Dead on the Dance Floor (5 page)

Curious, Shannon followed the group on out. By then, Ella was greeting the man politely, and the others were standing around, waiting to meet him.

They didn't usually circle around to greet their new clients.

Doug's brother. Yes, the resemblance was there. They were of a similar height. But where Doug had nice shoulders and a lithe build, this guy looked like he'd walked out of a barbarian movie. His hair was dark, his eyes a penetrating blue. Nice face, hard, but even lines. In a cartoon, he might have been labeled Joe, the truck driver.

Just before she could step forward, Sam placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back against him. He whispered teasingly to her, “Too bad it's against policy to fraternize with our students, huh?”

“Sam,” she chastised with a soft, weary sigh. It was policy, yes, though Gordon had always preferred not to know what he didn't have to. She had maintained the same
Don't tell me what I don't need to know
attitude.

As she stepped away from him, she heard Justin whisper, “Policy? Like hell. For some of us, maybe, but not for others.”

Even as she extended a hand to the Atlas standing before her, Shannon wondered just what his words meant.

Who, exactly, had been fraternizing with whom?

And why the hell did this simple question suddenly make her feel so uneasy?

She forced a smile. “So you're Doug's brother. We're delighted to have you. Doug is something of a special guy around here, you know.” She hesitated slightly. “Did he drag you in by the ears?”

The man smiled. Dimple in his left cheek. “Something like that,” he said. “He has a knack for coming up with just the right come-on.” His handshake was firm. “I'm Quinn. Quinn O'Casey. I'm afraid that you're going to find me to be the brother with two left feet. You've got one hell of a challenge before you.”

Her smile stayed in place, though the uneasy sense swept through her again.

One hell of a challenge.

She had a feeling that he was right. On more than one level.

What the hell was he really doing here?
she wondered.

“Ella, could I get a chart for Mr. O'Casey, please?” she said aloud. “Come into our conference room, and we'll see what we can do for you.”

The conference room wasn't really much of a room, just a little eight-by-eight enclosure. There was a round table in the middle that seated five at most, surrounded by a few shelves and a few displays. Some of the teachers' trophies were there, along with a few she had acquired herself, and several indicating that they had won in the division of best independent studio for the past two years.

Ella handed Shannon a chart, and the others, rather than discreetly going about their business, stared. Shannon arched a brow, which sent them scurrying off. Then she closed the door and indicated a chair to Quinn O'Casey.

“Have a seat.”

“You learn to dance at a table?” he queried lightly as he sat.

“I learn a little bit about what sort of dancing you're interested in,” she replied. Obviously, they were interested in selling dance lessons, and the conference room was sometimes referred to—jokingly—as the shark-attack haven; however, she'd never felt as if she were actually going into a hostile environment herself. She prided herself on offering the best and never forcing anyone into anything. Students didn't return if they didn't feel that they were getting the most for their money. And the students who came into it for the long haul were the ones who went into competition and kept them all afloat.

“So, Mr. O'Casey, just which dances do you want to learn?”

“Which dances?”

The dark-haired hunk across from Shannon lifted his brows, as if she had asked a dangerous question and was ready to suck him right in.

“We teach a lot of dances here, including country and western and polka. People usually have some kind of a plan in mind when they come in.”

“Right, well, sorry, no real plan. Doug talked me into this. Um, which dances. Well, I…I can't dance at all,” he said. “So…uh, Doug said something about smooth, so that's what I want, I guess,” he said.

“So you'd like a concentration on waltz, fox-trot and tango.”

“Tango?”

“Yes, tango.”

“That's what you call a smooth dance?”

“There are quick movements, yes, and sharpness of motion is an important characteristic, but it's considered a smooth dance. Do you want to skip the tango?”

He shrugged. “No, I haven't a thing in the world against tango.” They might have been discussing a person. He flashed a dry smile, and she was startled by his electric appeal. He wasn't just built. He had strong, attractive facial features, and that dimple. His eyes appealed, too, the color very deep, his stare direct. Despite herself, she felt a little flush of heat surge through her. Simple chemistry. He was something. She was professional and mature and quite able to keep any reaction under control—but she wasn't dead.

He leaned forward suddenly. “I think I'd love to tango,” he said, as if he'd given it serious thought.

And probably every woman out there would love to tango with you, too, buddy,
she thought.

She had to smile suddenly. “Are you sure you really want to take dance lessons?” she asked him.

“Yes. No.” He shrugged. “Doug really wanted me to get into it.”

Shannon suddenly felt hesitant about him. She didn't know why—he was so physically impressive that any teacher should be glad to have him, as a challenge, at the least.

A challenge. That was it exactly. Just as he appealed to her, he created a sense of wariness in her, as well. She didn't understand it.

She sat back, smiling, tapping her pencil idly against the table as she looked at him. She spoke casually. “Your brother is a police officer. Are you in the same line of work, Mr. O'Casey?”

“Quinn. Please, call me Quinn. And no, I'm not a cop. Although I was a cop once.”

He didn't offer any further details.

“So, what
do
you do?”

“I'm with a charter service down in the Keys.”

“Fishing? Diving?”

