Dead On The Dance Floor. Heather Graham
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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.