At Mr. Cartwright's Command (15 page)

He barely breaks his concentration as he moves and points his toes, showing off his dancers arch.

“I mean exactly what I said.  I have studied dance for 27 years.  Ballroom dancing is an art form and it takes many, many years to perfect.  Even if it's
just
for a wedding, I suggest starting six months in advance if you truly want to perform a proper waltz publicly,” he explains in his heavily accented voice. 

“Wait are you saying they haven’t been coming to you for the past few weeks?”

He looks confused.  “Of course not.  He only called me a few days ago.”

That
scoundrel
. What the hell has he been doing all this time he claims to be in dance class? 
Typical Mr. Cartwright trying to get me alone with him.  Or am I just being paranoid?  Who knows if he will even show up tonight.

I  move back  to the other side of the room, leaving Alejandro alone to his exercises, and taking my place next to my gym bag on the floor. I consider leaving and storming out of the place.  Or maybe I should just call Mr. Cartwright and give him a piece of my mind. No – if he wants to dance, then that's what I'll give him.  I've made it through the last couple of weeks without cracking. If I didn't quit after he groped me in the dressing room, I'm sure as hell not going to quit now.

It's a good 15 minutes past the scheduled start time when Mr. Cartwright enters.  I'm not surprised that he's dressed inappropriately—I've never seen him wear anything other than a well tailored suit and I didn’t expect that to change today.  Still, he walks in like he practically owns the place.  He stops midway across the dance floor and his eyes find mine.

Alejandro turns on his heels.  “It's very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cartwright.” he says with contempt poorly masked by a fake smile.

“Likewise, I'm sure,” he replies, not taking his eyes off me. 

“Well, should we get started?” Alejandro says, clearing his throat first.  I know he's watching us both oddly as we're lost in a moment.   There's a thick tension between us, and I'm sure Alejandro senses it. Mr. Cartwright is staring me down, trying to intimidate me as he so loves to do, but I'm up for the challenge.

“It's quite unfortunate that we only have,” Alejandro pauses to look down at his watch, “less than two hours left in our one and only session. But I will do my best to mold the two of you into shape.”

“Right,” Mr. Cartwright says, finally breaking our strange reverie. He pops the button on his blazer  and pulls it off over his arms, tossing it to the side like an old rag. I almost cringe, watching a garment that's probably worth more than my entire savings account, basically being used to dust the studio floor.  “I'm ready whenever Tamara is,” he says with a cocky smirk, extending a hand towards me.

I smile, as warmly as possible.  “And yet here I am, thinking I was ready about 15 minutes ago,” I say sarcastically as I prance out on to the dance floor and take it.

He pulls me in by the waist and I make it clear in my expression that I know exactly what he's doing.  He doesn't seem to care much that I do, though.

From behind I hear the cane tapping loudly against the wooden floor.  Alejandro is suddenly beside us, thrusting that same cane between us and forcing us apart.

“I know how much you two are dying to paw at each other,” he says, eying us both condescendingly, “however there are steps to be learned first.”  My cheeks burn with embarrassment.  He's right.  I have to remember I'm here for work and work only.

We break hold, and move to face the mirror, following Alejandro's footsteps.  The man might be slightly abrasive but he's a masterful dancer; no wonder he takes no nonsense.

My eyes dart over to Mr. Cartwright in the mirror.  I'm slightly disappointed to find out that he actually can dance—his movements are smooth and fluid and he picks up the steps easily.  His tall, lean form just makes him look effortless.  What the hell? Is there anything this man
can't
do? I expected him to be an awkward dancer, yet all he's shown so far is a natural masculine grace. 

Alejandro, of course, finds plenty of flaws in both of us, swatting us with his cane to correct them. Now that I did
not
sign up for.  There is merit in what he teaches us, though.  He fixes our posture, teaches us how to roll our feet properly, and, the most important according to him, proper carriage. 

He drills us for about 45 minutes.  Eventually he looks at the clock and then back at us. He shakes his head and rubs his temple.  “Well, that will have to do,” he says lazily, “you two can finally touch now, which I'm sure you'll be happy to learn.”

“Does that mean you want us in hold?” Mr. Cartwright says.

“Yes,” he replies shortly.

Mr. Cartwright turns towards me, taking me by the waist with a very light touch this time.  “Well that's all he had to say,” he mutters under his breath, and I can't help but giggle. I stop myself the moment he makes it obvious he notices me laughing.

“You know the steps,” Alejandro shouts from across the room.  “Begin when the music starts.”

I force myself to stand up straighter, all while trying to avoid Mr. Cartwright's gaze and ignore the fact that we're extremely close and touching.  He grips my hand tighter; can this just end already?  Earlier, I was fine—for the most part at least. But waiting for that damn music to start feels like an eternity and it just gets more and more awkward every second that passes.

“You know, you really should look at me if I'm going to lead,” he says.

I shake my head.  “I'd rather not.”

“Suit yourself, then.”

The music starts—thank God—and we finally begin. “1-2-3...1-2-3...1-2-3,” Alejandro repeats over and over as we move our feet accordingly.  We don't make it very far before my feet tangle up in his and with a yelp, I find myself crashing to the floor.

“Are you alright?” Mr. Cartwright asked.

I wince at the pain in my tailbone. “No,” I reply angrily, looking up at him with accusatory eyes.  “You fuckin' tripped me!”

“I didn't trip you, Tamara.  You weren't paying attention and your feet got twisted up in mine.”

What? My eyes dart Alejandro for some sort of reinforcement.  “Your feet got twisted in his,” he echoes. Well shit. If I didn’t know better, I'd believe Alejandro was in on this whole thing.

