Last Dance

by Velvet Vaughn

  After a quick stretch, she took off at a soft jog to warm up. She’d run five miles a day for years. Besides the cardio benefit, running calmed her and gave her time to think and reflect. Today was the day she’d meet her new partner for the latest installment of Dancing With the Celebrities.

  Few people were stirring at this time of the morning, so she had the path along the beach pretty much to herself, though there were a few other die-hards out and about. She waved to the familiar faces, both human and canine. Each breath filled her lungs with the tangy salt air. Eminem’s voice crooning “Lose Yourself,” came next, and her legs automatically kicked up the pace. She let the sound of the music wash over her.

  Her apartment was in an older building that had been well-maintained over the years. It was a two story walk up painted bright yellow, with very little inside space. Her closet was barely more than a hole in the wall. But what it lacked in square footage, it made up for with a wall of windows and a deck that overlooked the majestic Pacific Ocean.

  She could afford to move to a larger place, maybe even buy a house in Beverly Hills or Echo Park or Brentwood, but she’d been saving so she could accomplish her dream of opening her own dance academy. It was something she’d wanted to do for years and the time was right. She’d even found the perfect space. Just thinking about designing the interior and filling it with all things dance had her legs picking up speed. Though the DWTC season was just starting, she was looking forward to the end so she could get the ball rolling on the academy.

  She had no idea who her new partner would be this season, though she’d heard the rumors floating around the internet of supposed contestants. She’d learned early in her career not to listen to the premature reports. They were rarely accurate. Some of the other pros complained that she was always paired with the cream of the crop, but she didn’t care who her partner was, as long as he was willing to work hard.

  As the defending champion, it would be on her to whip the man into shape so they’d be competitive, no matter his skill level. She’d been fortunate to win the Golden Shoes, the prize awarded to the winners each season, in her rookie year. She placed third her second year, and then second her third season. She took home the top prize last season with her partner, a professional football player with fluid moves.

  She cranked her pace, punching up her heart rate as “Don’t Feel Like Dancing,” by The Sidekicks came on. Despite the title, this song always made her want to boogie. A man walking his dog approached and her steps faltered. He was tall with dark hair, but the closer they got, she realized it wasn’t the muscular giant who rescued her two weeks ago. This man smiled at her and she barely managed to return it before she zoomed on by. Of course it wasn’t her rescuer. He was thousands of miles away, back in Indiana. Or at least, she assumed he was in Bloomington. That’s where she ran into him, figuratively and literally. She knew nothing about him, including his name.

  Despite the dreams and fantasies of the mystery man, she didn’t have time for a relationship. She barely had time to sleep at night. Still, she couldn’t help but remember the feel of his strong body pressed against hers. At first, before she realized what had happened, she tried to shove him away by slugging him in the chest. It felt like she’d taken a swipe at the brick wall she was pressed against and her fingers tingled. The man was rock solid. And the fact that he’d risked his life to save hers, well, that was the stuff of heroes.

  In the fourteen or so days since The Incident, as she’d named it in her head, she’d dreamt of him every single night. In one particularly vivid dream, he’d glided across the dance floor, dressed in a white military uniform. She had no idea why she pictured him in one, but it seemed to fit him. He held out his hand and she stepped into his embrace. He whisked her into a waltz, their steps perfectly in sync. After an underarm turn, their clothes disappeared and they were pressed together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, and everywhere in between. Her pounding heart woke her, much to her distress. She’d tried to fall right back asleep, hoping to pick up where they left off, to no avail.

  If it was meant to be, she’d run into him again when she returned to Indiana to open her academy. Several people questioned why she wanted to locate her studio in the Midwest when she lived in California. The answer was simple: Bloomington had always felt like home. She was born there when her parents had been graduate students at Indiana University. It was where she spent the first ten years of her life, and she’d had a happy, idyllic childhood. When her professor father had been offered a chair position at a university in Texas, they’d packed up and moved to Austin and that’s where she met Colin Rafferty, her dancing partner for the next twelve years.

