Dead on the Dance Floor (13 page)

“What?” He frowned. “Oh, yeah. Boats. I love boats. I can't stay away from a boat very long, or the water. Do you like the water?”

“Sure.”

“Do you fish? Dive?”

“I fished when I was kid. And I did some diving in the middle of the state when I was a teenager. I did a few of those dives where you go in with the manatees.”

“You didn't like it?”

“I loved it.”

“But you don't dive anymore?”

She shrugged. “I don't think I do anything anymore. I've gotten too involved with work.”

“But you don't compete.”

“I do a lot of coaching. I'm sure I told you—I'm a good teacher.” She smiled and added ruefully, “Really good. Come to think of it, I wasn't joking. I really don't have a life other than the studio.” She turned back to the window suddenly, as if she had said far more than she intended. She swung back to him. “What an idea, though. A boat would be great.”

“You want to go out with me on my boat?”

“Yes. No, not exactly. I wanted to do something special for the group that's registered for the Gator Gala. Let me see, with the teachers and students from the local studios, we'd be talking about a group of about fifty. Can you get a nice boat for an evening out? It doesn't have to be a gourmet meal with a sit-down dinner or anything. In fact, I'd prefer something more casual. A buffet, plastic plates, room for a small dance band, of course. Can you set up something like that?”

“Sure,” he said quickly.

“I'll get you some figures…you know, what I can afford to spend. You can arrange it, right? I mean, you really do charters?”

“I can arrange it.”

He looked straight ahead as he pulled off on Alton. “Okay, where am I going?”

She directed him. When they pulled up in front of the house she indicated, she frowned.

“What's wrong?”

“I could swear I left the flood light on.”

Her porch was dark. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “I told you, I can look under the beds.”

She glanced at him and exited the car quickly on her own, digging into her purse for her keys as she strode up the tiled path and across the porch and the door. The little house was charming, with a bit of the old Spanish style nicely incorporated with some cleaner Deco features.

He followed her. “Really, if something might be wrong, maybe I should look around.”

“Come on in,” she said.

He did, curious not just about her and what she knew, but about her home, as well. He wondered if he would see her old trophies and pictures of herself dancing, with or without a partner.

Not in the living room, though there was a dance scene above an old coral rock fireplace against the far wall. It was a painting, and the dancers were ballerinas in traditional tutus, floating in a sea of soft blue and pink. It was a beautiful painting, complemented by the warmth of the room. Heavy wood furniture was offset by the lighter colors of the carpeting, draperies and inviting throws tossed over the sofa and love seat, both facing not a television but the fireplace. The floor was light tile, except for the hooked rug before the hearth.

“I can see there's no one hanging around in the living room,” she said dryly.

“I figured you'd try to deck me if I went straight into your bedrooms,” he told her.

Eyes of green ice swept over him. “You just sized up this place with the same swift once-over you gave me at the studio.”

“I gave you a swift once-over?” he queried, feeling a smile as he stepped in farther. “The kitchen?” he asked, striding through the living room.

“The kitchen and dining room are on this side of the hall, behind the living room. The bedrooms and family room are on the other.”

He nodded, flicking on the light as he entered the kitchen. Copper pots hung from a rafter above the island workstation in the center. A counter separated the kitchen from the dining room, which was furnished with an antique table, six chairs and a matching hutch.

“Very nice,” he commented.

“Glad you approve.”

He turned on lights as he went, crossing from the dining room to the family room, where she had an overstuffed sofa, ottoman, recliners, and a television and stereo system. And a closet. He quirked a brow to her before opening the door. There was nothing but an assortment of gowns in plastic bags, tennis rackets and two pool cues.

“I thought you had no life?”

“Not now,” she informed him. “I simply don't like to throw things away.”

“Are you good?”

“At what?”

“Either pool or tennis.”

“No, I suck at both. But I do enjoy them. Or I did. Once.”

“All work and no play, you know.”

“I never tried to convince you that I wasn't dull.”

He brushed past her, heading down the hall to check out the bedrooms. The house was quiet, and the contact between them seemed to scream. He caught her gaze for a moment and wondered if she'd heard it, too.

“Bedroom,” he murmured.

“What?” Her eyes widened.

“Bedrooms. I'll check out the bedrooms.”

“Yes. Right.”

She followed him as he came to the first door. Light flooded the space. It was perhaps twelve feet by fourteen. Not a stick of furniture. The walls were mirrored; the floor was shiny wood. This, he thought, was her own private little studio. Her haven, maybe. He stood, staring, thoughtful.

“There's a closet,” she said.

He walked across the room and threw open the closet door. Clothing and tons of shoes. “What did you do? Rob Imelda Marcos?” he asked.

“They're all old dance shoes. I'm hard on them.”

“Why do you keep them?”

“Well, some I mean to get fixed. They'd be good again with new soles and heels.”

“I see. Interesting.”

“Why? I'm a dance teacher. It's a practice floor.”

“And you have no other life. But you're three blocks from the studio?”

“I'm three blocks from the ocean, and I wish I had a pool,” she said.

“Ah,” he murmured. “Well, last room.”

He passed by her again, wondering why there could be something almost like open hostility between them at times, then brief encounters where he felt a surge of pure electricity just being near her. Scent, he thought. Or the whisper of gold spun silk against his flesh when his chin and cheek brushed against her hair.

