Dead On The Dance Floor. Heather Graham
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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.
She suddenly wanted the lesson to be over for reasons other than her sore feet.
When they were done, he seemed actually enthused.
“When do I come again?” he asked.
“Whenever you schedule.”
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“You’ll have to see Ella, our receptionist.”
They were standing near the little elevated office. Ella had already heard. “He can have a two-o’clock.”
“I thought I had an appointment with the hotel about blocking out rooms for the Gator Gala?” Shannon said frowning. “And I know I have Dr. Long coming in for his regular class.”
“The hotel pushed the meeting to Wednesday,” Ella said cheerfully. “And they want you to call them back. Dr. Long isn’t in until five-fifteen.”
“Two o’clock, then,” Shannon said.
“Thanks. I’ll see you then.”
Their new student departed, and Shannon stared after him.
Jane, returning from the dentist, passed him at the door. “Who the hell was that?” she demanded when she reached Shannon.
“Doug’s brother.”
“Doug’s brother…wow. Look what a few more years are going to do for that guy. Of course, the eyes…shit! Who taught him?”
“I did,” Shannon said.
“Oh. And you’re keeping him?” She tried to sound light.
Shannon hesitated. “Yes.”
Sam went dancing by, practicing a Viennese waltz on his own. “Hey,” he teased Jane. “You’ve already got the one brother.”
Jane gave him a serious glare. “Yeah, and I also have nasty old Mr. Clinton, ninety-eight, and decaying with each move we make.”