by Rachel Cross
She sat back in her chair with a snort.
Kayla grinned. “Yeah. Anyway. I’m not that stupid girl anymore. And he’s not that asshole who only thought about his dick. You know? And I . . . I was hoping you’d give him another chance. ‘Cause girl, he has been wrecked over your breakup.”
“Kayla—”
A muffled cry came through the window and she froze, listening intently. “It’s too soon,” she muttered. The house remained silent and Kayla’s shoulders relaxed.
“The guy is crazy about you. Give him another chance? I feel guilty about my part in all of this.”
“Did he put you up to this?”
“Fuck no. He would never. But I thought I might try to help him after he’s helped me so much.”
Amy nodded.
“I can imagine that—well, it’s hard to forgive. But the way he talks about you and how freakin’ sad he is . . . ”
“It’s not so simple, Kayla. The cheating, his history—it’s not great.”
Kayla nodded sagely. “Oh, I hear ya, girlfriend. It’s not like I’ve never been with cheaters. Or given them a second chance, y’know? I’ve been burned plenty. But some people are worth it. And that’s what I came here to tell you. He’s worth it.”
“Well.” Amy stood. “Thanks for coming.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Amy settled into the gunmetal gray folding seat with barely a twinge. She hadn’t been in a skating rink since she left Enchanted. And she hadn’t seen Shane since he’d come to see her eight weeks ago. She’d Googled him once—no new scandals.
She’d called Ike to tell him in no uncertain terms that she was putting her health first for once. Dancing with the Stars was out, and so were all the reality TV shows he’d tried to push on her. He’d huffed and puffed and complained that she didn’t need an agent.
She’d asked after Shane, and Ike told her he’d passed on the hockey role offer.
“Why?”
“Damned if I know. After all I did to get him that audition, they offered him the part and he turned it down. Said he didn’t want to wallow for a year. Took some sci-fi military comedy instead.”
“Oh my God, not the role of the army captain?”
“Yeah, you heard about it?”
“No, I mean, I read the script. I thought Shane would be perfect.”
“Well, someone agreed with you—or wanted the marquee name or whatever. He starts shooting in a few months. If he can pull himself away from that amateur hockey league he’s in.”
“He’s still doing that?”
“Yes. God knows why, I’ve told him to quit—anything but that. The idea of a puck to that face gives me nightmares.”
Amy hung up the phone, dazed.
Shane was still playing on the Los Angeles Stars quadruple E hockey league. It hadn’t taken much sleuthing to find their practice schedule.
And there he was, warming the bench. He was easy to identify—tall and broad-shouldered, his blonde hair still on the long side, glinting under his helmet, waiting for his turn. Her heart leaped when he stood, hopped over the rail, and glided onto the ice.
She was making strides in her recovery, had regained some weight. She had a sponsor and a tight knit community in her recovery program. She’d been accepted into three of the four-year colleges she’d applied to locally, and now that she had a course plotted that would lead to a degree in counseling, she couldn’t wait to start in the fall.
Kyle and the rest of her friends would be arriving in town this week, wrapping up their Enchanted season.
Even from her vantage point she could see Shane’s focus. His skating was so much improved, she couldn’t believe it. Despite his efforts, it was apparent that coordinating the stick and the puck out on the ice was still a real challenge. He took the complaints and ribbing of his teammates in stride after the other team scored against him.
What he lacked in skill he made up for in intensity. There were only half a dozen people in the place watching, and Amy had taken care to sit halfway up the bleachers, so she wouldn’t be easily spotted.
She loved him. Despite her best efforts to scour him from her heart, there he remained.
The referee blew the whistle for a break and Shane joined his team, laughing and joking as they rehydrated and leaned against the rails. One of the men in the group made eye contact with Amy and grinned. The thickset man shouldered Shane and toasted her with his raised sports drink.
Shane looked up and their eyes met. The grin disappeared, and his face hardened.
Her welcoming smile faded. She watched as he took the stadium stairs in his skates.
She made her way to the aisle to meet him.
The words of greeting died in her throat as he approached. Jaw set, the hard angles and plane of his face flushed with the heat and sweat of exertion. Was he angry? His two hands came down on her shoulders like manacles as he dragged her to him. She raised her head and his mouth came down on hers. The kiss tasted of salt, desperation, and hope mingled together in a searing explosion of intensity. His tongue pushed into her mouth and Amy moaned. Shane took one step down, too tall in his skates. His mouth left hers and he kissed her cheeks, her chin, her forehead, then rested his sweaty brow against hers.
He leaned back, his blue gaze boring into hers. “God, I love you, Amy Astor.”
“I love you, too.”
He gaze swept down her body critically. “Better,” he said, relief evident in his tone. She felt the heat rise in her neck.
