Dead on the Dance Floor

by Heather Graham

  “Not at all.”

  “Okay. If you say so. That’s my car.”

  He hit the clicker, and his Navigator beeped. Stepping ahead, he opened her door. She gave him a brief thanks and climbed in. She was quiet as they left the parking lot, then headed north and east, toward the expressway entrance.

  “You really are nervous. You going to feel safe once you get home?” he asked.

  “I live in a nice, safe area.”

  He sniffed. “Sure. I heard they found a dead prostitute near you, not long ago.”

  She frowned. “Yes, they did, but that was unusual. Most of the people who live and work around there all know one another. She must have gotten in with the wrong element.”

  “Easy to do on the beach. Face it, South Beach is where people go for action. Sure, for some that means dancing and restaurants, but some people go for the sheer excitement. Some people love alcohol and drugs—like ecstasy. And some of the people there aren’t exactly honest. There are big bucks to be made in the drug trade. You know that.”

  “Of course. But dancers tend to be health freaks.”

  “Some of your students might not be so dedicated, right?”

  “Of course. But Gabriel runs a clean establishment. You can trust me—the cops have checked him out.”

  “I can imagine. So why are you so jumpy?”

  “I’m not jumpy!”

  “Hey, you know, you can ask me in for coffee when I drop you off. I can check out the closets and under the beds before I leave.”

  She stared at him, her emerald eyes bright in the neon glow of the local businesses. “That would be fraternizing.”

  “No, that would be professional courtesy. You teach me to dance, I check out the hidey-holes in your house.”

  “Gordon doesn’t allow any free lessons.”

  “Not after the customers are sucked in, huh?”

  “Sucked in? I resent that. We can give your brother a refund—I told you that.”

  “But I’m sucked in already,” he said.

  She turned away from him, looking out the window. “You know, you’re right. I forget sometimes how beautiful it is,” she said.

  Across the water, the skyscrapers of downtown Miami were decked out in their night lights—blues, greens, shades in between. Moonlight glowed down on the water, as well. The breeze was light, the waves small. They lapped gently in a captivating pool of deep color beneath the kaleidoscope of glowing pastels.

  “Yeah,” he murmured. “The beauty was one of the first things I noticed when I got here.”

  “You’ve just moved here?”

  “I was born here. I just moved back.”

  “Where were you before?” she asked. There was a suspicious note in her voice again. It made him smile.

  “Northern Virginia. Which is beautiful, too. Virginia has the sea and the mountains and everything between. But this is home. I missed it.”

  “Did you run a charter service in Virginia, too?”

  “What?” He frowned. “Oh, yeah. Boats. I love boats. I can’t stay away from a boat very long, or the water. Do you like the water?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you fish? Dive?”

  “I fished when I was kid. And I did some diving in the middle of the state when I was a teenager. I did a few of those dives where you go in with the manatees.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “I loved it.”

  “But you don’t dive anymore?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think I do anything anymore. I’ve gotten too involved with work.”

  “But you don’t compete.”

  “I do a lot of coaching. I’m sure I told you—I’m a good teacher.” She smiled and added ruefully, “Really good. Come to think of it, I wasn’t joking. I really don’t have a life other than the studio.” She turned back to the window suddenly, as if she had said far more than she intended. She swung back to him. “What an idea, though. A boat would be great.”

  “You want to go out with me on my boat?”

  “Yes. No, not exactly. I wanted to do something special for the group that’s registered for the Gator Gala. Let me see, with the teachers and students from the local studios, we’d be talking about a group of about fifty. Can you get a nice boat for an evening out? It doesn’t have to be a gourmet meal with a sit-down dinner or anything. In fact, I’d prefer something more casual. A buffet, plastic plates, room for a small dance band, of course. Can you set up something like that?”

  “Sure,” he said quickly.

  “I’ll get you some figures…you know, what I can afford to spend. You can arrange it, right? I mean, you really do charters?”

  “I can arrange it.”

  He looked straight ahead as he pulled off on Alton. “Okay, where am I going?”

  She directed him. When they pulled up in front of the house she indicated, she frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I could swear I left the flood light on.”

  Her porch was dark. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “I told you, I can look under the beds.”

  She glanced at him and exited the car quickly on her own, digging into her purse for her keys as she strode up the tiled path and across the porch and the door. The little house was charming, with a bit of the old Spanish style nicely incorporated with some cleaner Deco features.

  He followed her. “Really, if something might be wrong, maybe I should look around.”

  “Come on in,” she said.

  He did, curious not just about her and what she knew, but about her home, as well. He wondered if he would see her old trophies and pictures of herself dancing, with or without a partner.

  Not in the living room, though there was a dance scene above an old coral rock fireplace against the far wall. It was a painting, and the dancers were ballerinas in traditional tutus, floating in a sea of soft blue and pink. It was a beautiful painting, complemented by the warmth of the room. Heavy wood furniture was offset by the lighter colors of the carpeting, draperies and inviting throws tossed over the sofa and love seat, both facing not a television but the fireplace. The floor was light tile, except for the hooked rug before the hearth.

