Dead On The Dance Floor. Heather Graham

at his watch. Time to get moving.

      He headed back for his car, which was parked over on Alton. He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t wanted to park closer to the studio. He returned to his car, took a look at his watch again and figured he had time. It was a short hop from South Beach to pay a visit to the medical examiner’s officer.

      

      The newly revamped and renamed hotel where they were hoping to hold the Gator Gala had called while Shannon was giving Quinn O’Casey his first lesson. When she returned the call, she was happy to learn that she had played hardball with them to just the right degree—they were calling to agree to a per-night room charge that was completely reasonable and would surely help draw northern entrants to the competition, which was planned for the second week in February. Despite the heavy pall that had seemed to hang over her since Lara’s death, Shannon was delighted. They would wrap up the deal at their meeting later in the week. She hurried into the main office to tell Gordon.

      “Great,” he told her, really pleased. “That should make a difference for us. I mean, who wouldn’t want to come to Miami Beach in the middle of winter? Especially at such a great price. What about the meals?”

      “We’re still negotiating,” she said.

      “What are we negotiating?” Ben Trudeau asked, poking his head in.

      “Meals,” Shannon told him.

      “Ah.” Ben was one of those men who was so good-looking he was almost too pretty. Of course, once upon a time, it hadn’t seemed that way to Shannon. Once he had been like a god to her—tall, lithe, elegant, able to move with the speed and electric power of lightning or as smoothly as the wind.

      He was an incredible dancer and always a striking competitor. His hair was ebony, his eyes dark as ink, and his features classically flawless. He had amazing technical ability and was a showman to boot. For several years he had competed with Lara, but then it had all fallen apart. They’d been divorced for almost five years before her death. In that time, she’d taken a number of championships, working steadily with Jim Burke. Ben, in the meantime, had grabbed any number of best in shows and number ones and cash prizes, but he hadn’t gone as far as Lara. He’d changed partners too many times. Now his eyes moved over Shannon as he stood in the doorway.

      “It’s a waste,” he said.

      “What?”

      “All the time you’re spending on business.”

      “Hey!” Gordon said.

      “Well, she should be competing.”

      Gordon looked at Shannon, a slight smile curving his lips. “She can go back into competition any time she wants.”

      “Gentlemen, I’m well aware of that. And I don’t want to compete.”

      “You know, that’s just silly,” Ben said, smoothing back a thatch of hair from his forehead. “You get out there in the Pro-Ams with your students all the time. What’s the difference?”

      “They’re my students.”

      “Lucky students,” Gordon noted, still amused. “You make them look great.”

      “And I’m really proud of them when they do well. Why can’t you two understand that? Everyone isn’t ruled by blinding ambition.”

      She sighed. “Look, since I broke my ankle all those years ago, it’s never been the same. I never know when it’s going to give, and after too much practice, it hurts like hell. It’s not good enough to work as hard as I’d have to if I wanted to compete professionally. The good thing is, I really love to teach. I get my thrills by working with the students.”

      “Beginners,” Ben said, a note of contempt in his voice.

      “Everyone is a beginner at some point.”

      Ben laughed. “Right. So you gonna talk that new student of yours—that tank—into entering the newcomers division at the Gator Gala? That the kind of challenge you’re up to?”

      “Maybe I will talk him into it,” she said.

      “It’s all just an excuse for cowardice,” Ben said.

      She didn’t have a chance to respond. A buzzer sounded on Gordon’s desk, and he hit the intercom button.

      “Dr. Long is here for his lesson with Shannon,” Ella’s voice informed them.

      “I’m on my way.” Before she left, she addressed the two men one last time. “Both of you—I’m happy with what I do. Jane and Rhianna are both young and beautiful and talented. Let’s support them, huh?” She glared at both men. Neither responded.

      Shannon started out of the office. Ben slipped up behind her, catching her shoulder the minute they were out of the doorway.

      “We were good, you know,” he reminded her.

      “Once.”

      “You really are afraid, you know. Maybe you’re afraid of me.”

      “Ben, I promise you—I’m not afraid of you.”

      “We could be really good together again,” he whispered huskily.

      “Not in this lifetime, Ben,” she said sweetly, then edged her shoulder free. “Excuse me. My student is waiting.”

      “Time has gone by, you know. A lot of it.”

      “My student is waiting.”

      “You don’t have to hurt us both by being bitter. You could forgive me.”

      “I forgave you a long time ago, Ben.”

      “Then don’t play so hard to get.”

      “Are you trying to come on to me again—or do you just want to dance with me?”

      “Both?” He laughed with a certain charm, but it just didn’t strum the same heartstrings for her it once had.

      “I’m sorry. I know this must be amazing to you, but I’m not hateful, bitter or playing hard to get. I’m just not interested.”

      “You’ll be sorry,” he said, his voice teasing.

      She stopped, staring at him. “Ben, you have a new partner. What’s her name, from Broward. Vera Thompson.”

      He shook his head. “She’s okay. She’s not the caliber I need.”

      “Have you told her that?” Shannon inquired.

      “Of course not. Not yet.”

      “Why not?”

      “You haven’t agreed to dance again.”

      She shook her head. “Ben, if I ever were to dance professionally again, it wouldn’t be with you.”

      “Why not?”

      She could have told him that the reasons should have been obvious. But then, maybe nothing was as obvious to Ben as it should be.

      So she shrugged. And then she couldn’t help the reply that came to her lips. “You’re just not the caliber I need,” she said, and hurried out to meet Richard for his class.

      

      Quinn had already read the police report that had been provided by Doug. He’d read the M.E.’s report, as well, which had provided a stroke of luck. There were eight M.E.s under the direction of the chief, but Anthony Duarte had performed the autopsy on Lara Trudeau.

      Just as he had performed the autopsy on Nell Durken.

      And though Dixon might not be a ball of fire in the homicide department, Duarte was tops in his field, a man with a natural curiosity that gave him the propensity to go far beyond thorough, even in the most straightforward circumstances.

      At the desk, Quinn produced his credentials, though he knew the receptionist