Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) by Lisa Fernow Page A

a tender section and the piano had taken over so decelerating didn’t seem out of place. In his peripheral vision he saw Roland draw up beside him with Nathalie in his arms, evidently intending to overtake. Passing was considered rude but Bobby knew he was, metaphorically, driving with his blinkers on.
     “You are the lodestar I steer by, dear Nathalie,” Bobby overheard Roland intone in a mock serious voice as he deftly led Nathalie around the pileup. “How’s that for romance?”
    Bobby felt Barbara turn to stone in his arms. Even more disconcertingly, Christian, immediately ahead of him, stopped dead. Bobby shifted his weight from side to side, waiting for Christian to move. Barbara squirmed. Was he holding her too tight? Barbara turned her head and Bobby got the sense she’d opened her eyes to see where they were going. She never trusted him to steer clear of obstacles.
    Christian finally led his partner to the center of the dance floor, the median strip of the tango highway. All clear. Bobby pressed forward and fell in directly behind Roland and Nathalie.
    The violins were back, slow and clear. Good. He could risk something besides a simple walk. A backward ocho. He changed from parallel to cross feet and led Barbara into the step. She was supposed to reach back and to her left with her right foot to trace the beginnings of a figure eight on the ground. But the music suddenly turned insistent again and Barbara, misinterpreting his lead as a voleo, promptly snapped her foot in the air and Nathalie emitted a shrill cry.
    Bobby peered over Barbara’s shoulder to see Nathalie inspecting the back of her right leg. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Nathalie, entirely my fault. Are you hurt?” He didn’t know what he’d done, exactly. He thought he’d left plenty of space but any mishaps were, by definition, the leader’s fault.
    “Look at this.” Nathalie pointed to her calf but Bobby couldn’t see anything wrong with it. “You just spiked my leg.”
    Barbara twisted in his arms and, seeing Nathalie, said, “Oh, did I, I didn’t realize you were there,” in an unnaturally high voice.
    “Well, you shouldn’t wear Comme Il Faut shoes if you don’t know how to dance in them.”
    “I’m so-oo-oo sorry.” Barbara turned back and Bobby saw the corners of her mouth twitch. “Let’s sit the rest of this out.” She started for their table.
    Bobby felt torn between escorting Barbara off the floor, as convention demanded, or staying to attend to the injured party. Roland was on the scene so Bobby decided Nathalie didn’t require further assistance so he followed Barbara back to their table. As he held out her chair he surveyed the room to see if anyone had noticed the collision. Apparently no one had. He watched Roland deposit Nathalie at their table and head back to where he and Barbara were seated. Bobby prepared to apologize.
    “Darlin’, don’t you know better than to do a high voleo on a crowded floor?” Roland admonished Barbara as soon as he got within earshot.
    Barbara gazed at Roland with what Bobby privately thought of as her “little rascal” look. “Roland, honestly, I didn’t know she was so close. My eyes were closed the entire time. I thought you were farther away or I would never have taken such a long step. You know you taught me to always be aware of who is nearby.”
    It was the first Bobby had heard Barbara was practicing with Roland. He didn’t like the idea at all.
    When Nathalie arrived at the table, carrying her purse, he tried a second time to apologize but Barbara interrupted him. “Oh, Nathalie, I’ll pay for the pantyhose.”
    “They’re Fogals, from Brussels, and I doubt you could afford them. Roland, I’ll be in the lobby when you’re ready.” Nathalie flipped her hair back, pivoted with as much grace as she could muster, and limped off.
    Roland looked at his watch. “I’m going to find Nathalie a taxi,” he addressed Barbara in a stern voice, “and when I