Dead on the Dance Floor (38 page)

Ben was strangely helpful, though, anxious to hang around and help Shannon close up. Marnie was there, as well, and was the most helpful when it came to clearing up the bits of Saturday doughnuts and croissants left around the room, making sure they wouldn't get bugs over the weekend.

As she locked up, Shannon realized that she was listening for the grating sound, but she didn't hear it.

There wasn't that much for her to do at home, since she had decided to adhere to the casual side of the dress code, wearing a pair of studded jeans and a halter top. Despite Marnie's slimness, Shannon found a cocktail gown that fitted the girl perfectly. She also finally got Marnie to quit thanking her, reminding her that the studio needed her.

“But don't you know how neat that is?” Marnie asked. “I've never actually been needed by anyone before.”

They made it to the marina by six. Gordon was already on board and as happy as a clam. He explained the arrangement of tables in the salon area, and introduced Shannon to the caterer and crew. Buffet tables lined the sides of the main salon, surrounding the dance floor. The trio would play in the rear, so they could also be heard on the open deck in back.

Shannon was somewhat surprised that Quinn wasn't around, but Gordon told her that he'd had a few things to do but would be there by seven.

The cruise seemed to have been perfectly planned, and Quinn had definitely come through. The boat was great. Perfect for the fifty or so they would have aboard.

Long before seven, their group started arriving.

The staff of Moonlight Sonata lined the boarding plank from the dock to the boat, greeting their friends and students.

“Leave it to old Mr. Clinton to arrive first,” Sam said.

“You know,” Shannon teased, “his first name is actually John—not
Old Mister.
”

“Well, I don't call him old Mr. Clinton to his face,” Sam protested.

“Oh, my God! He's brought old Mrs. Clinton,” Rhianna whispered, watching the older gentleman escort a spry little white-haired lady toward them.

“His wife died years ago,” Gordon commented.

“He's found a lady friend, apparently,” Ben said.

“I know all about it,” Ella whispered. “He lives at a retirement home, you know. And he says that it's great—women outnumber men by two to one, and when you're a man who can dance, you have the pick of the litter at every occasion.”

Mr. Clinton introduced his date, a retiree named Lena Mangetti. She seemed charming, and was delighted to be out on the cruise. They headed aboard, and others followed, including the group from their sister studio in Broward. The Longs came with the Beckhams, another couple that attended classes together, and Katarina and David arrived with Gabe, saying that they'd all shared a cab from the beach, since they intended to have more than a few drinks. Christie, who was both a student and a judge, also arrived—with her dog, as usual. She went nowhere without it. And whether the students were canine lovers or not, they all made a fuss over the animal.

It wasn't until the boat was almost ready to go out that Quinn arrived, his brother in tow.

“You almost didn't make it,” Shannon said lightly. “Late for what is actually your own party.”

He didn't so much as crack a smile, but said, “Well, I'm here now.”

Doug gave Quinn a dry gaze and turned to Shannon, shaking his head. “We're both here now. Guess he didn't notice me with him.” He was trying to be polite, when Quinn was acting liking a jerk.

Quinn ignored Doug and walked by. Shannon thought, Oh, yeah, he's madly in love. Can't live without me.

She glanced at Doug.

“Don't say anything yet,” Doug told her, “but…that waiter was killed. He was caught in some kind of gang war, but Quinn is seeing something else.”

“What?” she said incredulously. “Waiter—you mean Manuel Taylor?”

“Don't look so panicky,” Doug told her quickly. “He was shot—no overdose of anything. It's got nothing to do with us. It's all right.”

It had to be. She had too much to do.

