As I take a sip of iced tea, I make a mental note to read the darned packet as soon as I get back to my room. At the mention of the fifty thousand dollars Mitchell creates a buzz of excitement that seems to electrify the air. The music starts playing softly in the background and the bright fingers of light swirl around the podium. It’s obvious that something’s going to happen. I shift in my seat and my heart starts to pound.
“I know that I told you to expect the unexpected. In reality TV it comes with the territory. Well, a little while ago I was told that your dance instructors have already arrived and they are eagerly waiting to meet and greet you.” He pauses again while excitement ripples through the contestants, me included. A shimmering curtain behind the podium begins to open slowly while the music gets louder. Finally all twelve instructors are revealed standing on a platform resembling a stage. The women are in sequined dance costumes and the men are in formal attire. With a bow they hook up with a partner and begin to dance.
I watch, spellbound, as they swirl and twirl, bend and sweep . . . gliding with grace and ease. I have to wonder who my instructor will be and if I will ever be able to master anything close to what they’re demonstrating. When the music ends and they strike a pose, camera flashes are going off like strobe lights and I’m bummed that in my haste to get down here I totally forgot to bring mine. We applaud as loudly as twelve people can. In my exuberance I jump to my feet and thankfully others follow. This seems to please Mitchell since he’s smiling from ear to ear.
“And now,” Mitchell booms into the microphone, “let me introduce each of you to your Starlight Dance Studio instructors!” The light in the room goes from dim to bright as he begins calling out our names. I can see that the camera crew is catching all of this on film, and then something else is clearly evident:
The Starlight dance instructors have no idea what they have gotten themselves into.
The wide eyes and open mouths give them away. Most of them have the grace to recover and smile as they greet their students. Even the tall, leggy redhead in the purple sequins manages a big welcoming smile and deep bow to Mac Murphy, the big burly trucker. But then my eyes are drawn to one tall aloof man standing off to the side. His hands are folded across his chest and he has a—well, there’s no other way to say it—a pissed-off look on his otherwise strikingly handsome face. Other than that he’s tall, dark, and smokin’ hot. Midnight-black hair is slicked back from a face that could grace the cover of GQ. High cheekbones, a full mouth, and a strong jaw shaded with dark stubble give him a dangerous sexy appearance that has me feeling warm all over and reaching for my water. His billowy white shirt is open halfway down his chest, revealing tanned skin and a sculpted physique. Tight black pants and a bloodred sash at his waist give him the appearance of a swashbuckling pirate . . .
“Abby,” Danny says, breaking into my sudden fantasy of being tossed over the pirate’s shoulder, “they just called your name.”
I gasp. “You mean the pirate is my teacher?”
“It appears so.”
“I don’t want him!” I turn to Patsy and say, “Let’s trade.”
“Oh baby, I’d take him in a heartbeat. Kinda looks like Antonio Banderas. But, hon, they don’t allow tradin’ dance instructors. Didn’t you read your handbook?”
“Abby Harper,” Mitchell says again, “come on down and meet your partner, Rio Martin, esteemed instructor and ballroom dance champion from Mexico City.”
I swallow hard and stand up. Rio the dancing pirate looks my way and as luck would have it I stumble as I push my chair beneath the table. His pissed-off look gets more pronounced and it occurs to me that he probably doesn’t possess a sense of humor. I force myself to walk toward the front of the room when I really want to turn and hightail it out of there.
“Hello, Mr. Martin,” I venture, hating the little quiver in my voice, but I bravely stick out my hand in a formal greeting. “I’m Abby Harper. Nice to meet you.” The touch of his warm hand and firm grasp sends a tingle down my spine. He’s quite frankly the sexiest man I’ve ever come into contact with and I suddenly become tongue-tied. Now, just how in the world am I going to learn to dance with a man who makes my knees go weak? When I realize that I’m gawking with my mouth wide open, I snap my jaws shut and hope that I can gather my wits about me and say something remotely intelligent. Judging by the expression in his deep brown eyes, I do not impress him much. Of course the fact that I’m in jeans and a sweater doesn’t help matters.
“I—I didn’t realize that this was going to be a formal dinner,” I blurt out, but other than the deepening of his frown he remains silent. “I would have worn something more appropriate.”
“Oh.” This time he flicks a brief glance at my attire as if he hadn’t cared enough to even notice what I’m wearing and then shrugs his wide shoulders.
Okay, all of the other instructors are chatting with their partners. I have to say that I’m getting a bit miffed that Rio Martin, my Antonio Banderas wannabe, refuses to speak to me. I might be a hometown hick and he might be some fancy-schmancy ballroom dancer, but darn it, I deserve better than this. My anger is quickly overcoming my bedazzled state concerning his extreme sexiness. As my mama would say, pretty is as pretty does, and he ain’t being very pretty.
My heart thumps at what I’m about to say, but I’ve waited tables long enough to know how to deal with an arrogant jerk. “Look, Mr. Martin, I’m getting the impression that this isn’t what you bargained for but—”
“I’m afraid you don’t know the half of it,” he interrupts with a wave of his hand.
His slight Spanish accent brings my bedazzled state back up a notch, but with determination I squelch it.
“Well, just what were you expectin’ with a show called Dancin’ with the Rednecks?”
His dark eyebrows raise and he shakes his head. “So that’s what they’re calling it?”
I step a bit closer so that no one can hear me except for him and admit, “Well, I’m hoping that it’s a workin’ title but as far as I can tell . . . yes.”
“Dancing with the rednecks,” he slowly repeats in a low tone. “I don’t fucking believe it.”
