Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues (8 page)

His slight Spanish accent brings my bedazzled state back up a notch, but with determination I squelch it.

“Well, just what were you expectin’ with a show called
Dancin’ with the Rednecks
?”

His dark eyebrows raise and he shakes his head. “So
that’s
what they’re calling it?”

I step a bit closer so that no one can hear me except for him and admit, “Well, I’m hoping that it’s a workin’ title but as far as I can tell . . .
yes.
”

“Dancing with the
rednecks
,” he slowly repeats in a low tone. “I don’t fucking believe it.”

My sharp intake of breath draws his attention, and his brown eyes flash to mine. “Pul-
ease
refrain from using such vulgar language in my presence,” I demand in a clipped tone that says I mean business. Of course as soon as I say this I regret my outburst. I suppose he’s my boss in a manner of speaking and might somehow have the power to have me booted from the competition. But instead of backing down I jut my chin out and wait for his apology.

He blinks at me for a moment and I realize that I’m waiting in vain. His lips twitch and for a hopeful moment I think he’s going to smile but then he scowls. With another dismissive wave of his hand he mutters, “Whatever.”

Okay, let me explain that by and large I’m a very mild-mannered person, but right now I’m seeing red. There might actually be steam coming out of my ears, because it feels like my head is going to pop off my shoulders like a champagne cork. Some of this must be written on my face, because his eyes widen and he grabs my hand.

“Let’s go somewhere private,” he says and proceeds to tug me off the platform and out the back door to the deck.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I sputter when the chill night air cools my hot cheeks and clears my head a bit.

“What?”

“Saving your sweet ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“You looked ready to explode and there were cameras everywhere. I didn’t think you wanted
that
on the promo teasers for the show.”

“Oh.” I’m thinking maybe I should thank him, but then I remember that his rudeness was my reason for going temporarily insane. An awkward moment passes and I try not to shiver in the night breeze.

“Look,” he says and turns to face me, “I’m very sorry about my language.”

“Okay . . .”

“But you were right when you said that this wasn’t what I was expecting. My contract said that Starlight Dance Studios was going to be providing the instruction for handpicked students.” He sweeps his hand in the direction of the lodge and continues. “And we were going to a private, secluded resort where we would give dance lessons for a nationally televised ballroom competition over the period of twelve weeks.”

“Well, we
were
handpicked and this
is
private and secluded.
Resort
is a bit of a stretch, I suppose.”

“Granted, but I was duped into thinking that this was a prestigious honor that would bring business in droves to Starlight Dance Studios. That’s the only reason I agreed to do this.”

“But,
Mr. Martin
, didn’t the fact that Comedy Corner was doing the project give you a clue?”

“No, I didn’t know that little detail. The contract said MB Productions with no mention of Comedy Corner.” He shakes his head. “The money was huge and the opportunity seemed too good to pass up and I suppose I jumped on it before taking the necessary precautions. I should have had my lawyers dig deeper but it was all done in such a rush.”

He looks so upset that my anger fades. “So you would have turned this down?”

“Of course! This will make Starlight Dance Studios a laughingstock and make a mockery out of ballroom dancing,” he states hotly.

“Well, Mr. Martin, when you’re given lemons . . . make lemonade.”

“What?” He looks at me like I’m one taco short of a combo. Maybe I am.

I angle my head at him and explain. “Make somethin’ sweet outta somethin’ sour.” I wave my hand in the direction of the big picture window behind us. “We might be rednecks from Misty Creek, Kentucky, Mr. Martin, but we are by and large hardworkin’, good-hearted people. Given the chance we just might surprise
you
, Comedy Corner, and the rest of the world.”

He gives me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.

“Okay, granted it’s a challenge.”

“That’s putting it mildly, wouldn’t you say?” he asks dryly in his very cool accent.

The fact that Rio Martin has just shown a hint of a sense of humor makes hope blossom into a smile. “Well, yes. Admittedly we’re lemons . . . but let’s make us some lemonade. Whadaya say, Mr. Martin?”

