Romance: Dance with Me (California Belly Dance Romance Book 2) (9 page)

When she’d packed up, she checked her to-do list to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Everything was checked off. Everything but one thing: the audition registration. The thing she thought about every day but still hadn’t done.

She couldn’t tell herself there wasn’t time. She had all afternoon.

She couldn’t tell herself she’d do it later. How much later could she wait?

If she was going to do it, it had to be now.

It was going to be now.

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15

Whatever complaint Taz had about the dance room’s acoustics was not evident to Melanie as she twisted and twirled through her choreography. It was a glorious dance space, a perfect dance space. She could hardly believe it was all hers, at least for a while.

She was still trying to wrap her mind around it. It felt like a dream, like at any time, she could wake up and discover she was back in that room in her mom’s trailer, listening to the whir of cars zipping over the freeway overpass.

It was heaven, dancing here with the lights low and the music loud, with no one watching but Spike in the corner, who it turned out was a girl after all.

The music nudged Melanie, pushing her one way then another. She liked to imagine the rhythm as a flesh-and-blood partner. She played with it, and teased it. She felt it engulf her, moving her hips, her feet, her arms, her chest. At the end of the slow melody, the
taksim
, she struck a pose, bent into a bow, and felt the last ounce of energy drain away from her.

The music continued to fade, slowly, slowly, until it melted completely into silence.

The sound of clapping broke the spell. She snapped her head up, and Taz was there, casually leaning against the open doorway, as though he had been there awhile. Spike noticed him, too. The dog yipped, jumped, and ran to his owner’s black leather boots.

“You’ve met Spike?” Taz said, smiling. He bent down to scratch behind the dog’s perked-up ears. “I didn’t know if you were a dog person, so I left her in the garage until we sorted things out. Right, Spikey? Right?”

Something dopey and adorable happened to people when they were around small, cute animals. Apparently it happened to world-famous drummers, too.

“I think Spike had other ideas,” Melanie said. She stared at the red polish on her toenails. “I want to apologize for what I said yesterday. Sometimes my brain takes a vacation while my mouth is still moving. I didn’t mean—”

His hand shot up, and he shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I know people talk.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.

She changed the subject before she could say anything else she’d regret. “How long have you had Spike? She’s so cute.”

“A couple years,” he said, scratching the dog’s belly. Spike had rolled onto her back and nipped at the air in what looked like complete and utter euphoria. “She used to be Gina’s. She left her behind when she moved to New York. Her building doesn’t allow pets.”

“She must miss her. I mean, look at her. She’s the definition of cute.”

The little thing was wiggling and preening now, like she knew she was being praised.

“She’s pretty smart, too. Watch.” Taz flipped his finger in a circle, and the dog rolled over. He clapped and the dog sat up, straight as a razor. Taz made a gun with his thumb and forefinger. “Bang!” he said, and Spike rolled onto her side and played dead.

When Taz said, “Okay,” Spike bounced up and wiggled again.

“Good girl,” Taz said and rubbed her ears.

“Guess you aren’t the only one with talent in this house,” Melanie said. “So I’ve been getting acquainted with the house, and I have to ask, what’s with all the white? This place is like a museum. I’m afraid to touch anything.”

He chuckled. “You’ll get over it. Right now you see white, but after a while, you’ll notice the colors. In the morning, it’s yellow. Around noon, it’s more blue. At sunset, you get the warm orange, then violet. Eventually, we get all the colors of the spectrum in here. That was my dad’s plan, anyway.”

“I didn’t think of it that way,” she said, chastened. There she went, sticking her foot in her mouth again. “I guess I’m just not used to it. I’m used to tiny, dingy apartments. Tiny, dingy trailers. Tiny windows, if I’m lucky. All this wide-open, airy space, I’m just not used to it.”

She thought she saw him shudder. Compact spaces had never bothered her. She kind of preferred them. She had lived in larger places—nothing as large as his house—but the house where they had lived before Dad left was a two-story, four-bedroom house with a pool in the backyard. It was what some people probably considered a suburban dream home. What she remembered most about living there, though, was the hours spent cleaning it. Every Saturday morning she had her list of chores: vacuum, dust, clean the windows and mirrors, and sweep. Between her and her mother, they cleaned that house every weekend, from the floorboards to the ceiling corners, until it practically sparkled. Her mother would beam when it was finished, but all Melanie could think about was the fun her friends were having without her. She would rather have gone to the mall, to the park, or anywhere really. But no, she was stuck in that house with a sponge or a mop in her hand.

There was one silver lining when Dad had left and Mom moved them into the trailer: there was less to clean. But even that silver lining lost its appeal pretty quickly when her mom’s cleaning routine dropped from obsessive to nil.

Still, Melanie appreciated the low maintenance and minimal effort that went into small spaces. Or maybe she’d just gotten used to them. Maybe that’s why she gravitated to the dance room. It wasn’t as grand as the rest of the house. It was simple, and it was cozy.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m in here,” she said.

He shook his head. “Not at all. No one has used it since my mom passed away.”

“Is that her?” Melanie pointed to a trio of black-and-white photos of a belly dancer, the only artwork in the room.

“That’s my grandmother,” he said. “Those pictures were taken in Cairo in 1946 or ’47. That’s Badia Masabni’s nightclub. It’s where my grandfather met my grandmother.”

Melanie gazed at the image with renewed interest. “Your grandmother danced in Badia Masabni’s company? Did she know Samia Gamal?”

He pulled back in surprise. “You know who Samia Gamal is?”