She was shocked, but she couldn't afford to worry about Quinn's state of mind. There was too much going on. As they set sail, there were questions from all quarters. Cocktails were already being served as the boat moved out, but the caterers wanted to know how she wanted the food brought out. Cheese puffs and shrimp balls first? And the trio wanted to know when to play, when to give it a break. She noticed that the Broward and Miami-Dade groups seemed to have chosen opposite sides of the boat, and she wanted to tell the trio that they needed to sing the number from the musical
Oklahoma
, about how “the cowboys and the farmers must be friends,” or whatever it was they said exactly. She accepted a glass of champagne herself and went over to sit with Mary and Judd Bentley, who owned the Broward studio.

“Hi, Shannon,” Trudy Summers, one of their longtime students said. “Glad you're here. Mary was just talking about how hard it was to dance with her husband.”

“Well, it shouldn't be,” Judd said, perching atop a table and setting an arm around his wife's shoulders. “It's just that she's a teacher, and she wants to lead all the time, even when we're dancing together.”

“Especially when we're dancing together,” Mary said, laughing. “Seriously, I do not try to lead.”

“You two
will
be dancing together tonight—it's a fun evening,” Trudy said.

“Yeah,” Judd teased. “It will be a lot of fun. We'll dance out on the deck. We'll do one of those lifts she likes so much.”

“Right,” Mary said. “He plans on lifting me right overboard, I'm pretty sure.”

“Heck, you can swim,” Judd said.

“Not a good idea, there's a propeller or something back there,” Shannon said lightly. “Trudy, don't forget to mix and mingle. We're all South Florida, you know.”

“No problem. Introduce me to some of your guys. Our studio is heavily weighted on the female side. Hey, that guy is really cute—and that one, too.” She pointed to Doug and Quinn. “Jane's student. I've seen the younger guy before, but not the other one. Hey, they kind of look alike.”

“Brothers,” she told Trudy, then couldn't help teasing, “I'll introduce you to Mr. Clinton, if you haven't met him yet. He says that women always outnumber men, two to one,” she said with a laugh, and moved on.

She didn't actually sit to eat with anyone, moving from table to table as others helped themselves to the buffet. Dancing went on along with the dinner, but picked up in earnest once the tables were cleared and it began to grow late. They were due to return by midnight.

Gordon and Judd introduced some of their people, who then did one-and-a-half-minute bits of the routines they were going to do at the Gala.

She was startled when Gordon announced that she and Quinn were going to do their waltz, and she was sure Quinn was equally startled, but he rose to the occasion.

She was glad to slip into his arms, feeling that electricity he could so quickly create. But she was troubled by his eyes.

“Are you all right with this?” she asked him.

“With this? Yes,” he said simply, and when the music came on, he proved it. The waltz was definitely the man's dance. Dancers, especially beginners, were supportive of one another, but she was surprised by the applause that followed his movements, and the oohs and aahs when they went into their final turn, and he spun and lifted her into the “pooper-scooper.”

He smiled; he was charming. When people rushed up, saying they couldn't believe he was a beginner, he said that they should see his fox-trot. He accepted Doug's warm hug and sincere congratulations, but he wasn't really paying attention, not even to his brother. He was watching Gordon, she thought.

She didn't get a chance to stay with him, though, because Judd announced that she and Ben were going to do a bolero. Another surprise.

Ben asked her, “Do you mind?”

“No, let's do it,” she told him.

They did, and she had to admit that, as partners, they were good together. Better than good. They excelled.

“Will you really enter as a pro with me at the Gator Gala?” he asked her, hugging her in a brotherly fashion as their number ended and applause sounded.

She squeezed his hand. Something about Ben had changed since Lara's death. She took the microphone herself to announce, “Thank you. Thanks so very much. And here's some news. Ben and I will be entering the professional division at our first ever Gator Gala!”

Ben gave her a look of pure gratitude, but she sidestepped him, anxious to find Quinn. Gordon announced that Judd and Mary would be dancing, followed by more dancing.

Shannon moved toward the aft deck. A few of the students had milled outside, but having heard the announcement, they were now returning to the main salon. She wandered out as they moved in, wondering where Quinn could have gotten to.

