Before I Do Amazon (2 page)

"I don’t need to master it. I just have to be able to competently perform the dance in a little over a week."

"That's fast."

"Can you help me?"

She hesitated, wondering about his motivation. His back was stiff, his face rigid, and she couldn't imagine him dancing the tango, a raw, earthy dance that could only be done well without inhibition, without restraint. Getting this man to unbend would be a challenge.

However, she'd always loved a challenge. And she needed money, so why hadn't she already said yes?

"Of course," she said quickly.

"When can we begin?"

"Tomorrow evening. Why don't you come at the end of the group class so that you can see the demonstration that one of the other instructors and I will be putting on for the group. Then you'll have an idea of what the dance should look like."

"Fine. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Maybe some enthusiasm and a smile?"

"Why don't I just show up and you can charge me double for my bad attitude?" he said dryly.

"So you do know you have a bad attitude?"

"You're very direct, Ms. Martinez."

"Please call me Isabella, and you didn't answer the question."

"Do you need a deposit for the lessons?"

"You can pay me when you come," she said, realizing she wasn't going to get more out of him now. "I'm sure I can trust you to do that."

His frown deepened. "You shouldn't trust anyone, but I will pay you tomorrow."

As he left, she couldn't help wondering why he needed to learn the tango, why he had such a bad attitude about it, and why he didn't think anyone should be trusted, but he was obviously not a man to confide in anyone, especially not a stranger.

But tomorrow that would change, because the tango had a way of stripping away secrets and exposing the heart.

Chapter Two

Thursday night Nicholas Hunter stood in the back of the dance studio watching Isabella Martinez and Ricardo Domingo set the dance floor on fire. Isabella's tango was like nothing he'd ever seen before. Her black silk dress swirled around her shapely legs as she spun, kicked and dipped with a sultry abandon that made his palms sweat and his heart beat faster. She was beautiful and sexy, and every move made him wonder if she would bring that same passion to the bedroom.

Clearing his throat, he told himself to focus, to remember why he was here. He needed to learn how to dance to close a deal. That was the only thing that was important. He couldn't let himself get derailed by a sexy brunette with no ring on her finger.

That might not mean anything, though. She could have taken off the ring while dancing. Or she could be involved with the man she was dancing with, a man who seemed to have entranced all the women in the room. They really were a beautiful pair. Their dance told a story, and he felt himself watching every step with a strange fascination. He also began to realize the enormity of the task in front of him.

This was the kind of dance that Juan Carlos would expect to see when he took the floor in a few weeks. How the hell was that going to happen?

Frowning, he turned his attention away from Isabella and concentrated on Ricardo. He tried to make mental notes of the technical steps involved in the dance, but they moved so quickly that was impossible. Ricardo also brought a dramatic flair, an intensity of expression to his confident steps.

For a split second, Nick was tempted to walk—make that run—to the nearest exit. But he wasn't a coward, and he hadn't run away from anything in a very long time.

The dance finally came to an end with a distinctive flourish. The class burst into applause.

As Isabella and Ricardo went over some important instructions for the couples to work on before the next class, Nick walked out to the hall and got a drink from the fountain. The cold water took down the heat in his body, and by the time he went back into the now empty studio, his heart was beating at a normal rate.

He could do this. He could learn how to dance. Maybe he wouldn't be half as good as Isabella and Ricardo, but hopefully he wouldn't completely embarrass himself.

Unfortunately, his pulse leapt again when Isabella came forward with a warm smile.

God, she was pretty with her dark eyes and sweet pink lips. There was an energy about her that enveloped him. He should have picked an older teacher, someone plainer, someone who wouldn't be distracting or challenging. But it was too late now.

"What did you think?" she asked.

"It was—nice."

She raised an eyebrow. "Nice? Surely it was better than nice?"

"It was very good," he amended. "You and your partner are incredibly talented."

"Thank you. I know it can be a little overwhelming at the beginning, but you don't need to worry. I'm as good a teacher as I am a dancer."

Her charming confidence didn't really make him feel better, because it only made her more appealing, and the last thing he needed to complicate his life right now was a woman. But all he said was, "I'm counting on that. So how do we start?"

"Let me put the music back on."

"Really? Music already?" he asked as she moved across the room. "Don't I need to learn the steps first?"

"You will. I want you to listen closely to the beat, the rhythm," she said as she turned on the music.

He stood self-consciously in the middle of the studio feeling like a fool as he saw himself in the mirror. He'd come straight from work and his white shirt, dark blue tie, black tie and expensive Italian shoes didn’t make him look much like a dancer. But he wasn't a dancer. He was an entrepreneur, a businessman, and this was just another part of his job.

"I promise this won't hurt a bit," Isabella said as she rejoined him.

"That's what my dentist says before he jabs me with a long needle."

She extended her hands, palms open. "I'm unarmed."

He didn't think her weapons were her hands. It was her smile and eyes that could probably kill him.

"Let me show you some of the basic positions." She took his hands and placed one around her waist and then stretched the other out to the side. "Are you comfortable?"

"It's all right. Now what?"

"Now, we do the first simple combination of steps and we count."

She showed him how to do the first five steps. He stumbled through her count that began with a one-two-three, and ended with an "ouch" as he stepped on her foot.

"Sorry," he said. "I knew this would be painful."

"Apparently for both of us," she agreed. "Let's try it again. If it's at all possible for you to lose some of the stiffness, that would be awesome."

He had no idea how to lose the stiffness. He'd acquired a hard shell climbing up the corporate ladder, and he rarely let down his guard. He forced himself to try to relax as they went through the steps again.

"Better," she said. "Now you're going to lead me across the room. I want us to glide—effortlessly. Then we will make a sharp turn and ended on a pointed step. Got it?"

