Dance in my Heart

by Jones, Marjorie

  Dance in My Heart

  Published by Indie Artist Press

  Cover Art by Marjorie Jones Cooke

  ISBN: 978-1-62522-008-0

  Copyright © 2006-2013 – All Rights Reserved

  If you have received a copy of this book without a cover, please be advised that it has been listed as a returned item and a full refund was given to the original retailer. In this event, the independent author who published this work with Indie Artist Press did not receive payment for this book and it is considered stolen property.

  Chapter One

  The clatter of keyboards clicked through the immense newsroom, adding to Candice Lincoln’s frustration as she struggled to see through the fluorescent glare obscuring her monitor. The article she labored to complete included a five o’clock deadline, and she heaved a sigh, checking the time on her Rolex.

  Four-twenty-seven.

  Inhaling a deep breath, she blew the air out toward her long bangs. She rolled her eyes as the blond hair fell immediately back to rest in front of them. Frustrated, she ran her manicured nails through her hair, fisting the wayward strands on the crown of her head.

  “Easy, Tiger-lady,” Justin Moriarty’s voice brought her around in her cheap fabric swivel chair. “What’s the problem?”

  Releasing her hair, she picked up a sheaf of papers in both hands and shook them. “This! This is the problem. I have to compile the most worthless set of statistics, about cotton candy of all things, into an article people will actually read!”

  Tossing the papers across her dull gray laminate workstation, she threw her weight into the back of her chair and propped one Gucci clad foot on the edge of her desk.

  “Cotton candy?” Justin’s eyebrow raised in bewilderment. “What happened to Afghanistan?”

  Candice released an unladylike snort. “Why don’t you ask the dragon,” she replied, using her own nick-name for their senior creative director.

  “Uh-oh,” Justin made himself comfortable, leaning against the thin portable wall of her cubicle. “What did you do now?”

  “Me? I didn’t do anything. That man hates women. He despises the fact that I’ve managed to chase stories to the four corners of the globe, while he’s been stuck in some office, reading what others have done. The fact I’m a woman and can write circles around his fat ass drives him insane.”

  “So you get the human interest stuff, while I, on the other hand, have just picked up plane tickets to Islamabad from purchasing?”

  She sat up straight in her chair, ignoring the thud of her boot on the worn industrial carpeting. “No!”

  Justin smirked. “Enjoy the candy, Candy,” he laughed. “I’ll send you a post card from Pakistan.”

  “You jerk,” she threw her mechanical pencil at his chest. He caught it and after checking the lead, slipped it into his pocket.

  “I know. Ain’t it cool. I wonder what they’re wearing in the Middle East this time of year. Sand cammo?”

  “Shut up. I have work to do,” she smiled. She didn’t really begrudge Justin his luck. Talented and bold, and male, it was only natural he would get the in-country assignments. “And don’t call me ‘Candy’, you know I hate that.”

  “Don’t sweat it, babe. If anyone can make an article about spun sugar spin, you can.”

  She appreciated his words of encouragement, even as she doubted them. Waving him away, she resumed typing. Her bangs fell into her eyes again. Huffing, she gave up and reached for the NY Giants ball-cap hanging on a plastic hook near her computer and shoved her hair into it. She ignored the fact it added nothing to her chartreuse Armani pant suit.

  Twenty minutes later, she printed the two thousand-word side-bar she’d been assigned and groaned. She missed the action of real news. If she had half a brain in her head, she’d leave NATIONAL PULSE magazine behind and write freelance. She stacked the double-spaced papers neatly and clipped them together.

  Rising, she walked with a shadow of her former aplomb to the Dragon’s office. Her temper threatened to flare with each step she took. She hadn’t even been given the main assignment, to cover the largest ever sea-farer’s festival to ever hit the New York waterways. She’d been assigned instead a worthless side-bar to investigate the intricacies of festival cuisine. By the time she reached the very solid wood door of Mark Barlow’s office, her level of anxiety had reached its zenith. If he said just one thing about her article, made one red mark on the pristine white paper before she left his company, she’d likely kill him.