“Do you want to know why?” he continues.  “Because you won't look at your partner! You need to look at your partner!”

Not exactly the answer I was wanting to hear.  I groan and attempt to pull myself up off the floor.  Mr. Cartwright reaches down, extending me a hand. I shoot him a sideways glance, ignoring it all together and getting up on my own.

“Did you hurt your ass?” Mr. Cartwright asks, barely containing his laughter.

“Stop.”

“Because if you'd like, I can—“

“Don't even.”

He chuckles.  “Perhaps you should stop being so stubborn so something like that doesn’t happen again.”

“Yeah, perhaps,” I mumble.

“Please take hold again,” Alejandro chimes in.  “Let's take it from the top once more.”

I sigh and take his hand.  He wraps is arm around me, placing his other hand on my lower back, pulling me in a little too close, as usual.  I hear him clear his throat and I reluctantly look up to meet his gaze. 

Alejandro is not easy to please, much to my displeasure. “Again,” seems to be his favorite word, because every time we make it half-way through the dance, he finds something wrong and makes us start all over again.  After the fifth or sixth time—I've lost count by now—my feet are aching and I'm honestly ready to call it quits.

“How about we take a break?” I suggest.

Alejandro points at the clock mounted high on the wall.  “We have less than 30 minutes left and believe me, you two have a long way to go.”

Us two?  Why do I need to be perfect when I'm not even performing at the damn wedding?  I resist the urge to groan and limit my eye rolling to only about half way.

Then, surprisingly, I hear Mr. Cartwright say, “Tamara's right.  Perhaps we should call it a day early?” Did I hear that right? Are my ears deceiving me?

Alejandro looks miffed, but he shrugs it off.  “Fine. It's your
wedding
after all.”

I breath a sigh of relief—thank God that's over.

“I think we should schedule another session,” I hear Mr. Cartwright say as I move across the room to gather my things.

“You need all the instruction you can get,” Alejandro responds wryly. It doesn’t seem to phase Mr. Cartwright though.

“Yes. What do you say, Tamara?” he asks, his voice playful and amused. “Should I call Connor and have him pencil you in for another day?”

I shake my head.  “No, I think if you want to waltz with your fiance at your wedding you should probably get her to learn the dance with you.”

I turn to Alejandro, noting the fact that he's listening to every detail of what we say like it's some sort of juicy soap opera. “Thank you for everything,” I say to him.

He bows at the waist and replies, “It's my pleasure.”

And with that, I throw my bag over my shoulder and hustle my way out of the studio and on to the street.  My feet are aching from dancing in these heels—why the hell didn't I bring a pair of sneakers to change into?  I still have to walk several blocks just to get to the subway station, and my feet just might fall off before I get there.

“Tamara.”  Shit. It's Mr. Cartwright and he's following after me.  I knew it was foolish to think I'd get out of this without having him confront me in some way.   The light turns red and I'm stuck at a corner with nowhere else to turn. “Tamara, I want to talk to you,” he says as he falls in place beside me.

With arms folded across my chest, I turn away from him.  “About what?” I reply scornfully.

He scans my face.  “You look upset.  Why are you mad?”

Is he fucking serious? I'm at a loss for words.  I hold up a hand and roll my eyes as I turn away from him.
Saved by the bell.
The light turns green as we stand there and I take a step off the curb... right as he pulls me back by the arm.

“Tamara, I want to talk to you,
now
,” he says.

“I don't have anything to talk to you about.”

“I just want to know where you're going.”

“Home, where else would I be going?”

“Why are you so hostile all of the sudden?”

Oh, I don't know, maybe because you fucking cornered me and felt me up the last time we were together?
  Okay, I don't actually say that, I just think it and
wish
I had. I start to wonder if Mr. Cartwright has short term memory problems.

“Keep in mind, I'm your boss's client and you should be accessible to me at all times,” he says.  My eyes dart up to his face.  “For anything I want,” he adds with a devilish smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Ugh.
I pull my arm away from him.  “What is it that you want, then?”  Something tells me I'll soon regret asking that question.

He shrugs. “I just want to know how you think I did.”

Really, and he couldn't just email or text me to ask that?  I sigh.  “You were,”
Amazing
. No, I can't say that. The last thing he needs is me to stroke his ego.  “not bad.”

“Could be worse, I guess?” he replies.

“Yup. I expected you to be a lot worse.”

He chuckles.  “What, did you think because I'm white I couldn't dance?”

“No, I thought because you're
you
that you
couldn't
dance,” I reply.  “Is that all?”

“Are you walking home?”

Why is he asking me all this?  “Um, no I'm not.”

“How are you getting home?  Not the godawful subway I hope.  Come, my limo will take you.”

Oh
hell
no.  “Good night, Mr. Cartwright,” I say, but he pulls me back again.  I swear if he does this one more time I'm pulling out my mace.

He leans in and I get that prickly feeling all up and down my spine.  God I hate that my body reacts like this to him.  “Did you think about my proposition?” he whispers into my ear.

“I think I've already made it clear how I feel about that.”

“But I know you thought about it.”

“My answer hasn't changed. And I'd really appreciate it if you stopped coming up with ridiculous scenarios like this one just to force us to be together.”

“What am I supposed to do when you won't even give me the time of day?”

“Exactly, that's my choice.  You might not like my choices but you should at least respect them.”

“If I had you at least my life would be a little less hellish.”

He doesn’t get it, does he? He really doesn’t get it.  He's so damn selfish I just want to shake some common sense into him.  “You made your choice!” I reply, my voice a decibel higher than I'd like it to be.  “You can't eat your cake and have it too regardless of what your mommy and daddy might have told you.”