The Way He Moves. Marcia King-Gamble

so he hung back. When she turned around and he saw her face, he stared. It couldn’t be, but the flicker of recognition in those violet eyes told him it was Serena. No one had eyes quite like hers. He was transported back to another time, another place.

      They were in a dance club, elegant and imposing, with winding staircases and a polished oak floor. He’d been taken there by a business colleague and his wife, people who weren’t serious dancers but just out to have a good time. When Marc had spotted Serena on that dance floor, he’d known that she was the one.

      He’d positioned himself in such a way that when the dance ended, he was in her path. He’d asked her to join him in a Viennese waltz, and one dance had led to another. They fell in step easily. The perfect fit. Quickly, too quickly, the evening had passed.

      A look of revulsion now replaced the startled expression in Serena’s eyes and she was staring at him as if he were some kind of rodent.

      Marc had learned to school his expressions and keep his emotions under wraps. In his business you had to. He’d hoped and prayed for months that Serena d’Andrea would get in touch with him, and when that hadn’t happened, he’d become resigned to never seeing her again. The irony of it was that she was now aboard this cruise ship with him. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He would not endanger her life.

      Marc nodded, acknowledging her.

      Serena’s violet eyes traveled the length of him, but she maintained a respectable distance. At last she spoke.

      “It’s been a long time.”

      “Do we know each other?” The lie rolled easily off his tongue.

      Serena’s lips quivered slightly. She was thrown.

      “Marc LeClair?” she asked, uncertainly.

      “Sorry. I’m flattered and wish I were him. My name is Gilles Anderson. You are?”

      “Serena d’Andrea,” she answered in the smoky voice he remembered.

      She was so beautiful. He’d fallen hard and he still hadn’t recovered. Marc gave Serena a slow, lazy smile. He tried not to let the memories take over. It had been six months since he’d last seen her but it felt like yesterday.

      Serena’s winged eyebrows came together. She fingered the silver pendant and carefully looked him over.

      “Gilles, were you in Buenos Aires about six months ago?”

      He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not. I’ve been on business in Dallas, Texas, for the last year or so.”

      “What about Colombia then? Did you live there?”

      Another slow shake of his head signaled his puzzlement. “Can’t say I have, though it’s on my list of places to travel. Maybe after I get back home to Canada and tend to some business, I’ll be ready to set off again.”

      “It’s nice to meet you…Gilles,” Serena said extending a hand. Her voice was heavy with skepticism. “How about we dance and get acquainted?”

      He didn’t know where this was going, but no way was he getting on a dance floor with her—at least not for a sexy Latin salsa—without blowing his cover. They’d spent two weeks in Buenos Aires getting as close as any two people could. They’d danced and alternately made love, sometimes doing both simultaneously. Serena knew all of his moves.

      “I’m going to have to pass, I’m afraid. Besides I’m hopeless when it comes to rhythm dancing.”

      “I’ll take the lead,” she offered, coming right at him, her arms open.

      “If he doesn’t want to dance, I’d be happy to,” a male voice said behind them. Without waiting for an answer, the man took Serena’s hands and began tugging her onto the floor. She didn’t look particularly happy but she went.

      It had been a close call. The woman Marc had dreamed of and fantasized about for months, the woman who haunted his memories was here. Talk about poor timing.

      The redhead was back.

      “There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She held out a freshly made drink, which he took from her.

      “Thanks.”

      “How come you’re not dancing?” she asked, swiveling her hips. “I would have thought you could have any woman you want. You’re the hottest guy on this ship.”

      Marc took a swallow of the clear-colored liquid. “What is this?”

      “Rum and coconut water. The bartender’s from the islands. I told him to make us one of his favorite local drinks.”

      Us? She was moving too fast for him, but she just might be what he needed to take his mind off Serena.

      “We should dance,” Heddy said, coming even closer, her gigantic breasts almost nudging his chest.

      “Okay, how about when the music changes and things slow down.”

      “Perfect.”

      There was a wide smile on her face now. From his answer she probably figured he was interested in her. Marc felt a twinge of guilt.

      After a few more songs the music changed and several enterprising couples began to cha-cha-cha. Setting down his almost empty glass, Marc gestured for her to do the same. Heddy carried her glass with her and they began a one handed cha-cha-cha.

      They’d been dancing for several minutes when a shrill scream tore through the music. People began scattering.

      “Stop him,” a high pitched female voice shouted.

      “Stop that thief. He tried to mug that woman.”

      “Oh, my God he was choking her.”

      A man plowed through the crowd, shoving people aside. He was heading directly toward them. Marc grabbed the half-filled glass that Heddy still held and flung the liquid into the man’s face. He stumbled and went down like a brick, arms splaying to brace his fall. The object he held hit the floor and began to roll.

      Marc straddled the man, grabbed one of his arms and twisted it behind his back, almost wrenching it from its socket.

      “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, applying pressure to the arm.

      “Please, please, don’t hurt me,” the man whined. “I didn’t steal anything.”

      Two passengers helped Marc keep the thief prone, until men wearing polo shirts with the Alexandra’s Dream logo took over.

      “Security,” they barked, identifying themselves.

      A pair of corded arms physically loosened Marc’s grip. He was breathing hard from the exertion of keeping the thief still.

      The security man’s buddy placed a gigantic boot-clad foot on the small of the man’s back.

      “You were great,” a woman in an elaborate ball gown gushed, her hand grazing Marc’s forearm. “What if he’d had a weapon?”

      “Way to go, bud,” another man said.

      Marc was still dazed, unable to believe that something like this could happen on a cruise ship. People were gawking, shocked, watching the thief as he was pulled to his feet and cuffed.

      A man in ship’s whites, a stethoscope draped around his neck, pushed through the crowd. He was escorted by another security type. They headed for a woman seated in a lounge chair and surrounded by cruise personnel who were holding passengers back from the area.

      Serena! Marc’s heart pounded in his chest. Was she all right? There would be hell to pay if she was hurt. A woman squatting next to her held her hand, offering water periodically. A crew member held a cold compress to the side of her neck and a tall, broad shouldered man who looked to be in charge had an anxious look on his face.

      It must have been her jewelry