  “Come in,” he called in reply to her forceful knock.

  She pushed the door open and crossed the plush carpet with three long strides. Tossing the papers on the desk, she noted the time again.

  “There. Eight minutes to spare.” She turned to leave.

  “I knew you could do it, cupcake.”

  A low growl clawed its way up her throat at the diminutive. She couldn’t kill him. She hesitated in mid-step. She needed the paycheck.

  Alimony is a bitch. Especially when her ex-husband was receiving it, instead of paying it. The divorce court hadn’t cared she had breasts. The irony nearly made her laugh. She traced her steps back to the door.

  “I have another assignment for you,” Mark called after her.

  She turned as she reached for the doorknob. “Let me guess. You want me to survey pigeons in Central Park. Find out the motivation for shitting on the statues?”

  He apparently ignored her sarcasm. She knew he heard her, unless he was losing his hearing along with his hair.

  “You’re flying to Minnesota tomorrow morning. I want pictures and a human interest piece on the Ojibwe Indians. The dancers, specifically. They are having some kind of Pow Wow thing this weekend. You can pick up your plane tickets in purchasing.”

  Stunned, Candice gripped the doorknob until she thought her fingers would burst. “You didn’t even check with me first? I don’t want this assignment, Mark. You know how much I hate this stuff. Who gives a shit about a bunch of Indians stomping around a camp-fire! Justin is going to Pakistan, for Christ’s sake. I can tag along as his photographer. I won’t even have to write anything.” She hated the whine sounding through her voice. She hated begging.

  But Minnesota? He had to be kidding.

  “No, cupcake. It’s all been arranged. You’re going to Minnesota, and you’re going to bring back heartwarming pictures of Native Americans doing what Native Americans do. Beating drums and dancing.”

  She narrowed her eyes, gritting her teeth. She needed the paycheck. The words were becoming a mantra, and she hated it.

  She spun out of the office and would have slammed the door behind her if the damn plush-pile carpeting weren’t so thick the door barely moved at all.

  She marched to her desk, picked up her Gucci bag, her Nikon, her laptop encased snugly in its leather case and raced toward the door. She needed to get out of here. Maybe she’d stop by Manny’s for a drink on the way home.

  No. Too many memories, she sighed as she pressed the down button on the elevator. And too many fellow reporters who still had careers. The last thing she needed right now was the off-chance of running into one of her old colleagues, all too eager to espouse their latest middle eastern jaunt.

  “Nice hat, Candice,” Emily Parker called from her cubicle.

  She reached up and grunted as she pulled the Giant’s cap from her hair. “Here, keep it,” she tossed it at Emily as the elevator doors parted with a loud chime.

  “Thanks.”

  Once on the city streets, she felt herself relax. The steamy grime of New York pumped through her veins as she made her way to the taxi stand in front of the Time Warner Building. Horns blared, voices merged together in a cacophony of verbal music and even the screaming of the pigeons
as she scattered them with her steps soothed her.

  She found a cab with no trouble and situated herself in the back seat. Pulling out her cell-phone, she gave the driver her address. Please be home, Lynette. Lynette answered on the third ring.

  “Yeah, whatcha need?”

  “You’re cheerful,” Candice laughed. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. The damn super said he’d be here by five to fix the drain in the bathroom, but he’s nowhere in sight. Guess we’re using Justin’s shower again tonight.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. He’s going to Islamabad in the morning. I’m sure he’ll trade running water for tending his houseplants again.”

  “He got the overseas thing? Gee, hon, I’m sorry.”

  Lynette Sinclair had been her roommate since college. Except for those misguided four years Candice actually tried to share her life with a man. Candice knew the sympathy she offered was genuine, and it warmed her.

  “Yeah, he got it. But I didn’t really expect to, you know?”

  “I know. Are you on your way home?”

  “Yep. In the cab as we speak.”