She paused, feeling the breeze. The night was beautiful.

The last dance was starting. She hugged her arms around herself and stared at the wake, the foam spewing out from the propeller at the back of the boat. Standing still and silent, she heard the rush of the water and the hum of the engine.

Then, slowly, she became aware of the voices.

Whispers, hushed.

She turned, not sure where the sound was coming from and unable to make out the words.

“…has to stop.”

“There is no visible connection!”

“She was too close. They'll see the connection eventually.”

“Shannon!” someone called.

She turned back to the door to the salon. Judd was calling to her. Silently she damned him.

Gritting her teeth, she turned to stare out to the rear again, noting the way the water flowed violently from beneath the boat.

She felt a rush of wind and started to turn just as the boat did, starting to head back to the marina.

There was something…someone…

But what, she didn't know.

Suddenly she was flying off the boat, falling toward the water, where it churned violently beneath the giant propeller.

“S
he fell! She was there a second ago, and then…!” Mr. Clinton called out in horror.

Quinn had been looking for Shannon. He'd wanted to tell her, before they got off the boat, that, to the best of his knowledge, no one but Gordon had known about the lunch meeting he had staged with Manuel Taylor. Maybe the man really had been caught in the crossfire of some gang war, but just in case, Quinn didn't want Shannon alone with Gordon.

Threading his way through a friendly group of Broward students, he had searched the crowd for her but he hadn't been able to find her. Then Clinton had yelled.

The
she
in “She fell!” had to be Shannon.

Panic gripped his heart with fingers of sharp ice.

He pushed past people, heedless of who they were. He practically knocked old Mr. Clinton right out of the way. At first it seemed no one was near the area from which Shannon had disappeared, but by the time he got there, a crowd had already formed.

Tearing across the deck, he plunged into the water.

Someone turned on floodlights; the motor was killed. As he hit the water, chilled by night and depth, he feared to open his eyes not just to the sting of salt but because he was afraid to see a blur of red, if she'd been caught in the propeller.

He scissored himself to the surface, shouting her name.

“Shannon!”

“Here!” she called.

Though the motor had been cut, the boat was now a good distance from them, due to sheer momentum. He could hear the crew lowering lifeboats, so that people could come after them.

“Where?”

“Here!” The word ended with a gurgle. He shot toward the sound of her voice.

“What the hell are you doing?” He swam toward her strongly, then realized that she was treading water with no difficulty, actually pushing away from him when he came close.

His heart was still pounding. Her hair was slicked back from her face, and in the expanse of the night sea, she looked frail and delicate—and defensive.

But all in one piece. She had missed the blades of the propeller.

He fought the frantic urge to reach out for her despite her apparent competence.

“What am I doing?” she repeated incredulously. “I'm just out for a midnight swim.”

He reached her in the water. “You fell overboard?”

“I think I was pushed.”

“By who?”

“I don't know.”

“You didn't see anyone?”

“No.”

“How do you know you were pushed? Could you have been leaning over? We took a bit of a sharp turn—is that when you fell?”

“No. That's when I was pushed.”

The seas that night were two to four feet, causing small swells around them. Since she seemed to be doing fine on her own, Quinn made no attempt to reach out for her.

“Mr. Clinton saw you go over, but there was no one else there.”

She glared at him but didn't respond, instead swimming toward the lifeboat that was now coming their way.

Gordon was aboard with two of the crew members, Javier Gonzalez and Randy Flores. Quinn knew them both, since Randy was a permanent employee and Javier often worked the cruises. They were ready to help them both aboard. It wasn't cold, but definitely cool, and Shannon shivered as she was helped up. There were blankets on board, and one was quickly wrapped around her. “Are you all right?” Gordon asked Shannon, seeming genuinely anxious about her.

“Either of you hurt?” Javier asked.

“No,” Shannon said quickly.

“Fine,” Quinn said briefly.

“What the hell were you doing?” Gordon asked Shannon.