“Bedroom. A real one. With a bed. And look, will you? Great bed—love the canopy. Rug looks as soft as can be…and there, right on the dresser, the computer.”

“Everyone has a computer.”

“Not in their bedroom.”

“I'll bet lots of people keep their computers in their bedrooms.”

“Not when they have a whole house.”

“Oh, and where do you keep your computer?”

“I'm living on a boat right now. It's in the dining area, by the galley.”

“Where did you keep it when you weren't living on a boat?” she demanded. “Or did you live on a boat in Virginia?”

“No, I had an apartment.”

“And where was your computer?”

“
Not
in the bedroom. Okay, suppose you did have a life. Suppose you had someone over, and he was the best thing in the world, the greatest lover since Casanova. And there you are, in heaven beneath the canopy, but you've forgotten and left the damned thing on, and right in the throes of a magical moment you hear not how beautiful you are, you hear ‘You've got mail.'”

She stared at him with surprise and indignation, but her lips were twitching as well.

“It could happen,” he persisted. “Ah, I see. The greatest lover since Casanova hasn't cruised by yet.”

“Maybe he has,” she informed him.

“You see the problem, then.”

“No. I never forget to turn anything off,” she said, then spun and started across the hall. “Don't forget the bathrooms. There are two of them, one in there, one on the other side of the studio.”

“Sure. As soon as I've looked under the bed.”

There was nothing under the bed. Not even dust.

They were small bathrooms; it was a small house. He dutifully checked behind the shower curtains in each. He should have felt as if he was being intrusive. He didn't. He was fascinated, instead, by this strange insight into her intimate life.

“Hey!”

He had opened a medicine cabinet. She was standing behind him, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.

A cardboard to-go cup.

“Coffee already?” he said. “That was quick.”

“It's a state-of-the-art machine. Thanks for making sure the place was secure. However, I don't think there's an intruder hiding in my medicine chest.”

“If you're going to search a place, you might as well make sure it's free of aliens, gremlins—you know.”

She lowered her head, smiling. “Right. Well, anyway, thanks. I do feel more secure now.”

“No problem.” He accepted the cup of coffee, studying it. “I guess I'm leaving.”

“You're welcome to sugar and milk first.”

“Thanks, I like it black.”

“Actually, you're welcome to have a seat. I wouldn't want you to spill it on your lap or anything. Get burned, sue the studio, anything like that.”

He leaned against the door for a moment, watching her. Those clear bright eyes were on him. She wasn't touching him in any way, but the electricity seemed to sear right through empty space. There was nothing overtly sexual about her; it was all beneath the surface. But in that subtle manner, she was certainly the most sensual creature he'd ever met. He'd done some teasing before. Now just a glance at the bare flesh of her upper arm created mental visions of other parts of her anatomy, equally bare. Libido was kicking in with a sudden vengeance, as it hadn't since before he'd left his teens.

He swallowed his coffee quickly, heedless of whether he burned his mouth or not. He handed the cup back, his eyes locked with hers.

“I'd better go.” The depth of his voice was startling to himself, along with its husky tenor. “If I stayed, it would be fraternizing,” he said quickly. “Good night.”

“Good night, and thank you,” she said.

On the porch, he gave himself a serious mental shake and turned back to her. “Do you think…are you nervous because you don't believe Lara Trudeau's death was accidental?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said, but her eyes narrowed, and it was almost as if a mask had slipped over her face.

“You think Lara Trudeau was murdered. If you know something, if you are afraid of something, you've really got to say it, tell the police.”

“I talked to the police the day she died,” she said flatly. “I never, ever, told anyone I thought Lara had been murdered.”

A lie.

Maybe she hadn't said it in so many words, but still…a lie.

“Really? Maybe you should be careful. A lot of people seem convinced you're the main one suggesting Lara didn't pop those pills herself. And if Lara
didn't
just pop those pills—”

“Lara died because she abused a prescription and drank on top of it, Mr. O'Casey. That's what the medical examiner said. And that's all there is to it.”

“I'm not the one you need to convince,” he said softly. “Make sure you lock your door.”

“I always lock my door.”

“Good.”

He turned and walked to his car, aware that she was still on the porch, watching him.

He turned back. “Now would be a good time to lock it.”

She disappeared inside. He could hear the force of it slamming from where he stood on the street.

Smiling, he slid into the driver's seat and twisted his key in the ignition.

 

Shannon leaned against the door after he had gone. The night had been long. She was so tired it hurt.

She was glad she'd had him in, glad she wouldn't be adding to her ridiculous new paranoia by wondering if someone was hiding in her closet.

And yet…

Damn, he was attractive. She shouldn't find a student so compelling. Maybe she should take a step back. Turn him over to Jane. This was absurd.

Maybe not so absurd. She was twenty-eight. She joked about the fact that she had no life, but…

It was true. She had no life. She saw the same men day after day. Anyone new was a student, and seldom, if ever, had such a student walked into her life.

Most people would think her life was exciting. She danced all day and was guaranteed entry to one of the hottest spots in the city at night. Gabriel was attractive. He'd even asked her out. But Gabriel was a player. He was fun to dance with, and a great man to have as a friend. She would never want anything more with him, though. So this wasn't just a sexual thing, because she did know attractive men.