  Another plus in Bloomington’s column was the need for an academy like the one she envisioned. They were commonplace in Los Angeles. She would be a big fish in a small pond, instead of the other way around. Bloomington was a charming college town, though it’d grown exponentially from when she was young. Still, it had the small-town appeal with big town amenities. True, the academy was a monumental undertaking, but she couldn’t wait to get started.

  “Runnin’,” by Sinkane clicked on as she hit her halfway point and circled back. She navigated her route on auto-pilot. She was a creature of habit, traversing the same path each morning. She tried to get in six days a week, taking Sunday off to rest and rejuvenate. Once the new season of DWTC started, she wouldn’t have the option of taking a day off. Every minute of practice was crucial to success. She hoped her new partner felt the same way.

  Chapter 2

  Mason let out a frustrated growl at the empty room in front of him. It was too easy to get turned around in the huge practice facility located on Santa Monica Boulevard. At one time, it’d been a warehouse now converted into separate dancing studios. The building was situated on the back lot of the auditorium where Dancing With the Celebrities was filmed. Parking lots were positioned on each side of the buildings. In between the two structures was a veritable trailer park. The long trailers were split down the middle, with entrances at each end. The celebrities were assigned to one side, their partner the other. A wall separated each unit for privacy, and they featured a seating area as well as a bed if someone wanted to take a nap between rehearsals and a bathroom for showers. Two side-by-side bungalows housed hair and makeup in one and wardrobe the other. It was like a small town surrounded by a ten-foot fence topped with razor wire.

  One of the parking lots was reserved for executive staff and celebrities, the other for ticket holders for each performance. A fence separated that parking lot from the trailers and practice facility. Another lot two blocks away was where most of the support staff parked and rode a bus that regularly made trips between the two. Anyone who entered had to stop at a guard booth and sign in. Staff and celebrity cars were tagged with a device that triggered the barrier gate so they didn’t need to stop and sign in each visit.

  Mason cracked another door to find the room pitch black. No sign of Harlow or her partner, Marcus Howe, God’s gift to women. According to Marcus. Personally, Mason didn’t see it. The guy was too…over-the-top. That was the best description he could come up with. He wasn’t being prejudiced because the guy was a dancer, either. He’d feel the same way if he was a realtor or a janitor. He just rubbed Mason the wrong way. Mason’s bullshit meter was accurate, and Marcus sent the needle past the tolerable level.

  Harlow had been so nervous when they arrived at the studio this morning. She’d been a huge fan of the show since its inception and she knew all the dancers. She had no idea who her partner would be, but there were two she was hoping for. Marcus Howe had been her top choice. She’d gotten her wish.

  The producers kept the pairings a secret, only revealing the match by having Harlow stand in the middle of the room with her back to the door. A man balancing a bulky camera on his shoulder was positioned at her side. Harlow’s nervous gaze locked with Sawyer, who grounded her. The door opened and Harlow’s head whipped around. Her eyes had widened to saucers, and
a huge grin broke across her face. Marcus Howe entered the room like he owned it. Harlow squealed and Marcus ran forward to hug her. Sawyer’s growl could probably be heard on the tape.

  She’d been overjoyed with the match-up and Marcus fawned over her, much to Sawyer’s extreme displeasure. More than once, Mason had to physically restrain Sawyer from marching over and removing parts of Marcus’s body, especially the hands that kept touching his wife.

  He and Sawyer watched the two get acquainted in front of the ever-present crew. Seriously, the cameras never quit rolling. They made sure to stick to a corner where they wouldn’t get caught on tape, but it was a challenge. After two hours of practice, when Harlow needed to take a break to visit the ladies’ room, the cameraman started to follow. Sawyer had jumped up and blocked his path, his arms crossed over his chest. The man had swallowed audibly and quickly retreated. He hadn’t tried to follow Harlow again.