  “I can see there’s no one hanging around in the living room,” she said dryly.

  “I figured you’d try to deck me if I went straight into your bedrooms,” he told her.

  Eyes of green ice swept over him. “You just sized up this place with the same swift once-over you gave me at the studio.”

  “I gave you a swift once-over?” he queried, feeling a smile as he stepped in farther. “The kitchen?” he asked, striding through the living room.

  “The kitchen and dining room are on this side of the hall, behind the living room. The bedrooms and family room are on the other.”

  He nodded, flicking on the light as he entered the kitchen. Copper pots hung from a rafter above the island workstation in the center. A counter separated the kitchen from the dining room, which was furnished with an antique table, six chairs and a matching hutch.

  “Very nice,” he commented.

  “Glad you approve.”

  He turned on lights as he went, crossing from the dining room to the family room, where she had an overstuffed sofa, ottoman, recliners, and a television and stereo system. And a closet. He quirked a brow to her before opening the door. There was nothing but an assortment of gowns in plastic bags, tennis rackets and two pool cues.

  “I thought you had no life?”

  “Not now,” she informed him. “I simply don’t like to throw things away.”

  “Are you good?”

  “At what?”

  “Either pool or tennis.”

  “No, I suck at both. But I do enjoy them. Or I did. Once.”

  “All work and no play, you know.”

  “I never tried to convince you that I wasn’t dull.”

  He brushed past her, heading down the hall to check out the bedrooms. The house was quiet, and the contact betw
een them seemed to scream. He caught her gaze for a moment and wondered if she’d heard it, too.

  “Bedroom,” he murmured.

  “What?” Her eyes widened.

  “Bedrooms. I’ll check out the bedrooms.”

  “Yes. Right.”

  She followed him as he came to the first door. Light flooded the space. It was perhaps twelve feet by fourteen. Not a stick of furniture. The walls were mirrored; the floor was shiny wood. This, he thought, was her own private little studio. Her haven, maybe. He stood, staring, thoughtful.

  “There’s a closet,” she said.

  He walked across the room and threw open the closet door. Clothing and tons of shoes. “What did you do? Rob Imelda Marcos?” he asked.

  “They’re all old dance shoes. I’m hard on them.”

  “Why do you keep them?”

  “Well, some I mean to get fixed. They’d be good again with new soles and heels.”

  “I see. Interesting.”

  “Why? I’m a dance teacher. It’s a practice floor.”

  “And you have no other life. But you’re three blocks from the studio?”

  “I’m three blocks from the ocean, and I wish I had a pool,” she said.

  “Ah,” he murmured. “Well, last room.”

  He passed by her again, wondering why there could be something almost like open hostility between them at times, then brief encounters where he felt a surge of pure electricity just being near her. Scent, he thought. Or the whisper of gold spun silk against his flesh when his chin and cheek brushed against her hair.

  “Bedroom. A real one. With a bed. And look, will you? Great bed—love the canopy. Rug looks as soft as can be…and there, right on the dresser, the computer.”

  “Everyone has a computer.”

  “Not in their bedroom.”

  “I’ll bet lots of people keep their computers in their bedrooms.”

  “Not when they have a whole house.”

  “Oh, and where do you keep your computer?”

  “I’m living on a boat right now. It’s in the dining area, by the galley.”

  “Where did you keep it when you weren’t living on a boat?” she demanded. “Or did you live on a boat in Virginia?”

  “No, I had an apartment.”

  “And where was your computer?”

  “Not in the bedroom. Okay, suppose you did have a life. Suppose you had someone over, and he was the best thing in the world, the greatest lover since Casanova. And there you are, in heaven beneath the canopy, but you’ve forgotten and left the damned thing on, and right in the throes of a magical moment you hear not how beautiful you are, you hear ‘You’ve got mail.’”

  She stared at him with surprise and indignation, but her lips were twitching as well.

  “It could happen,” he persisted. “Ah, I see. The greatest lover since Casanova hasn’t cruised by yet.”

  “Maybe he has,” she informed him.

  “You see the problem, then.”

  “No. I never forget to turn anything off,” she said, then spun and started across the hall. “Don’t forget the bathrooms. There are two of them, one in there, one on the other side of the studio.”

  “Sure. As soon as I’ve looked under the bed.”

  There was nothing under the bed. Not even dust.

  They were small bathrooms; it was a small house. He dutifully checked behind the shower curtains in each. He should have felt as if he was being intrusive. He didn’t. He was fascinated, instead, by this strange insight into her intimate life.

  “Hey!”

  He had opened a medicine cabinet. She was standing behind him, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.

  A cardboard to-go cup.

  “Coffee already?” he said. “That was quick.”

  “It’s a state-of-the-art machine. Thanks for making sure the place was secure. However, I don’t think there’s an intruder hiding in my medicine chest.”

  “If you’re going to search a place, you might as well make sure it’s free of aliens, gremlins—you know.”

  She lowered her head, smiling. “Right. Well, anyway, thanks. I do feel more secure now.”