He smiled slowly. “Yes, both. Why? Are only certain men involved in certain lines of work supposed to take dance lessons?”

She shook her head, annoyed to know that her cheeks were reddening. She stared down at the paper. “No, of course not, and I'm sorry. We just try to tailor a program toward what an individual really wants.”

“Well, I guess I just want to be able to dance socially. And I'm not kidding when I say that I can't dance.”

Those words were earnest. The dimple in his cheek flashed.

She smiled. “Doug came in with the movement ability of a deeply rooted tree…Quinn.” His name rolled strangely on her tongue. “He's made incredible progress.”

“Well, he just kind of fell in love with it, huh?”

Her smile deepened, and she nodded. “You don't think you're going to fall in love with it, do you?”

He shrugged, lifting his hands. Large hands, long fingered. Clean and neat, though. Of course. Fishing and diving. He was in the water constantly. Face deeply bronzed, making the blue of his eyes a sharp contrast. “What about you?”

“Pardon?” she said, startled that they had suddenly changed course.

“When did you fall in love with it?”

“When I could walk,” she admitted.

“Ah, so you're one of those big competitors,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. I'm an instructor.”

He arched a brow, and she felt another moment's slight unease as she realized he was assessing her appearance.

“I bet you would make a great competitor.”

She shrugged. “I really like what I do.”

“I guess competition can be dangerous.”

His words sounded casual enough. She felt herself stiffen. “Dangerous? Dancing?”

He shrugged again. “Doug told me someone had a heart attack and died at the last big competition.”

She shook her head. “What happened was tragic. But it was an isolated incident. I've certainly never seen anything like it before. We're all shattered, of course…but, no, competition isn't usually dangerous.” She was tempted to say more but pulled back, telling herself not to be an absolute idiot. She certainly wasn't going to spill out her own discomfort before a man she'd just met, even if he was Doug's brother. Doug was a student, a promising one, but even he was far from a confident. “I would assume, Mr. O'Casey, that boating and diving are far more dangerous than dancing.”

“I wasn't worried,” he said. “Just…well, sorry about the loss, of course. And curious.”

Obviously, people would be upset. And yes, curious. In the world of dance, Lara had reigned as a queen. Though most people might not have known her name—any more than Shannon might have known that of the leading Nascar racer—such a death still made the newspapers and even a number of news broadcasts. Several stations had been there filming when she had died.

Sure, people were going to be curious.

Gordon had given a speech to her; she had given one to the teachers, and she'd also written up a little notice for the students. She didn't know why she felt annoyed at explaining the situation to this particular man.

“We were all curious,” she said evenly. “Lara Trudeau was amazing. She wasn't into alcohol or drugs, prescription or otherwise. None of us knows what happened that day. She was brilliant, and she, and her talent, will be missed. But dancing is hardly dangerous. Obviously, it's a physical activity. But we've had a number of heart patients here for therapy. It's dangerous to sit still and become a couch potato, too.” She was suddenly angry, feeling as if she was personally under attack, and didn't understand why. She was about to get up and assure him that she would return Doug's money for the guest pass, but then he spoke.

“Rhythm,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“I think I said the wrong thing. I'd like to be able to go to a club like Suede, the one right below you, and not look like a total horse's a—idiot. Salsa, right?”

“They do a lot of salsa. Mambo, samba, merengue…Tuesday nights they have a swing party.”

“But they waltz at weddings, right?” He gave the appearance of seriously considering his options.

“Yes.”

“Do I have to pick certain dances?”

“No, but it would be nice to know where you'd like to start.”

“Where do you generally start?”

She rose. “At the beginning. Come on. If you've no real preferences, we'll do it my way.”

“You're going to be my instructor?” He was surprised, but she didn't think he was pleased.

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“No, I just…Doug said you didn't take new students.”

“I don't usually. But the way it works is, unless there's a problem, the teacher to sign on a new student becomes their regular instructor.” She hadn't meant to actually take him as her student, but now…she meant to keep him. There was just something about him that…

A voice in her ear whispered that he was the most arresting man she'd met in a long time. Best-looking, definitely most sensual, man.

Yes, yes, all acknowledged from the start.

But that wasn't the point. It wasn't his appearance, which was, admittedly, imposing.

There was something else.

It was ridiculous that she was feeling so paranoid.

But the man bore watching. That feeling of wariness would not go away.

 

Maybe.

That was her thought thirty minutes later.

Maybe she hadn't been teaching enough lately. Maybe she couldn't teach and keep an eye on him at the same time. Her patience just wasn't where it should be. There was no chance of anyone stepping in and actually leading him—placing a hand on his arm had assured her of that. It was like setting her fingers on a solid wall. It didn't help that he was stiff, no matter how much she tried to get him to relax.

He actually seemed to be confused between left and right.

They were doing a box step, for God's sake. A simple box step.

“No, Quinn, your left foot goes forward first. The same foot we've used the last twenty-five times.” Was her voice showing strain? Once upon a time, she'd been known for her patience.

He hadn't lied when he said he had two left feet.

“We're just making a square—a box. Left foot forward, right side…a box.”

“Yeah, right. A box. So how many teachers are there here, actually?”

“Are you afraid that I can't teach you, Mr. O'Casey?”