Shall We Dance?

by Lynn Patrick

  “We can take care of that later,” Anita assured her in her most soothing mother’s tone. “You should concentrate on your meeting for now.”

  “Right.”

  Gabby took a deep breath. She’d been both nervous and excited since getting off the plane the day before. Thinking about the great chance she’d been offered—as well as how devastated she’d be if things didn’t work out—she’d hardly been able to sleep the night before.

  “My, this looks wonderful,” Anita mused. “Just like one of my old movie sets.”

  Gabby glanced around the cavernous room, her eyes lingering on the expanse of black dance floor spreading out before a crescent-shaped stage with a curved staircase. The rest of the place was painted white or pale gray, the moldings and lines pure Art Deco.

  “Go on. Don’t let me keep you,” Anita whispered. “I’ll stay out of sight and wander around back here.” She pushed her daughter forward.

  Gabby gazed toward the empty stage and dance floor again, the meeting place she and Kit had agreed upon. Where was he? Surely he hadn’t been so annoyed with her for being a little late that he’d left. Clutching the large manila envelope that contained notes and photographs for the upcoming production, she crossed the room, her feet crunching on cardboard and loose plaster. Finishing touches were still being added, though no workmen were in sight at the moment.

  “Gabrielle Brooks Lacroix?”

  Gabby halted as a man slid out from behind some half-built panels near the stage. A tentative smile hovering about her lips, she gazed at him curiously. Dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans, he was tall and dark and moved with a dancer’s lean grace.

  “Kit Garfield?”

  “Who else would be waiting for you for—” he glanced at his watch “—thirty-four minutes?”

  Her smile died at his tone. Besides, he wasn’t smiling, not even politely. Having convinced herself to be positive about the situation and to act in a professional and friendly manner toward Kit Garfield no matter what, she felt her doubts return. Explaining the taxi problem would sound like an excuse. Instead, she suggested, “Now that I’m here, shall we get right down to work?”

  “Fine.” He gestured toward the short flight of steps leading up to the stage. “Have a seat.”

  Although she was dressed in a wrap dress, Gabby was undaunted by the debris that littered the area. Brushing the sawdust and plaster off the top step, she sat down and placed the manila envelope on her lap. Kit was carrying a similar parcel under one arm. He leaned casually against the four-foot-high stage and looked her over.

  Unblinking, she stared right back and tried to discern a resemblance to Price in the younger man’s features. But only the lines of Kit’s high forehead and elegant, aquiline nose reminded her of his legendary father. The strong cheekbones, thick dark hair, square jaw and wide, sensual mouth must have come from his mother’s side of the family.

  Particularly appreciating the luminous green of his eyes, she said, “You’re very good-looking.”

  He seemed startled. “Thanks,” he responded stiffly. “How nice that I meet with your approval.”

  “I always consider the physical presence as well as the skills of a dance partner,” she told him honestly, pleased to have ruffled his calm surface. At least the laugh lines around those remarkable eyes hinted that he could be warmer on other occasions. “We’ll look good together—I’m light, you’re dark.” He sported the ubiquitous California tan. “We should emphasize our contrasts with costuming, use a lot of black with pastels or cream or white.”

  “I’ve already considered the costuming.”

  That made two of them. “My mother kept some of the original dresses from the Brooks/Garfield movies,” Gabby told him, nervously fingering the envelope. “We had patterns made from them.”

  He nodded. “I’ll have to approve the designs, as well…if we use them. No one’s made any final decision about vintage costumes.”

  Gabby hated having to be on guard, but she was getting the feeling that Kit Garfield resented her…and would also resent any suggestions she might make. He seemed to think he was in charge.

  “We’ve got less than two weeks to pull everything together. Using the patterns would be sensible. Besides, why shouldn’t we use my mother’s dresses in a nostalgia club?” she asked pointedly.

  “We can have original costumes with a vintage flavor.”

  Gabby raised her brows. “For an act labeled ‘Brooks/Garfield’?”