“Am I not supposed to say anything? Not supposed to notice?” he asked. “I don’t know the etiquette.”
“I’m improving,” she admitted.
“Good. It scared the crap out of me, seeing you like that.”
“And you?” Despite that kiss, she had to know.
He never broke eye contact. “I’m single and abstinent. There’s been no one, nothing with anyone since you.”
“Is that how it works?” she asked. “I don’t know the etiquette for you, either.”
“I’m only supposed to have sex as part of a healthy relationship—but since I don’t want to have a relationship with anyone but you, I haven’t had sex,” he said bluntly.
Amy fought a grin. “Then I guess you are doubly glad to see me.”
“I want to love you and only you for the rest of my life,” he said, “starting now.”
“Maybe that should wait until after practice,” she said, smiling as the referee blew the whistle to signal the restart of the scrimmage.
Acknowledgments
Acknowledgments: Chris, my inspiration. Monica Tillery, Kai, Jenny, Kathy and Mark, thanks for keeping it real. Judy M. and Cheree, thank you for taking care of vital parts of my life while I wrote. Finally, heartfelt thanks to my Crimson Romance team, especially Tara Gelsomino.
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
57 Littlefield Street
Avon, MA 02322
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Cross.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7487-1
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7487-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7488-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7488-7
Cover art © 123rf.com
Strangers in the Night
Inés Saint
Avon, Massachusetts
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Copyright
To Oscar, for believing
To Rick and Tommy, for inspiring
To Wilfredo and Inés, for knowing
To Vera and Albie, for cheering
Prologue
July 23rd, Chicago SummerDance Festival
Guantanamera, guajira, Guantanamera. Celia Cruz’s powerful, husky voice sang out from the speakers as the live orchestra took a break. An eclectic crowd gathered on the unique, recycled milk carton dance floor, swaying as Celia’s warm, sensual rendition of the popular Cuban song invited them to loosen their hips for the long night of salsa dancing ahead.
The moon beamed shafts of light through the trees, casting shadows that seemed to dance along with the crowd. And though the city lights overwhelmed most of the stars above, an unrelenting few shone down.
On one corner of the dance floor, Keila Diaz sang along and unconsciously grooved to the music as she looked around for her older sister. They were going to support their good friend, Robbie, who’d just led that night’s dance lesson.
Though they hadn’t been able to make it to the lesson, the real fun was about to begin.
“How did your audition go?” an excited voice came up behind her. Keila turned, smiled, and hugged her sister.
“I think I did well. It almost scares me to say it out loud—you know how I always try to remain neutral. But they all wanted to talk to me afterward, and they seemed excited about my performance.” Keila held her breath, nervous energy flowing through her all over again.
“You’re anxious,” Tania observed.
“It’s just . . . this orchestra suits me, they have a lot of public support and they play the classics along with more modern fare. And I really want to come back home. It’s painful to want something so much.”
Tania seized Keila’s hands and slowly began swiveling her hips, trying to get Keila to do the same. “Did you spiccato and pizzicato and all that neat stuff?” she asked and Keila signaled a yes. “Then don’t get worked up about it. You already gave it your all and there’s really nothing left to do but hope for the best, push it aside for a while, and dance.”
Keila closed her eyes and slowly breathed out. There was nothing more escapist than shutting your mind off and just losing yourself to music and dance. Gradually, she began to move again, marking the beat of the conga drums with her shoulders. Tania smiled and gave her a look that said, there you go!
“Guantanamera” began to wind down just as the live orchestra began their rendition of Tito Puente’s “Ran Kan Kan.” The primitive, pulsing beat of the conga combined with the scintillating sounds of the trumpets sent an energetic buzz through the crowd.
Tania and Keila looked at each other and smiled wide, their rhythm picking up, their individual styles creeping in. Though salsa was essentially a partnering dance, there were more than a few people on the dance floor with enough fancy leg work and body actions to dance solo when no partner could be found and the night provided enough anonymity to throw your cares away.
Old pros soon took to the floor, immediately carving out enough space to display their expertise. A few amateurs timidly looked on, swaying slightly, while other free spirits did what came naturally and let their bodies lead the way.
People from all cultures, social classes, and backgrounds came to Chicago SummerDance. They were there to learn, have fun, and leave their troubles behind. People only looked at each other to share a smile or copy a step.
Robbie soon found them, and they exchanged enthusiastic greetings before he had Tania go off to dance with a distinguished-looking older man who was just starting to learn to salsa. Robbie then had Keila assist him in demonstrating a few hand juggles and double spins to couples nearby.
• • •
Jake Kelly stood just outside the dance floor, scanning the crowd. Grant Park’s Spirit of Music Garden was living up to its name.