  “No problem.” He accepted the cup of coffee, studying it. “I guess I’m leaving.”

  “You’re welcome to sugar and milk first.”

  “Thanks, I like it black.”

  “Actually, you’re welcome to have a seat. I wouldn’t want you to spill it on your lap or anything. Get burned, sue the studio, anything like that.”

  He leaned against the door for a moment, watching her. Those clear bright eyes were on him. She wasn’t touching him in any way, but the electricity seemed to sear right through empty space. There was nothing overtly sexual about her; it was all beneath the surface. But in that subtle manner, she was certainly the most sensual creature he’d ever met. He’d done some teasing before. Now just a glance at the bare flesh of her upper arm created mental visions of other parts of her anatomy, equally bare. Libido was kicking in with a sudden vengeance, as it hadn’t since before he’d left his teens.

  He swallowed his coffee quickly, heedless of whether he burned his mouth or not. He handed the cup back, his eyes locked with hers.

  “I’d better go.” The depth of his voice was startling to himself, along with its husky tenor. “If I stayed, it would be fraternizing,” he said quickly. “Good night.”

  “Good night, and thank you,” she said.

  On the porch, he gave himself a serious mental shake and turned back to her. “Do you think…are you nervous because you don’t believe Lara Trudeau’s death was accidental?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but her eyes narrowed, and it was almost as if a mask had slipped over her face.

  “You think Lara Trudeau was murdered. If you know something, if you are afraid of something, you’ve really got to say it, tell the police.”

  “I talked to the police the day she died,” she said flatly. “I never, ever, told anyone I thought Lara had been murdered.”

  A lie.

  Maybe she hadn’t said it in so many words, but still…a lie.

  “Really? Maybe you should be careful. A lot of people seem convinced you’re the main one suggesting Lara didn’t pop those pills herself. And if Lara didn’t just pop those pills—”

  “Lara died because she abused a prescription and drank on top of it, Mr. O’Casey. That’s what the medical examiner said. And that’s all there is to it.”

  “I’m not the one you need to convince,” he said softly. “Make sure you lock your door.”

  “I always lock my door.”

  “Good.”

  He turned and walked to his car, aware that she was still on the porch, watching him.

  He turned back. “Now would be a good time to lock it.”

  She disappeared inside. He could hear the force of it slamming from where he stood on the street.

  Smiling, he slid into the driver’s seat and twisted his key in the ignition.

  Shannon leaned against the door after he had gone. The night had been long. She was so tired it hurt.

  She was glad she’d had him in, glad she wouldn’t be adding to her ridiculous new paranoia by wondering if someone was hiding in her closet.

  And yet…

  Damn, he was attractive. She shouldn’t find a student so compelling. Maybe she should take a step back. Turn him over to Jane. This was absurd.

  Maybe not so absurd. She was twenty-eight. She joked about the fact that she had no life, but…

  It was true. She had no life. She saw the same men day after day. Anyone new was a student, and seldom, if ever, had such a student walked into her life.

  Most people would think her life was exciting. She danced all day and was guaranteed entry to one of the hottest spots in the city at night. Gabriel was attractive. He’d even asked her out. But Gabriel was a player. He was fun to dance with, and a great man to have as a friend. She would never want anything more with him, tho
ugh. So this wasn’t just a sexual thing, because she did know attractive men.

  Just not like this one.

  She would never trust a man like Gabriel—he needed too much excitement and variety in his life. And Ben…she had fallen out of love with Ben long ago. He was like a childhood mistake. Sam and Justin were like younger brothers. Sometimes she was mad at them, and sometimes she was proud of them.

  It wasn’t that no one ever touched her life, or that there weren’t possibilities. Just none that had touched her, not in a very long time.

  And this man…

  Was a liar. He wasn’t taking dance lessons just for the hell of it. And he wasn’t interested in her just for the hell of it either.

  She pushed away from the door. A man like Gabriel was obvious. This guy was more devious.

  She suddenly heard something from outside. Like a branch breaking.

  She froze against the door, listening. Nothing…no, something. Like footsteps, falling fast and soft, heading from somewhere right by the house out to the street.

  And then…

  Nothing. She stood there for what felt like forever. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t move.

  And still…

  Nothing.

  At last she moved away from the door and stared at it. Her throat felt constricted. She tried to reason with herself. If she had heard footsteps, they were moving away from the house. And maybe she hadn’t really heard steps. There had been a cat out there; it had gotten spooked, and it had run off at high speed. She’d lived in this house for years now. She was in a good neighborhood.

  Right. So good she didn’t even have an alarm system.

  She backed away from her door, staring at it. If she opened it, she was probably an idiot. If she didn’t open it just to make sure no one was hanging around the place, she would never get any sleep.

  She hesitated for a long time, seconds ticking by, as she stared at the door.

  Then she reached for the bolt, slid it, hesitated again and threw the door open.

  CHAPTER 8

  Back at the marina, Quinn noted the large group of cops still gathered at the patio tables outside Nick’s. His brother was among them. He’d thought he was dead tired, ready to call it quits, but on second thought, he headed for the tables.