Dead On The Dance Floor. Heather Graham

Richard.

      She didn’t need to scream when she danced with Richard. He was good. Excellent. A doctor, he had found that dance took his mind off the strain of his day. He wasn’t performing brain surgery on a daily basis, but something far more demanding—at least in the eyes of his customers, he had once told her humorously. He was a plastic surgeon. Trusted with looks—the most important thing in the world, to the players in the area. He’d “fixed” or repaired the old, the young, the famous, the rich. He was written up constantly in magazines and had even been touted as the “Botox king of the western world” by one popular publication.

      Shannon wasn’t sure about his age but assumed he was around forty. He was in great shape, a golf enthusiast when he wasn’t in the studio or working. He maintained a great tan, had a full head of almost platinum blond hair and fine gray eyes. He was married, and his wife, a pediatrician, came in now and then, as well, but she wasn’t as enamored of dancing as Richard was. She preferred diving and spent most of her free time out on a boat. They seemed to have a perfect relationship. When they could be together, they were. When one had an opportunity that didn’t work for the other, they just went their separate ways. Mina Long was petite and, like her husband, fortyish, platinum blond, bronzed and in great shape. The only difference was that she had brown eyes. After all their years of marriage, Shannon thought with some humor, they almost resembled each other.

      He was a nice guy, and she enjoyed teaching him. He learned quickly, and in the year since he had been coming to the studio, he had advanced rapidly. But then again, he could afford all the private lessons he wanted. Most people, with more moderate incomes, took one or two private lessons a week and attended group lessons whenever they could.

      “Earth to Shannon.”

      “Oh, sorry. Make you look good? You don’t need anyone to make you look good, Richard. In fact, you’ve gotten so good, I have to admit, I did just drift off in thought. Forgive me. That’s not at all a good thing for a teacher to admit.”

      He smiled. “You’re still upset about Lara.”

      “Of course,” she admitted.

      “You do know I did everything that I could,” he said quietly. “I may be a plastic surgeon, but I was top of my class at med school and spent plenty of time interning in the emergency room.”

      “Oh, Richard, of course, I know you did everything. It’s just still so…sad.”

      “Yes. We’ll all miss her tremendously. I mean, you will miss her, right?”

      “Of course.” Shannon frowned. “Why do you say that?”

      “No reason.”

      They had been waltzing. She stopped near the stereo, frowning as she looked at him.

      “Richard, why did you say that?”

      “Oh, Lord, now I’m really sorry.”

      “Richard.”

      “A little bird told me once—a while ago—that you and Ben Trudeau had been partners and a very hot duo—before Ben married Lara.”

      “I see.”

      “You were partners, right? I hear you stormed the floor in competitions, that no one even came close to being as good.”

      “We won a few competitions, but that was ages ago. And I do mean ages.”

      “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

      “Who told you about it?”

      “Now, I swear, my lips are sealed.”

      “It doesn’t matter, Richard. It’s not like it was a deep, dark secret or anything. I was just curious.”

      “I told you, my lips are sealed. And hey, you didn’t answer my question.”

      “What question?”

      He sighed with a pretense of mock impatience. “Do you want to help me look good?”

      “I did answer your question. You do look good.”

      He shook his head, smiling. “There are some hotshots down from the board. I’m bringing them out to Suede tonight. Would you show up for a few minutes?”

      “Richard, I was going to try to head home early. Someone will be down there, though. Rhianna or Jane.”

      He shook his head. “You’re my teacher. We both know that even the top professionals work with their partner over and over again. I look best with you. Show up for one dance and one drink? I’ll get you out of there by ten-thirty, I swear it. Please?”

      “Richard, don’t beg.”

      “I am begging.”

      “All right—you tell me what little bird told you about Ben and me, and maybe I’ll come.”

      “That’s bribery!”

      “You bet,” she said, smiling.

      “I can’t tell you. And I don’t fold easy.”

      “If you want me to show up…”

      “Gordon,” Richard said.

      “Gordon?”

      “Yes, I said Gordon, didn’t I?”

      “Yes…and quickly. You folded like a bad poker hand,” she said, laughing.

      “Right. So now you have to show up.”

      “I will, I will,” she told him. “Right after I strangle Gordon.”

      “Why? You just said that it wasn’t a deep, dark secret or anything.”

      “But still…we’re not supposed to bring our personal lives into the studio.”

      Richard let out a snort. “That gets ridiculous, you know.”

      “It’s only professional.”

      “Not professional—silly,” Richard said. “And you’re getting that prim look on your face again. I’ll let it go, but let’s concentrate on something wild and sexy. I want to be known as the salsa king of Miami, not the reigning Botox monarch, okay?”

      She laughed.

      “We’ll give them a show,” she promised.

      “And, Shannon?”

      “What?”

      “What happened was terrible. But it wasn’t your fault in any way. We’re all stunned, and so sorry, but…please. It’s okay to grieve. Lara was tremendously talented, a force…. We’ll all miss her, maybe forever. But…well, you’ve got to move on. It hurts to see you so unhappy.”

      “I’m fine. It’s just…the whole thing was so absurd. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Lara would drink on top of drugs before a performance.”

      “You’ve got to accept it. It happened. You can’t keep questioning fate—you have to let it go, however much you don’t want to.”

      “Thanks. Moving into psychiatry, are you?” she teased.

      He put up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I quit. Come on, let’s play some salsa, huh? I really want to wow ’em tonight.”

      She walked over to the stereo system. “Salsa it is.”

      

      What did they wear to clubs these days?

      Next to nothing, it seemed.

      It was still early—for clubbing—when Quinn returned to the beach. Luckily it was a weeknight, and he was in time to get a meter right on the street and a seat at the sidewalk café across from Suede and Moonlight Sonata. He sat staring at the Deco building that housed the club and dance studio. He’d watched people arrive for dance classes—taking the stairs up to