  “Did you get the candy article finished on time?”

  “I did.”

  “Good. Call in sick tomorrow and we can take the weekend at my mom’s place in Jersey. You need a break.”

  Candice sighed. She loved going to Lynette’s mom’s beach house. “I wish I could, but I’m flying to Minnesota in the morning. Damn,” she cursed. “I forgot to pick up the plane ticket. This day just keeps getting better and better.”

  “Minnesota? What’s in Minnesota?”

  “I’ll explain later. I’m gonna try and catch Justin to see if he’ll get my stuff for me. I’ll see you at home.”

  She hung up and dialed Justin’s cell number. She caught him right as he was leaving the building, but he agreed to collect her plane ticket and car rental reservation.

  “Thanks, bud. I appreciate it. Oh, and can Lynette and I use your shower again? The super is a no show.”

  He laughed. “Sure thing, babe. You know, it’s a good thing you have me for a neighbor. Most New Yorkers would just let you stink.”

  “Nice image,” she laughed as the cab pulled to a stop in front of her building.

  Lynette met her at the door with a cocktail and a plate of spaghetti. Ignoring the food, Candice took the drink and collapsed the minute she found the leather sofa in the tidy living room.

  “So what’s in Minnesota?” Lynette asked as she reclined on the other end of the couch.

  “Indians, apparently.”

  “Oh my. You know what you need?”

  Candice took a sip of her gin and tonic and swallowed. “What?”

  “Really good sex with a way buff brave,” Lynette answered, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Candice nearly choked. “Like that would ever happen.”

  “No really, it would do you a world of good.”

  Candice tried to recall the last time she’d had really good sex with anyone and frowned when she drew a complete blank.

  Lynette kicked her gently. “Lighten up. It can only get better from here.”

  “Right,” she drawled as she tossed back the last of her gin. She stood and grabbed the key to Justin’s apartment from the hook by the kitchen pass-through. “I’m heading to J’s for a shower. Back in a few.”

  Justin’s bathroom oozed masculinity. The dark red walls, almost maroon, boasted gold accessories, including a towel warmer. She reached for the thick bronze-colored towel she’d placed there before she’d stepped into to the black marble shower and wrapped it around her dripping body.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Justin stated from the doorway.

  “Shit, you scared me.” She laughed and finished tucking the towel around into her cleavage.

  He shook his head and winced. “Damn woman. You have a body to make a guy straight, you know that?”

  “Like you would ever notice,” she reached for another towel and rubbed her hair brusquely.

  “Oh, I notice. I’m just not interested.” He turned and headed to the dry bar in his bedroom. “You need a pick-me-up?”

  “No thanks. But I do have a favor?”

  “Anything, babe. Shoot.”

  She hedged for a minute, not sure if she should broach what could be a touchy subject. “Can I borrow some of Ray’s things for my trip?”

  “Sure. I moved everything into the guest room last week.” He returned to the bathroom door with a large drink in his hand. “Wouldn’t want any of my dates to see women’s clothing in my room. They might think a girl lives here.”

  “Oh, the horror,” she laughed at his mock shutter. “If I remember right, didn’t he have a little cowgirl get-up? I just need those boots he used to wear. I don’t think my spiked Gucci’s will do the trick in cowboy country.”

  “Sure. I’ll get them for you. But I thought you were on the side of the Indians. Maybe you need moccasins.”

  Cowboys. Indians. Ugh.

  “If I have to go,” she grimaced as she pulled a brush through her hair. “I’m going cowgirl.”

  Chapter Two

  The even rhythm of the drums reverberated in Candice’s blood, keeping time with her pulse as she watched the talented musicians play. Several men, both young and old, formed a circle in a grassy clearing, surrounded by a myriad of onlookers.

  When she’d arrived at the Pow Wow, held out of doors in a large state park with a huge lake shimmering in the Saturday afternoon sun, she had been concerned about what to expect. She had no idea an event like this would bring so many segments of the population. Families out for an afternoon of fun and sun, people obviously on dates, and of course, Indians as far as she could see. She’d snapped several great photos already, but made her way now to the drummers to await the arrival of the hoop dancers.