To Quinn's amazement, she said, “I don't know. I must have been leaning over too far when the boat veered to head back toward the marina.”

“Thank God you didn't hit the propeller,” Gordon said vehemently.

“He's right,” Suarez said.

Quinn stayed silent. A minute later, they reached the boat, and the anxious captain was there to greet them. Doug helped Shannon from the boat, then assisted his brother, looking at them both in silence.

Shannon quickly assured everyone that she was fine, as her friends, associates and students swept around them.

“I'm so sorry, everyone,” she said. “I guess my balance isn't what I thought. You all can remember that when I'm giving you grief when you're dancing.”

A little ripple of laughter rose, but despite her words, Quinn knew she was still convinced she had been pushed.

Someone pushed through the crowd. It was Richard Long, and he was carrying take-out cups. “Coffee and brandy, one for our lovely-even-when-wet instructor, and another for the man willing to risk his life to save her. Whoops, wait a minute. He owns the boat we're out on, right? Maybe he's trying to make sure he doesn't get sued.” Long spoke teasingly, and laughter rose again.

“Sued? Are you kidding me? I couldn't take the chance that my instructor might drown. I'm just beginning to catch on to the whole dance thing,” Quinn said lightly.

“All's well that ends well,” Sam said, stepping forward to give Shannon a warm hug.

“Drink the coffee,” Ella said. “You're just standing there shivering.”

“Coffee sounds great. Thanks, Richard,” Shannon said, reaching for a cup.

 

Once they were docked, Quinn had a few words with the captain, who swore that he hadn't taken any turns too sharply, something Quinn assured him he was already certain of.

When he was ready to debark himself, Quinn saw that Shannon, a bit damp, her clothing still hugging her frame, had taken her place with the rest of the Moonlight Sonata group, saying good-night to everyone. Her trip overboard had become part of a good time, something they would all talk about for years to come.

Quinn had made up his mind. Screw policy.

As the instructors began to say good-night to one another, he came up to her. “We need to talk.”

She arched a brow, looking around her, silently reminding him that they were surrounded by her entire staff.

“I need to take Marnie home,” she said.

“No, you don't,” he said. “Someone else can take her. I can have Doug do it.”

A strange expression filtered into her eyes. He thought that she was going to refuse him again, and belligerently. Instead she turned around and called softly to Sam, asking him, “Can you take Marnie home, and—” she hesitated briefly, looking at Quinn “—stay with her tonight?”

Sam looked surprised at first, stared at her, then glanced at Quinn and smiled broadly.

“Sure.”

“And stop grinning.”

“Absolutely. No grin.”

Everyone continued the process of kissing each other good-night, but finally almost everyone had straggled off the dock toward the parking lot.

Gordon lingered, asking Shannon, “You're sure you're okay?”

“Absolutely. Honest, Gordon, I'm sorry I caused such a stir.”

“I wouldn't be sorry for that. After it turned out you were okay, the students enjoyed it. Hey, how often have any of them gotten to see you uncoordinated?”

She smiled. “There you go. I was the entertainment.”

Sam was still hovering nearby with Marnie, and Doug remained, as well.

“Doug, looks like everything is all right. Go home or…wherever.” She smiled knowingly, and he waved, then walked off toward his car. “Sam, quit looking like a two-year-old in training pants. Go ahead and drive Marnie out to the beach.”

“Well,” Sam murmured.

Marnie gave them each a kiss on the cheek, casting them a look that was too wise for her years. “Have a good night,” she said, preceding Sam along the dock. He shrugged, a smile still hovering on his face, and followed her. With a last, curious look, Gordon left, as well.

Quinn and Shannon turned to each other, both feeling the worse for wear.

Boats knocked against rubber guards at their docks; a bell clanged from somewhere; waves lapped against boats and pilings. From a distance, they could hear the drone of conversation, the sound of a mellow reggae band playing at Nick's.

