than dancing.”

“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.”

Sam led her in the basic steps while she looked at Quinn. She was not at all convinced he was trying very hard.

To her surprise, Sam spoke up. “It looks like a boring dance,” he said to Quinn. “But it can be a lot of fun.”

The next thing Shannon knew, Sam had taken the initiative. They moved into a grapevine, an underarm spin and a series of pivots. Steps far advanced from anything their new student could begin to accomplish.

“Okay, Sam,” she said softly. “We don’t want to scare him off.”

“Well…he should see what he can learn,” Sam replied.

She couldn’t argue. They did lots of demonstrations to show their students what they could learn. She just wondered about this particular student.

But Quinn was nodding and looking as if he had suddenly figured something out. He stepped in to take his position with her again. The guy had a great dance hold; he also wore some kind of really great aftershave. He should be a pleasure to teach.

Except that he was always watching.

But weren’t students supposed to watch?

Not the way he did, with those piercing blue eyes.

She looked back up into them, reminding herself that she was a teacher, and a good one.

“Listen, feel it, and move your feet. Remember that you’re just making a square.”

To her amazement, he had it. He finally had it. A box. A simple box. It felt like a miracle.

“Head up,” she said softly, almost afraid to push her luck. “Don’t look at your feet. It will only mess you up.”

His eyes met hers, and he maintained the step and the rhythm. His dimple showed as he smiled, pleased. His hold was just right. There was distance between them, but she was still aware of hot little jolts sweeping through her, despite the lack of real body contact. Not good.

Dance teachers needed to be friendly. Accustomed to contact. The more advanced a student, the closer that contact. She was accustomed to that.

But it had never been like this.