  She’d missed Friday’s performance because her rental car hadn’t been ready in time, but she still had ample opportunity to photograph today’s show. She positioned herself near the circle and checked her film supply.

  Several young girls, all of them Indian, pushed their way in front of her. The tallest one, maybe thirteen years old, clapped her hands anxiously. “I hope he’s here. Omigod, did you see him yesterday?”

  “Eya’,” squealed her companions.

  “And the way he moves,” one girl continued, “should be against the law. You should have seen him.”

  “Eya’. Bishigwaadizi,” the third girl added in her native language.

  Candice smiled. She had no idea what the girl had said, but she received a round of blushing giggles for the comment. Apparently teenage girls were teenage girls, no matter where they lived.

  The beat of the drums changed, drawing her attention to the ringed area that served as a stage. Four men, dressed in native attire, including leather moccasins and what could only be eagle feathers in their long black hair danced into the circle.

  Their magnificent costumes consisted of loose fitting tunics over pants in bright yellow, vibrant purple, blue and green. Intricate beadwork designs graced nearly every surface and feathers from a bird she couldn’t name added a mystical softness to the image, without detracting in the least from the maleness of the scene.

  One at a time, they performed fluid, apparently spontaneous movements, using multiple hoops to create patterns and shapes. Snapping photographs wildly, Candice found she really enjoyed the solemnity of the dance.

  “He’s not there,” pouted the tall girl again. “Man, you guys said he danced in this group.”

  “He does, he does. He comes out later, because he’s the best of them all.”

  As if prophesized by the girls words, he appeared. Long black hair, dressed with leather strips wrapped tightly around several strands by his temples and rich brown feathers, cascaded down his bare back. When he spun in a tight circle, the panels over his buckskin breeches flew outward, revealing his thickly muscled legs encased in the tight leather. Shirtless, he wore some kind of bre
astplate over his chest, but it did nothing to obscure the heavily defined muscles. His arms bulged with power as he held the hoops in strong hands, forming intricate patterns. Candice’s cheeks heated as she wondered what else he could do with the trained dexterity of those fingers.

  The graceful sensuality of his presence commanded wanton attention. He moved as if he were part of the hoops, his feet flying expertly in time to the powerful drum beats.

  Graceful.

  Fluid.

  “Omigod, he is so gorgeous,” squealed the girls.

  Suddenly remembering where she was and why she was there, Candice started taking photos like crazy. His face loved the camera. A strong jaw line beneath full lips and a straight nose projected power and maleness. She pointed the camera and zoomed in on his narrowed brow as he danced. The look of concentration spoke of dedication and a love of his craft. But nothing could have prepared her for the shock of heat she experienced when he turned his nearly black eyes directly on her.

  “Omigod, he’s looking at us!” The girls in front of her swooned.

  No. He looked directly into the lens of Candice’s camera. She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat as she refocused the camera and snapped even more photos.

  “Damn,” she whispered as the film ran out. She lowered the camera as it automatically rewound the roll of film. She dug into her satchel for a new roll. Her fingers felt like gel as she searched blindly, unwilling to remove her eyes from him long enough to search her bag.

  Was that a grin creasing his full mouth? She thought she’d seem him smile at her, and whether he did or not, she smiled in return.

  The drum beats came to a sudden stop and the audience erupted into a mass of applause. The moment the dancers exited through a gate on the eastern edge of the circle, the girls in front of her rushed around the ring and accosted the poor man, as did spectators from every part of the circle. Within minutes of the last drum beat, he disappeared into a mass of fans.

  She backed away and changed the film in her camera. She suddenly wished she had switched to using a digital camera like most of her colleagues. Disappointed she hadn’t snapped more pictures of him, she decided to track him down. She shook her head and laughed. After his mob had dispersed.