  Mason googled Marcus Howe on his iPhone. He’d been surprised to learn Howe was one of the premier dancers on the show, the top male pro since Glen Benson retired two years ago. Apparently, Benson was a legend, winning almost half of the shows on which he’d appeared. Marcus had been on the show from the first season and had racked up two wins, four second place finishes, and three top fives. The show was held twice a year, so Marcus had been doing this for ten years, or twenty seasons.

  After he’d finished preening in front of the mirrors, he’d demonstrated several moves to Harlow, and Mason had to reluctantly admit that the guy was good. Then he instructed Harlow to attempt them and damn, she was fabulous. She possessed a grace and elegance that couldn’t be taught. She picked up the moves quickly and pretty soon, she and Marcus were sashaying across the floor.

  Sawyer couldn’t keep the besotted look from his face, poor sap. He even had to wipe a tear or two away. Mason, on the other hand, felt a headache brewing, compliments of the severe concussion he’d suffered weeks ago when he’d been caught in a bomb blast and a building fell on top of him. They were less frequent and intense, but sometimes they crept up on him and locked his skull in a vice.

  He excused himself to run to the rented SUV and grab an ibuprofen. He had no trouble getting out of the building and locating the vehicle. Once he popped the pills, he headed back inside, but he hadn’t thought to pay attention to where he was going, which is how he’d ended up lost.

  He cracked the door on the next room to discover sultry music spilling from the speakers. His eyes locked onto the lone occupant, a woman in a gauzy top in a light shade of lavender and black spandex shorts. She was lost in the music, dancing in perfect harmony with the tune. Even to his unknowledgeable eye, he could tell her moves were both fluid and precise. While Harlow was good in an untrained, natural way, this woman was definitely a professional. Peppered in between the dance steps were impressive gymnastics moves. A back flip, jumping splits so high, he cringed. But she didn’t need his empathy. She flowed into another move that was graceful and elegant. She was in a word, stunning. He couldn’t look away.

  After a side flip and some fancy footwork, she launched into a spin that went on so long, it made his own head whirl. But she kept going, seemingly unfazed. A front flip, more elaborate footwork and another gravity-defying leap where she landed in front of him. She looked up and gasped.

  “You scared me,” she accused. Then her eyes widened in recognition. “You!”

  “You!” he sputtered at the same time. His jaw literally dropped open. Holy hell, it was the woman he rescued from the runaway car two weeks ago. Back in Bloomington. Her hair had been full and flowing around her shoulders then. Now it was secured into a high ponytail. No makeup adorned her face and a light sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. She took his breath away.

  His bubble of euphoria was pierced when her brows pinched and her mouth tightened. A hand slapped her chest. “Oh my God, are you following me?”

  His head jerked back. “What? No!”

  Fists slammed onto narrow hips. “Then what are you doing here? We’re thousands of miles away from that sidewalk in…oh, wait.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a nice one. He instinctively took a step back. “You found out who I was, didn’t you? You saw an opportunity and you decided to hit up the celebrity, right? You probably think I’m loaded or connected with the movers and shakers of Hollywood or something. Don’t tell me…your dream is to be an actor.”

  Mason shook his head slowly, disappointment burning a hole in his gut. To think he’d fantasized about this woman for two weeks. “Wow, cynical, aren’t we?” He crossed his arms and noticed her gaze landed on his biceps. He might’ve flexed, you know, just because. “I hate to dent what seems like a very, very healthy ego, lady.” Her eyes shot back to his. “But I have absolutely no idea who you are.”

  “Yeah, right,” she scoffed.

  “Yeah. Right,” he echoed.

  Her eyes narrowed into slits and she crossed her arms, mirroring his stance. “Then what are you doing standing in my studio? What are the odds that we’d end up in the same place thousands of miles away?”

  “I’m not much for statistics, but I’m guessing astronomical. To answer your first question, I got turned around.”

  “That really didn’t answer it.”

