Dead on the Dance Floor by Heather Graham Page B

anyone move so…”
    â€œYou mean your brother?” Gordon teased.
    Quinn shook his head, grinning. “Ms. Mackay.”
    â€œShe’s the best,” Gordon said.
    â€œHey, Quinn, can we slip back in?”
    His head jerked up. Bobby and Giselle had returned. Panting. Quinn hadn’t realized he had been almost transfixed, watching the dancers.
    â€œYou’re not doing the bolero?” he asked the pair.
    Bobby snorted. “Every time we try it together, we trip each other. I’m actually kind of hopeless.”
    â€œYou’re not!” Giselle protested.
    Bobby made a face at Quinn. “You should see her in group class. She subtly—lovingly—tries to make sure she’s in front of some other guy all the time.”
    â€œI do not. I would never.” She shrugged sheepishly at Quinn. “We change partners every few minutes anyway. What good would it do?”
    Doug came up to the table, drawing Shannon by the hand. “Well?” he asked Quinn. It was strange. Doug had been totally serious about his suspicions regarding Lara Trudeau’s death, but right now, he was like the anxious little kid brother Quinn had known all his life, wanting his approval.
    â€œYou two blew me away,” he said.
    Doug was pleased. “Now it’s your turn.”
    â€œYou’re out of your mind,” Quinn said, laughing.
    â€œNo, no, you’ll be fine,” Bobby encouraged. “It’s a merengue. You can’t mess it up.”
    â€œTrust me, I can.”
    â€œCome on, Mr. O’Casey,” Shannon said to him. “It’s step, step, step. March, march, march. I know you can do it.”
    She was extending her elegant hand to him, those eyes of hers directly on his, challenging. It was as if she didn’t believe for a second that he had really come for dance lessons.
    He shrugged. “All right. If you’re all absolutely determined to make me look like a fool…”
    â€œYou’ll never look like a fool—not with Shannon,” Gordon said.
    â€œDoesn’t look like they’re just doing march, march, march to me,” he told her ruefully as they stepped onto the dance floor.
    â€œThey are—they’re just adding turns.”
    She was in his arms, showing him the hold. “Just follow my movements. Men always—always—lead in dance,” she told him, “but since you haven’t done this yet…left, right, left, right…feel the beat?”
    He did feel the beat. And more. The searing touch of her eyes, probing his. The subtle movement of her body, erotic along with the music.
    â€œMarch, march,” he said.
    â€œYou’re doing fine.”
    â€œThanks. And how about you?”
    Her brows hiked. “I’m impressed. You really do have a sense of rhythm. We can try some of those arm movements if you want. Just lift them…and I’ll turn, then you turn. Merengue is a favorite, because no matter what, it’s march, march.”
    â€œI’m not wiggling like those guys.”
    â€œBecause you don’t have your Cuban motion yet. You’ll get it.”
    Cuban motion, huh? She certainly had it. The way her hips moved was unbelievable.
    He lifted his arms as she had instructed. He was a little too jerky, but she could deal with it.
    â€œNow you,” she told him, and he repeated her motion.
    Step, step, march, march. Okay…
    â€œWas something wrong earlier tonight?” he asked her.
    â€œWhat?” She frowned.
    â€œI saw you coming down the steps. You looked…uneasy,” he said.
    â€œYou saw me? You were watching me?” Her tone was level, but he heard a note of outrage. “Are you following me or something, Mr. O’Casey?”
    He laughed, keeping the sound light. “No, sorry, and I didn’t mean to imply such a thing. I went over to the place across the street for a hamburger before coming here,” he said. Okay,