He seriously doubted it he was even close to getting it. "Let's give it a shot," he said tersely.

"Hold on."

"What?"

"There's something you need to understand, Mr. Hunter. Actually, may I call you Nicholas?"

"Nick works. And what is it that I need to understand?"

"The tango is a dance of passion, excitement. Every movement is designed to entice, seduce. It's a push-pull battle of desire—need warring with resistance." She took his hand and twirled her body into his, coming to a stop with her hands on his chest, the tip of her head just touching his chin.

His pulse quickened beneath her palms. He wanted to put his arms around her. He wanted to pull her even closer and cover her mouth with his. Before he could act on any of those thoughts, she pushed off, spinning away from him.

"See what I mean?" she asked. "We come together, then break apart. The dance is a seduction, and if done correctly, the audience will yearn to see the dancers come together, to surrender to their desires."

Every one of her words raised the heat level in his body. He swallowed a growing knot in his throat and let go of her hand. "I don't think this is going to work."

She gave him a surprised look. "We've just gotten started."

"I'm not a dancer."

"You will be when we're done. You have to give yourself a chance."

"This is more complicated than I thought."

"Yes, it is, but that's what makes the tango so special."

He wasn't just talking about the dance; he was talking about her, but she didn't need to know that.

She gave him a speculative look. "I wouldn't have thought you'd quit so easily."

He frowned. He'd never been a quitter, but he had excellent self-preservation instincts, and everything about Isabella and this damn dance was telling him to run.

"It's really not that difficult," she continued. "I'm sure you've seduced a woman or two or three."

"Not with dancing," he muttered.

"So you'll have something new to add to your game," she said with a smile. "Maybe this would be easier for you if you brought your own partner. Do you have a woman in your life you'd feel more comfortable dancing with?"

"No," he said shortly.

"Then what do you want to do?"

He hesitated. "Let's keep going."

"Good." She extended her hand, and he took it.

For the next twenty minutes, he followed her patient instructions and managed to learn a few combinations before Isabella called a halt.

"That's enough for tonight," she said.

"Thank God." He ran the back of his hand across his sweaty brow.

She laughed. "There's a patio outside. Care for some air?"

"Sounds great." He followed her out the side door and found himself on a small patio surrounded by tall buildings. The night was clear of San Francisco's usual fog bank and the mid-May weather was unusually warm.

"It's a nice night," Isabella said, taking a seat at the table. "It feels like summer is not too far away."

He sat down across from her. "Summer in San Francisco isn't always that warm."

She tipped her head in agreement. "Very true. Are you a native?"

"I am. What about you?"

"I was born in Buenos Aires."

His gut tightened at her words. "I didn't realize that."

"Why would you? It's not on my studio brochure."

"When did you come to the States?"

"When I was eight." A shadow filled her eyes. "My parents got divorced, and my mother brought me to San Francisco."

"Was your mother American?"

"Yes. She was a translator working for the Foreign Service when she met my father at the U.S. Embassy in Argentina. He was a lawyer. They had a whirlwind romance and married within six months of meeting each other. But their love affair was too hot to last long."

"Sorry."

She shrugged. "It is what it is. I don't remember them being happy together, so I can't say I miss those times."

"What about your father? Is he still in Argentina?"

"He is," she said, a sad note in her voice. "He's been out of my life for a very long time."

"You didn't see him after the divorce?" he asked, wondering why he was so curious. He usually avoided getting personal, because once a woman answered questions about herself, she usually had questions for him.

"I saw my father twice after the divorce. I remember each one in vivid detail. The first was my ninth birthday. We didn't make it to the cake before he and my mom got into a fight and she told him to get out. The next time was my eighth-grade graduation. He gave me a bouquet of flowers and told me he wanted me to come and see him and my grandparents in Argentina that summer. He was going to convince my mother it would be a good idea." A sad gleam entered her eyes. "But he couldn't convince her. She wouldn't let me go. She was very stubborn about it. I never saw him again after that. That was thirteen years ago."

"There was no contact between the two of you after that?"

"There were some letters, emails, a couple of texts, and then nothing." She paused, her gaze reflective. "I used to think about going to Argentina to see him, to ask him why he'd abandoned me. But I could never quite get to the point of buying an actual ticket. My mother didn't want me to have any contact with him, so she was also somewhat of an obstacle."

"Did she explain why she didn't want you to have a relationship?"

"She said he had a lot of problems, and she didn't want his problems to become mine."

"What kind of problems?"

"She was never specific, but I think he had a problem with alcohol. I know that they used to argue about his drinking. I occasionally tried to press for more information, but it always upset her, so I stopped. My mom had to work hard to support us. I don't know if my dad ever gave her any money. Maybe he did, but our lifestyle was very modest. We lived in the same apartment building as my mother's sister, and my Aunt Rhea became my second mom. She's the reason I became a dancer. She opened this dance studio when I was eleven, and I would come here after school. Whenever I was anxious or frazzled, I would dance."

"And that made you feel better?" he asked doubtfully.

She smiled. "Yes, it did. Dance is a great stress reliever. My aunt studied ballet from the time she was three, and she was amazingly disciplined. When she started to teach me, she would work me out until I was dripping with sweat and every muscle in my body was aching. But it was a good ache, the kind that comes from hard work and a sense of achievement. When I was upset about my father or my life, Aunt Rhea would take me to the ballet barre. She would put my hands on the barre and say, 'This is home. This is where your center is. When you're spinning out of control, you come here. You remember what's important.' It always worked." She cleared her throat. "I'm rambling. Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I've never met a dancer before. It's interesting. Did you ever dance professionally?"

She stiffened at his question, and it was the first time since they'd met that she seemed uncomfortable. "I did, yes."

"Where?"

"New York, L.A., London."

"That sounds impressive."