  He huffed out a sigh. “If you let me finish, I was about to inform you that I’m with Harlow Oldham. I needed to grab something from my car, but I got lost trying to get back to her studio.”

  “Harlow Oldham…oh, you mean Duquesne.” Her arms dropped to her side and her eyes widened. “She’s the granddaughter of the President.”

  “She is.”

  “I didn’t know she was competing. I saw her story on the news, about her nightmare experience in Coslos. The story said her fiancé rescued her.”

  “Husband, now.”

  Her mouth dropped open this time. “Is that you?”

  He shook his head. “She’s a friend.”

  Her shoulders slumped, he’d like to think in relief, but that was probably wishful thinking. “Oh. Okay. Do you know who her partner is?”

  “Marcus something.”

  Her left eye twitched at the name. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but he was trained to detect subtle tells. He wondered what the story was with her and Marcus and didn’t like the surge of jealousy that accompanied the thought.

  “Then you want the next studio.” She pointed. “One door down to the right.”

  “Okay, thanks. Sorry to have bothered you.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped and slowly rotated to face her again with a raised brow.

  “I just…I mean…well…I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions, you know, earlier.” She waved a hand. “Most people want something from me. I guess I am cynical. I’m truly sorry I assumed you did, too.”

  He nodded slowly, drinking in her beauty. Damn, she was stunning. “Apology accepted.” He turned once more but she stopped him, this time with a hand on his arm, which she quickly jerked away. He felt like he’d been zapped with a taser. Her eyes widened in question. She felt it, too.

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I wanted to thank you again for saving my life. When I think about how close that car came to running me over…” She shivered and met his eyes. “Thank you.”

  He nodded slowly. “My pleasure.”

  “Cassidy.” At his blank look, she added, “My name. Cassidy Swain.”

  “Nice to formally meet you, Cassidy.” He held out his hand. “Mason Rossi.”

  She placed her smaller hand in his and he jolted again from the contact. It was as if he touched a live wire. It was all he could do to hold back from leaning down and tasting her shiny pink lips. She leaned towards him.

  The door burst open and they broke apart. A woman barreled inside, followed by another woman toting a clunky camera on her shoulder, and one pushing a cart that was loaded with brushes and cosmetics.

  “Cassidy, we’re ready to film your meet. Your new partner’s here, but we need to get
some makeup on you for the cameras.”

  “Okay.” She answered, but she was still staring at him.

  “I should go.”

  She nodded. “Thank you again, Mason.”

  “Anytime, Cassidy.”

  #

  Cassidy watched the intriguing stranger stride out of the studio, her breath gone and not from her workout. She thought that maybe she’d romanticized him in her mind. He couldn’t be as tall as she remembered. As strong as she remembered. As handsome as she remembered. And she’d been right. He wasn’t as tall or strong or handsome—he was more so. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He stood at least six-five, maybe six-six, with dark hair cut short and a bearing that screamed military. Her subconscious recognized that in her dreams. Even when she hadn’t known he was in the room, she’d felt his presence. An overwhelming sense of peace had blanketed her. She’d felt safe.

  She followed Rose and her overflowing cart to a chair by the wall. She dutifully sat while Rose went to work making her presentable for the cameras.

  Why the heck had she accused him of being a stalker? It had to be because seeing him again had thrown her completely off kilter. He was the last person she expected to see in her studio. And the one she most wanted there. The expression that crossed his face at her allegation had made her stomach cramp painfully. He looked disappointed. In her.

  She’d posed the question to him, but really, what were the odds that the man who’d literally saved her life a couple of weeks ago would show up again so far away from the first meeting? Like he said, astronomical. She’d thought of him often since the event. Several times, she imagined she’d spotted him in a crowd, only to realize he wasn’t there. When she first observed him standing in the doorway, she assumed the same thing. It couldn’t be him. It was simply a figment of her imagination. But he was real. He was here. She could reach out and touch him. Mason Rossi. The name fit him.