  “Do you want to dance as a clone of your mother?” Kit asked, sounding slightly appalled.

  “It wouldn’t bother me.”

  “Well, I’m not appearing as Price Garfield.”

  Hmm, that statement certainly made him sound insecure—quite a contrast from his assertive behavior. Trying to reassure him, Gabby said, “I don’t think anyone would confuse you with your father, even if you wore the same tuxedo.” Which wouldn’t fit, anyway, Gabby thought, considering Kit’s size. Price had always been whippet-thin.

  Kit tapped his fingers on the edge of the stage. “Enough about the costumes. We can talk about them later. First we have to set up a rehearsal schedule—”

  “And decide on how many and what numbers we’re going to perform,” she finished, opening the manila envelope.

  She’d brought a few musical arrangements—a combination of Brooks/Garfield tunes and other songs from musicals. She intended to be a full partner, not a freeloader.

  “We’ll only have time to choreograph and rehearse three or four numbers at most,” she continued. And if they weren’t well matched as partners, they’d be lucky to polish one or two dances.

  “How versed are you in ballroom dancing, Gabrielle?” he asked, throwing her off base.

  “It’s Gabby.” She glanced up from the material she’d dumped in her lap. “And I studied ballroom along with modern dance, some ballet and tap. I appeared in several Broadway musicals—”

  “Dime Store Boogie, Red Roses and Pretty Marietta, among others,” he cut in.

  “I guess you’ve done your homework. Then you must also know that Marietta was a remake of a twenties production that included a tango and other partnered dances. I was a featured player.”

  “Ten years ago,” he added. “And I never saw it, so I don’t know how well you dance.”

  Despite her good intentions, Gabby frowned at him. “I’m not going to audition here, if that’s what you’re driving at. I’ve already been hired.” Next thing she knew he’d be asking to see her legs.

  “No one mentioned auditioning. I have a right to ask questions of a new partner.”

  “That goes both ways. What about you?” she asked, neatly turning the focus of the discussion onto him. “How much dancing have you done through the years? Did you take courses through your father’s dance studios?”

  He raised one brow. “I run the Price Garfield Dance Studios, not my father.”

  “Oh, really?” His air was seemingly confident, yet Gabby thought she detected that insecurity again. “Being a businessman doesn’t mean you can dance, though.”

  “I started as a dance instructor, then went into ballroom competition. I’ve covered pretty much the same territory through classes as you.”

  “Hmm.” She gazed at him thoughtfully. “You’ve also performed professionally?”

  “I did the nightclub circuit for a while,” he admitted, his tone guarded.

  “Then I would assume you had some skill…just as you should assume I know what I’m about,” she continued, wishing he’d loosen up. “And for your information, I still keep up. I retired from the stage last year, but I teach five days a week.”

  “Uh-huh. You’re thirty-three.”

  “Right. Too old for the chorus line,” she said swiftly before he could stoop to mention it. And too old for another lucky break if this one failed, though she’d die rather than let him know how vulnerable she felt.

  “I’m sure you weren’t happy about having to retire.” He straightened,
tucking the envelope under his other arm.

  “Broadway was a rat race. Teaching can be just as fulfilling.” She only wished that were true for her.

  “But stardom must have been your goal…if you’re anything like your mother.”

  Overly sensitive when it came to Anita, Gabby felt herself tense. “What do you mean by that crack?”

  “Show business success was more important than anything or anyone to Anita Brooks, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course my mother wanted to be successful.” And she would have been if Kit’s father hadn’t driven her out of Hollywood. Gabby couldn’t forget the sadness her mother had attempted to hide through the years. Kit was stomping on shaky territory and was making her angry. She rose to her feet and stepped down to face him. In her high-heeled boots she was only a couple of inches shorter than him, and she wasn’t in the least intimidated.

  “Who doesn’t want to be successful in their chosen field?” she asked. “Wasn’t success what you were after when you appeared in nightclubs?”