He turns around and leans his elbows against the railing. He hesitates for a long moment as if assessing the situation, which gives me time to appreciate the fact that his partially unbuttoned shirt is gaping open, exposing his very fine chest. I’m trying hard not to imagine what his smooth brown skin would feel like beneath my hands and I’m suddenly feeling warm despite the cool breeze that’s blowing my hair across my face.

When he unexpectedly reaches over and tucks a wind-blown lock behind my ear, I shiver, but not from the cold. “So, then, Abby Harper,
you
are my lemon?” He smiles, flashing white teeth in the moonlight.

I laugh to try to cover up my racing pulse. Let me tell you, Rio Martin’s smile is something to be reckoned with. “Well, you’ll have to squeeze pretty darned hard to get anything useful outta me.”

He laughs. “Oh, I’m more than willing to give you a good squeeze.”

I’m mortified to think that he might have taken my comment as a come-on. “I—I didn’t mean that in a suggestive way.”

“I didn’t take it that way.” He pushes away from the railing, takes a step closer, and says, “Forgive my earlier rude behavior. I was upset but that was no excuse.”

“Forgiven.”

“Good. Then tell me, Abby . . . are you ready to win this thing?”

I nod.

He smiles.

Oh my
. I melt like soft-serve ice cream dripping down a sugar cone. “I’ll give it my best shot,” I assure him with such conviction that he chuckles.

“Good, then be ready bright and early.” Rio walks toward the door and I follow until he pauses and turns to me. “I have to warn you that I’m a fierce competitor and I don’t let up, so get a good night’s sleep.”

I give him a close look to see if he’s teasing, but by the no-nonsense expression on his face I can tell that he’s dead serious. “Got it,” I reply, feeling like I should salute or maybe curtsey.

“Oh, and mark my words,
you’ll
be the one using a few choice words before this is over.”

When he grins, I have hope that he actually possesses an itsy-bitsy sense of humor.

“Never,” I assure him with a lift of my chin. “My mama taught me better.”

“We’ll see about that.” Inclining his head politely, he says, “Until morning, Abby.
Don’t
be late.”

“I’m never late,” I assure him and then remember that I was late twice today already. “Well, almost never.”

“Good, because ballroom dancing is all about discipline.”

“Discipline is my middle name,” I say firmly with a serious look of my own but thinking all the while that I’m really going to disappointment him with my skills . . . or lack thereof.

When I walk past Rio he stands to the side while holding the door open for me. Since I have to pass close by him I can feel the warmth of his body and then catch a delicious whiff of his aftershave . . . it’s something spicy and manly but erotic and a sigh escapes me before I know it. When he shoots me a look I try to turn it into a yawn but unfortunately it becomes this weird noise that starts out high and then goes low. Thoroughly embarrassed, I add a cough at the end to throw him off.

“Do you have something caught in your throat?”

Think fast
. “Um . . . yeah, maybe a . . . a
moth
or somethin’.” I’m thinking that this is a good cover-up, but he appears horrified.

“You swallowed a moth?”

“Maybe just a tiny one.” I pound my chest with my fist and politely cough.

“Let me get you something to drink.”

“No . . . I’m fine, really.”

He looks uncertain and still a bit horrified. I’m thinking that I should just come clean and tell him that his aftershave made me swoon and a moth isn’t flapping around in my stomach, but he’d surely think I was crazy. What the hell was I thinkin’? Swallowed a moth . . .

“Okay then, see you bright and early.”

“And bushy-tailed.”

“Yeah, you know . . . bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?” I venture with a weak smile. Good Lord, this whole thing is going downhill as fast as a sled on a snow-covered hill.

He shakes his head and looks as if he wants me to explain, but I simply bid him good night and hurry up to my room. Once inside I lean against the door and groan. “So much for first impressions. Swallowed a moth?
Good God
.” With a weary glance at my pile of stuff and another tired glance at the unread packet, I shake my head. “I’ll deal with it in the morning . . .” I say in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice, stumble into the bathroom to wash up, and fall into bed in my undies.