Quinn stared at Shannon, ready to argue the point as to whether or not she had been pushed, but she shook her head before he could speak. “Stop,” she said. “Don't…. Just don't.”

He frowned, slowing arching a questioning brow.

God knows who might be around, but she took a step toward him.

Then she slipped her arms around his neck and pressed against him, rising on her toes, the length of her body like a caress, and pressed her lips against his. She tasted like salt, like the sea breeze, like a promise of sweet and decadent sin. He returned her kiss, parting her lips with a ragged and swift hunger, sweeping her mouth with his tongue, deep, returning her initiative with passionate insinuation of what could come. She was trembling in his arms, whether shivering from the touch of the breeze or trembling with anticipation, he wasn't at all certain. Nor did he care. The
Twisted Time
was just yards away. And when her lips parted from his, the words she whispered against his ear were liquid fire. “Don't you ever want to forget it all…just for a few hours, forget it all and…”

His response was so guttural and startling that it evoked an eroticism beyond memory. He drew back, staring at her, cupping her cheek in his hand, a smile slowly taking hold of his lips as tension streaked through him, muscle, sinew, blood and bone.

“Hell, yes,” he told her. And he lowered his head, whispering back, “You mean like feeling so desperate that nothing else matters except crawling right into someone? Not time, place, words, anything?”

She nodded, drawing a line down his damp chest. Low. Down to his soggy belt line. Below.

“You're wasting time now,” she informed him.

He swept her up into his arms because it seemed the simplest, easiest and fastest move to make at that moment.

His own balance and agility were put to the test when he jumped the distance from the dock to the deck of his boat, but necessity seemed to be the mother of coordination as well as invention.

Balancing her weight, he fumbled in his pocket for his key, then burst into the cabin, banging his elbow and her head as he made his way down the steps into the salon. They were both laughing then.

And then they weren't laughing, they were gasping for breath, heedless of everything else as they struggled to peel away wet clothing and crawl into each other's skin.

 

Draped over Quinn's bare length, Shannon smiled and then winced. In the heat of the moment, they had wound up on the floor, in the narrow space between the table and the sofa, and she had apparently banged more body parts than she had realized in the process. Now it was awkward trying to rise. She made the attempt to avoid him, but wound up with her knee right in his abdomen.

“Ow!” he groaned.

“Sorry.”

He eased to his side, laughing. “Could have been worse. How about I get up first? But what's the urgency?”

“Shower. I'm pure salt.”

“I'll come with you.”

“We won't fit,” she told him.

“We'll make do.”

The shower was ridiculously tiny, but the water was steamy and hot, and despite the fact that they barely fit, the rush of warmth brought on by the spray that covered them was delicious. Purely sweet at first. Then purely sensual. Quinn's hand was braced on the Fiberglas wall behind Shannon, and his mouth seemed as hot as the water, moving over her flesh. His wet hair teased against her skin, and she was both breathless and laughing again at the erotic maneuvers he managed in the tiny, tense space. His hands laced around her midriff, and she found herself lifted to stand on the seat of the commode as the sensual movement of his tongue continued down the length of her body. When her knees gave, she was pressed against the Fiberglas herself, aware then of the pounding of water, the rush in her ears, and the force and thrust of his body, bringing her crashing over a brink of sweet forgetfulness and raw abandon once again. Climax shuddered through her with the strength of the rushing water, and she shivered and was held upright only by the power of his body and the smooth shower wall. They stayed there as moments slipped one into another, crushed together, still one, caught in an intimacy that seemed to go beyond any act of love.

At last they stirred, found soap, found shampoo, and, since there really was little choice, washed and soaped various body parts for each other until that too became so intimate and arousing that there was nowhere to go except back where they had been, but this time, when the level of arousal escalated to insanity, Quinn slammed off the showerhead, opened the door and dragged them both back into the cabin, oblivious to the fact that they drenched the floor and sheets.