  “I was dancing mainly for fun.”

  She crossed her arms, holding the papers against her chest. “Performing is a pretty demanding way to have fun. Not that it can’t give a person the highest form of pleasure.” She wondered how he’d like being baited. “But what really happened? Why did you stop? Surely you didn’t get booed off the stage.”

  He didn’t blink an eye. “Certainly not. I simply became more involved in the other subsidiaries of the Garfield Corporation.”

  “But don’t you miss dancing? How long has it been?”

  Two tiny lines formed between his eyes. “I’ve never given up dancing. I take dates out to dance clubs whenever I get the chance.”

  “So you’re still single.” She couldn’t resist getting back at him for his implied criticism of her mother. “At thirty-five? Thirty-six? If you have the same goals as your father, you’d better think about getting married pretty soon.”

  For a moment he seemed struck speechless, then his eyes blazed. “I’m thirty-eight, and my plans for marriage are none of your business.” He scowled and leaned toward her. “You know, this has gone far enough. You have no right to bad-mouth my father’s personal life.”

  She made no move to step back. “Was that what I was doing? Simply by mentioning his multiple marriages? Well, you have no right to make remarks about my mother’s career.”

  “I don’t recall saying anything nasty about your mother.”

  “You mean you were too clever to say exactly what you meant. Believe me, I got the dig.”

  “You’re being paranoid.”

  “I’m being honest. Now how about you? Let’s put our cards on the table here.”

  Kit straightened and glared at Gabby, who glared right back at him. He had to admire the woman’s guts. She was as courageous and intelligent as she was beautiful, a combination he hadn’t expected.

  “I don’t have any cards, if you’re referring to ulterior motives.” His poor opinion of Anita Brooks had nothing to do with Gabby herself. “I can see we’re going to have to avoid talking about our parents.”

  “That would be a good idea,” she agreed, “unless we’re discussing their dancing styles.”

  “I don’t want to go around and around every time we get together.”

  “I don’t want to argue, either. A change in your attitude would help.”

  “My attitude? You’re blaming me?”

  “You started this,” she insisted. “You already had a big chip on your shoulder when I walked in the door. You couldn’t even smile, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Maybe I’m a serious person.” He hadn’t really meant to be openly prickly, but his resentment toward the whole situation must have crept through.

  “Ha! I think it’s more likely that you don’t want to work with me.”

  Bingo. “That I admit is true.”

  She tossed the papers she’d been holding onto the steps and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, I don’t particularly want to work with you either, buddy, but I’m trying to be gracious about it.”

  “And just why should you have anything against working with me? My father was the one who helped your mother realize her ambitions.” And as far as Kit had figured, Gabby ought to be happy for the publicity that could renew her own stage career.

  “Are you kidding?” she asked, her expression disbelieving. “Surely you’re aware that your father drove my mother away.”

  Anita Brooks had been angry? The news was a revelation, which Kit digested quickly. “I suppose I’ve only heard my father’s side of the story.”

  “Your father’s side? What has he got to complain about?”

  She was being honest, Kit could tell. So Anita Brooks thought she’d suffered at the hands of Price. This was the first he’d heard about it. Struck by the irony of the circumstances, he grinned.

  “Now you’re smiling!” Gabby cried. “What’s so funny?”

  “This bizarre situation…you and I…our parents.” He shook his head. “It’s just too much.”

  “I’d call it ridiculous.”

  “Look, let’s make a peace pact, all right? I’ve already suggested we don’t talk about Anita or Price. Obviously we’d be opening a can of worms.”

  She nodded and relaxed her stance slightly.

  “Surely you can force yourself to try to get along with me for a few weeks,” Kit continued, sobering.

  “Of course. I’m a professional. I’d already decided I could do so before I came to California.”