“Of course,” she said. “She’s practically my hero. I used to copy her choreography and her costumes when I first started performing. I had an exact replica made of the costume she wore in
Afrita Hanem
. All flowing chiffon and sequins.”

“What changed?”

“People kept thinking I was impersonating
I Dream of Jeannie
, so I stopped and moved on.”

He shook his head. “Not many people know about the old days. Not even many dancers.”

“Their loss,” she said. “New isn’t always better. Hey, who’s this?” She pointed to another photograph. It had worn into rust tones, like it was from the 1970s or earlier.

“That’s my mom. It was taken in New York, when she used to dance with my father’s orchestra. It was ’65, I think.”

“She’s gorgeous, too.” She recognized the high cheekbones. Taz had inherited them, and her wide, expressive eyes.

“Yeah, and she was a pretty terrific dancer. She trained a lot of the dancers who became famous in the 1970s, but she gave up dancing almost entirely when she had my sister and I. She was just starting to teach again when…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Melanie knew. The airliner crash that had taken his parents’ lives was well known in belly dance circles. It had catapulted their already considerable fame into legend.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He smiled, but she could see the pain in his eyes. “She never said she regretted giving up her career, but I know she made time to dance every day of her life. When she was here or when she was in New York. Even if she was in a hotel, she would sneak downstairs and find an empty ballroom or open conference room, and she would dance to nothing but the memory of music. I think dancing was as important to her as breathing. It was who she was.”

“She must have been a very special lady,” she said, touching his arm, trying to draw him back from the past. “If I had a room like this, I wouldn’t stop dancing either.” She stepped into the center of the room and twirled, as if that proved her point.

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It’s nice to see someone using the space again. It’s been a long time.”

“I can honestly say it is my pleasure.” She twirled again.

“You’re really good, you know.”

She stopped twirling. “Really?” she asked hopefully. She blushed, embarrassed. With thick sarcasm, she added, “You aren’t getting all sweet on me now, are you?”

She wanted to sink into a black hole and never come out. Why had she said that?

But now he was blushing.

“I mean your dancing,” he said. “You have a lot of promise.”

Of course he hadn’t meant
her
. He dated Divas. He wouldn’t be interested in her. She played it cool. “I do declare,” she said in a false Southern accent, “has Mr. Taz Roman complimented little ol’ me?”

He grinned. Whatever dark shadows had gathered in his expression were gone now. “I didn’t say there wasn’t work to do.”

She straightened. “Work? Like what kind of work?”

“Don’t get defensive,” he cajoled. “That’s why you’re here, right? To learn?”

“Yeah, but…” What was the point of arguing? Of course that’s why she was here. It was the only reason she was here. She couldn’t forget that.

“Fine. So if you’re gonna help, then what do you suggest?”

Damn. He looked so cocky now, leaning against the doorjamb with that high-and-mighty smirk.

She looked away.

“Well,” he said coolly, “the first piece of advice I’d give you is that you rush your moves. They’re good, don’t get me wrong, but they’re too fast.”

“That’s not true,” she snapped back. “I’m always on the beat.”

He cocked his head to the side. “You’re getting defensive.”

“I’m not. You’re just wrong.”

His eyes widened. “So this is you not being defensive? Fine, forget I said anything.” He raised his hands and backed into the hall.

That was it? He was giving up?

“Wait,” she said to the empty space in the doorway. “I’m sorry. Finish what you were saying.”

He leaned back into view. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I need to slow down. What else?”

“Not exactly slow down, but don’t anticipate the music so much. It’s only when you’re dancing to recorded music. You were perfect when you danced with me at the Tent.”

“I was?” That was news to her. He hadn’t said anything about that performance. “You think I was perfect?”

“When you use recorded music,” he said, “you probably know it so well that you’re focusing on what’s coming, not what’s there. What you want to do is let the music pull you along, not the other way around. If the audience notices you anticipating the changes, they register it. Even if it’s a split second, they sense that you’re out of sync. It disrupts the flow.”

She stared at him blankly. It wasn’t as though she’d expected him to shout, “You’re the best dancer ever! Garrett will beg you to be in the Divas!” But it didn’t dampen the sting of the criticism. “Okay, I got it. Anything else?”

He scratched the evening stubble on his chin.

There was more. Great. The way his eyes roamed over her. She knew that look. It was the same one she got from strangers on the street. The one she got from her own mother after her first date with an ink gun. “It’s the tattoos, isn’t it?”

She’d been expecting this one. A few of the Divas had tattoos. Mostly belly art like swirls and vines that blended in with the costume. But no one had art on their arms and legs, like she did. Garrett might be open minded, but maybe he wasn’t
that
open minded. “You’re thinking I should cover them up, right?”

Taz’s expression twisted. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. It’s the way you dance. There’s too much ballet and not enough belly in your belly dance.”

She certainly wasn’t expecting that. She sneered. “There’s no ballet in my dance.”

He stepped backward again. “You’re right. It’s fine. Forget I said anything.” He turned and shoved his hands in his front pockets.

“Don’t leave. I didn’t mean that. I mean, maybe you could tell me what you mean by ‘too much ballet’?”

He turned back and hiked an eyebrow. “Your arms. They float too high. Bring them down a bit. Garrett prefers the dancers who focus on the hips, the belly, the center. He wants to see the shimmy, the drops, and the
uh-uh-uh
.” He accentuated the sound with three sharp shakes of his lean, denim-covered hips.

Now, there are male belly dancers. There are even some good male belly dancers, but Taz Roman was not one of them. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

He feigned a hurt look. “Hey, what’s wrong with my
uh-uh-uh
?”