Just Rewards

“What happened to bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?” Rio asks with a hint of a smile.

“My doggone tail is draggin’.” I try not to glare at him. While swallowing a groan, I blot beads of perspiration from my brow with a small towel.

“Okay, let’s take five.”

Oh, thank the Lord! Waiting tables is way easier than this! Plus, I’m surviving on a glass of orange juice and a hastily consumed bagel because it took me
forever
to decide what to wear this morning. Since Rio is looking classy in black pants and a formfitting white shirt I’m wishing that I had settled on something more stylish than gray sweatpants and a pink T-shirt.

“Okay, try again. A bit longer if you will. Keep your back straight and your chin up.”

“What? It hasn’t been five minutes, has it?” Again? Longer? Turning away I toss the towel into the corner of our rehearsal room and mutter, “Jerk.”

“Excuse me?” Rio asks with the arch of one dark eyebrow, the same eyebrow that he has arched at me all morning long.

“Work. I said this sure is
work.
” I add a sweet smile for good measure but when he turns around I stick out my tongue, deriving a small sense of satisfaction. I swear if I find him fast asleep somewhere I’m going to shave the doggone eyebrow right off. I giggle at the thought and he whirls around.

“Do you find something amusing, Miss Harper?”

I’m picturing him minus one eyebrow, so I sort of
do
, but I shake my head. “Not at all.”

“Good, now let’s try this again.”

Again? How many times do I have to stand on one doggone foot and point my outstretched arms to the ceiling?

“You have to do this until you don’t topple sideways,” he explains as if reading my mind. “This is called
Pilates
. It will help you with balance, flexibility, and eventually strengthen your core muscles. Eventually you’ll be able to control your muscles with your mind using this method.” He points to his abdomen and
doggone core muscles
clearly defined by the tight shirt distract me from his instruction. This constant distraction has been happening all morning, making me appear stupid, but
hey
, the man should wear something other than butt-hugging pants and a shirt that shows each and every ripple of muscle.

“We’ll work on endurance later.”

“Now let me show you how to do this
again
. Inhale deeply while bringing your right leg up to your left thigh. Get your balance first, Abby. This is where you’ve been going wrong. Then slowly push your arms skyward, palms together like this. Press your knee back without moving your hips. Alignment is crucial. Hold this position for thirty seconds while pointing your fingertips to the ceiling. Stretch as far as your body will allow.” He demonstrates this move with such grace and agility, none of which I have been able to master.

“Will I have to wax your car, Mr. Miagi?”

“What?” That one danged eyebrow goes up again and he looks at me still in the pointing-to-the-ceiling pose that has some crazy name that I’ve of course forgotten.

Rio’s eyebrow slides back down to form a frown. “Wax my car?”

“You know, wax on . . . wax off?” I demonstrate with circular motions but when he shakes his head I realize that references to
The Karate Kid
are wasted on him. “Never mind.”

“What’s waxing a car got to do with anything?” he persists. His accent is getting more pronounced as the morning progresses. At one point he muttered a whole paragraph in Spanish and I don’t think it was anything particularly flattering.

“I guess about as much as standing here like a tree!” Oh, crap . . . I said that out loud. I swallow nervously when a muscle jumps in his clenched jaw. He looks at me for a long heart-pounding moment and then says something under his breath. I strain my ears to hear but I do think it was once again in Spanish.

Now I know that this is where I should apologize for my outburst. And normally I’m a pretty mannerly, laid-back person but his saying things about me in Spanish
really
ticks me off. Being careful not to raise my voice I say primly, “Would you please speak in English? It’s not right that I can’t understand what you’re sayin’.”

“Well, half the time I can’t understand what you’re saying in
English
, so that makes us even,” he says smoothly and raises that doggone eyebrow!

“Stop raisin’ your eyebrow at me!”

“What?” This seems to take him off guard. “I don’t do that.”