  Kit suddenly noticed there were tiny freckles sprinkled across Gabby’s nose and that her eyes were a clear aqua-blue. As if she felt uncomfortable under his close inspection, she stepped back and smoothed the taupe skirt of her dress. The color brought out the reddish highlights in her pale hair. Medium-length and wavy, it curved around her oval face and softened her small, stubborn chin.

  “Then it’s peace, not war.” He would be tempted to reach out and touch the tiny cleft in that chin of hers if the action weren’t so totally inappropriate.

  “Peace.” Her lips curved into a smile, making her even lovelier.

  He ignored his growing attraction to her and gestured toward the stage. “Okay, take a seat again.”

  Gabby stared at him angrily.

  “Please,” he added. “We’ll make out that rehearsal schedule we should have been talking about in the first place.” He sat a step below her and opened his envelope. “We have to get down to business if we’re ever going to put an act together.”

  They worked amicably after that, though Kit could see they weren’t always going to agree in the future. Gabby wanted old-school costumes and dance tunes; he preferred updated versions. He liked to work within a precise format; she wasn’t keen on using dance diagrams to block out every step before getting on the dance floor.

  For the moment, however, they both kept themselves in check. He figured the partnership was going to be workable, especially since it would be time-limited. Maybe the trap he’d fallen into wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  “Like to try a whirl around the floor?” he asked after they’d agreed on a couple of dance numbers and set up a working schedule for the week. Might as well get the feel of her from the very start. “The sound system’s working.”

  Kit chose swing music. Gabby immediately began moving around the dance floor, improvising steps, her eyes half closed while her willowy dancer’s body swayed gracefully to the rhythm. He joined her and grasped her hand. She looked up, smiling as she swung into a side-by-side tap sequence with him. She was lovely, indeed.

  And her dancing was wonderful, too. He spun her out and back into the circle of his arms. They moved so perfectly together whether they were face-to-face or cheek to cheek, she followed his lead without missing a beat, something that was very unusual for a brand-new partner.

  Kit felt the underlying tension he’d experienced since first talking to Lucille drain away with each turn across the floor. With Gabb
y, forgetting the logistics of every dance movement and losing himself in the romantic artistry of the performance would be easy. When they did several cross-steps and faced the seating area, he could imagine working the crowd. He’d pick out faces, colors, anchor himself to reality in the heat of the spotlight, enjoy the thrill of making people sit up and take notice.

  Enjoy the thrill?

  Kit smiled and met Gabby’s eyes. He’d forgotten how stimulating performing could be. Perhaps working with Gabrielle Brooks Lacroix was going to be better than “not so bad.” Perhaps their performance would be memorable.

  THOUGH ANITA HAD INTENDED to explore the entire building, she stopped short when she spotted Kit Garfield. Unable to resist, she took refuge behind one of the thick columns that bordered the nightclub’s central area—that way, while able to see him, she could remain hidden in the shadows of the outer hallway. She searched for any discernible resemblance to his father—that would almost be the same as seeing him again—but Kit looked nothing like Price.

  At least that was Anita’s disappointed opinion after watching Gabby and Kit interact for a few minutes. Her daughter’s expression didn’t seem happy. Worried, Anita wished she could hear their conversation. Their unamplified voices barely carried across the huge room.

  Oh, dear, she was acting like a mother hen!

  Reprimanding herself, Anita moved away past boxes stacked in the hall. She reached the lounge area, entered the ladies’ room and checked her makeup and hair. As if there were anyone around to impress….

  The mirror curving the length of one wall was etched with geometric designs and lit by marquee lights. Velvet-covered seats were tucked under a marble counter. How posh. Cheek to Cheek was going to be a very impressive night spot.

  Suddenly Anita heard the strains of swing music and was drawn back to the central part of the club. There, sweeping around the dusty black dance floor, she saw Gabby and Kit caught up in the music, perfectly attuned to each other. Anita halted near some crates, impressed with the beauty of the dance, then struck by Kit’s fluid movements. The set of his shoulders, the turn of his heel, the relaxed look of his stance—all bespoke Price Garfield.