Every single person there seemed to be lost in their own little world, as if that particular corner of Chicago was theirs alone. The vibrant flowers along the adjoining paths complemented the swirl of colorful skirts on the dance floor, and with the exception of the dance teacher’s occasional shout outs, the night belonged to music and dancing. Even the warm, humid air, lightly spiced with the scent of roses, seemed to accentuate the sultry movements.
The flare of a crimson skirt caught his attention and he turned to see the subsequent flash of a shapely pair of legs. His eyes strayed to the dancer’s hips and he gazed at the rhythmic swivels and swerves.
When he glanced up to see her face, he saw her expression was one of fun and sweet abandon, as if being among so many people was almost the same as being alone and free. She obviously had no idea she was being watched.
She spun around, and he took in her curvy figure. Funny, he normally wasn’t into her type. He usually liked busty, tall, leggy women.
The young woman reminded Jake of an actress in an old movie his mother loved, Gilda. He’d seen some old footage of the same actress once, dancing for troops during World War II. The young woman on the dance floor looked just like that, a perfect pin-up girl for a lonely soldier.
Except this girl was in full color, her soft, golden brown waves touched by the soft glow of the stage lights in front and the city lights above, not in a distant black and white film.
The dance instructor, clad in tight black pants and a satiny purple shirt, went to her and together they demonstrated a few complicated steps. The instructor then left to help someone else and Jake continued to watch the young woman, who now danced with a little boy.
But she glanced up at him suddenly and he held her eyes, feeling an unfamiliar jolt. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to look down at his watch, but not before he noticed she also looked away.
Seconds later, the salsa instructor was standing beside him. When he caught Jake’s eye, he nodded knowingly toward the young woman and grinned.
“Is she one of your instructors?” Jake asked, knowing he’d been caught watching.
“No, she’s a friend, in town for just a couple of days. I asked her to come down and help,” he explained.
“I was thinking she looks like the actress in this old forties movie, Gilda,” Jake said, uncharacteristically feeling a need to explain.
“Ah. Rita Hayworth.” The instructor bobbed his head in agreement. “Rita’s father was a Spanish flamenco dancer, you know.”
Jake didn’t know, but he nodded politely. They were silent for a moment, and then, “You’re Jake Kelly, right?”
“Right,” Jake repeated. Though he wasn’t exactly well-known, his image appeared often enough in local social media.
“I’m Robbie.” The instructor extended his right hand, which Jake shook. “Is this your last crazy night out on the town before you announce your candidacy and the media stalking begins?” Robbie asked, eyes twinkling.
“Not exactly—how do you know I’m going to run?”
“Word gets out,” Robbie said. “Is dancing on your agenda tonight?”
Jake finally smiled. “No. I’m waiting for a friend; this is just a convenient place to meet.”
At that moment his cell phone tone signaled he had a text message. “Stood up?” Robbie asked.
“No, she’s just running late.”
“Then dance. Trust me, it’ll do you good.” Robbie put his fingers to his lips and whistled quick and loud. The young woman Jake had been watching turned toward the sound and Robbie waved her over. She looked at Jake and visibly hesitated before walking over to them.
“This gentleman needs to dance,” he told her when she reached them.
“Needs to?” He thought her voice would be sultry for some reason, but it wasn’t, it was sweet.
But the instructor gently took hold of their arms and turned them toward each other before more forcibly shoving them to the nearest empty space: a dark corner of the dance floor.
The young woman finally looked up at him and he looked down at her. Her eyes were a warm shade of topaz and the waves in her hair untamed. Warm and untamed—definitely not his type.
• • •
Keila looked up at the intense, brilliantly blue eyes that had been watching her earlier. The man in front of her seemed full of himself, she could tell by the way he looked at her and by the way he held himself. “Don’t worry,” she finally spoke. “We don’t have to dance.”
But he didn’t move. Finally, he looked to his side, observed how the young man there held his partner, and turned back to Keila. He copied the stance and caught her left hand in his right, sliding his left hand around her back. The instant his hands were on her, Keila’s pulse picked up.
The orchestra began playing Sonora Carruseles’ “Micaela,” a vibrant, spirited song with a powerful beat that lured bodies to surrender. “Have you ever danced salsa?” she asked, instinctively stepping closer and raising her right hand to his shoulder.
“No, never,” he replied, his voice low.
“Oh, okay.” She cleared her throat. “We’ll start with the basics, then.” Assuming the correct posture, she instructed, “Step forward with your left foot as I step back with my right, like this.”
“Good. Now step back and I step forward. Like that.” They began to move slowly, but in sync. “Try to rock your hips, just a little, like this.” She moved his right hand to the swell between her waist and her hip, the way she’d done many times before when helping Robbie with his pupils. But this man’s hand was warm and firm and she felt an uncomfortable sense of awareness.