My sharp intake of breath draws his attention, and his brown eyes flash to mine. “Pul-ease refrain from using such vulgar language in my presence,” I demand in a clipped tone that says I mean business. Of course as soon as I say this I regret my outburst. I suppose he’s my boss in a manner of speaking and might somehow have the power to have me booted from the competition. But instead of backing down I jut my chin out and wait for his apology.
He blinks at me for a moment and I realize that I’m waiting in vain. His lips twitch and for a hopeful moment I think he’s going to smile but then he scowls. With another dismissive wave of his hand he mutters, “Whatever.”
Okay, let me explain that by and large I’m a very mild-mannered person, but right now I’m seeing red. There might actually be steam coming out of my ears, because it feels like my head is going to pop off my shoulders like a champagne cork. Some of this must be written on my face, because his eyes widen and he grabs my hand.
“Let’s go somewhere private,” he says and proceeds to tug me off the platform and out the back door to the deck.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I sputter when the chill night air cools my hot cheeks and clears my head a bit.
“Salvar su asno dulce.”
“What?”
“Saving your sweet ass.”
“Excuse me?”
“You looked ready to explode and there were cameras everywhere. I didn’t think you wanted that on the promo teasers for the show.”
“Oh.” I’m thinking maybe I should thank him, but then I remember that his rudeness was my reason for going temporarily insane. An awkward moment passes and I try not to shiver in the night breeze.
“Look,” he says and turns to face me, “I’m very sorry about my language.”
“Okay . . .”
“But you were rig
ht when you said that this wasn’t what I was expecting. My contract said that Starlight Dance Studios was going to be providing the instruction for handpicked students.” He sweeps his hand in the direction of the lodge and continues. “And we were going to a private, secluded resort where we would give dance lessons for a nationally televised ballroom competition over the period of twelve weeks.”
“Well, we were handpicked and this is private and secluded. Resort is a bit of a stretch, I suppose.”
“Granted, but I was duped into thinking that this was a prestigious honor that would bring business in droves to Starlight Dance Studios. That’s the only reason I agreed to do this.”
“But, Mr. Martin, didn’t the fact that Comedy Corner was doing the project give you a clue?”
“No, I didn’t know that little detail. The contract said MB Productions with no mention of Comedy Corner.” He shakes his head. “The money was huge and the opportunity seemed too good to pass up and I suppose I jumped on it before taking the necessary precautions. I should have had my lawyers dig deeper but it was all done in such a rush.”
He looks so upset that my anger fades. “So you would have turned this down?”
“Of course! This will make Starlight Dance Studios a laughingstock and make a mockery out of ballroom dancing,” he states hotly.
“Well, Mr. Martin, when you’re given lemons . . . make lemonade.”
“What?” He looks at me like I’m one taco short of a combo. Maybe I am.
I angle my head at him and explain. “Make somethin’ sweet outta somethin’ sour.” I wave my hand in the direction of the big picture window behind us. “We might be rednecks from Misty Creek, Kentucky, Mr. Martin, but we are by and large hardworkin’, good-hearted people. Given the chance we just might surprise you, Comedy Corner, and the rest of the world.”
He gives me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.
“Okay, granted it’s a challenge.”
“That’s putting it mildly, wouldn’t you say?” he asks dryly in his very cool accent.
The fact that Rio Martin has just shown a hint of a sense of humor makes hope blossom into a smile. “Well, yes. Admittedly we’re lemons . . . but let’s make us some lemonade. Whadaya say, Mr. Martin?”
He turns around and leans his elbows against the railing. He hesitates for a long moment as if assessing the situation, which gives me time to appreciate the fact that his partially unbuttoned shirt is gaping open, exposing his very fine chest. I’m trying hard not to imagine what his smooth brown skin would feel like beneath my hands and I’m suddenly feeling warm despite the cool breeze that’s blowing my hair across my face.
When he unexpectedly reaches over and tucks a wind-blown lock behind my ear, I shiver, but not from the cold. “So, then, Abby Harper, you are my lemon?” He smiles, flashing white teeth in the moonlight.
I laugh to try to cover up my racing pulse. Let me tell you, Rio Martin’s smile is something to be reckoned with. “Well, you’ll have to squeeze pretty darned hard to get anything useful outta me.”
He laughs. “Oh, I’m more than willing to give you a good squeeze.”
I’m mortified to think that he might have taken my comment as a come-on. “I—I didn’t mean that in a suggestive way.”
“I didn’t take it that way.” He pushes away from the railing, takes a step closer, and says, “Forgive my earlier rude behavior. I was upset but that was no excuse.”
“Forgiven.”
“Good. Then tell me, Abby . . . are you ready to win this thing?”
I nod.
He smiles.
Oh my. I melt like soft-serve ice cream dripping down a sugar cone. “I’ll give it my best shot,” I assure him with such conviction that he chuckles.
“Good, then be ready bright and early.” Rio walks toward the door and I follow until he pauses and turns to me. “I have to warn you that I’m a fierce competitor and I don’t let up, so get a good night’s sleep.”
I give him a close look to see if he’s teasing, but by the no-nonsense expression on his face I can tell that he’s dead serious. “Got it,” I reply, feeling like I should salute or maybe curtsey.
“Oh, and mark my words, you’ll be the one using a few choice words before this is over.”
When he grins, I have hope that he actually possesses an itsy-bitsy sense of humor.
“Never,” I assure him with a lift of my chin. “My mama taught me better.”
“We’ll see about that.” Inclining his head politely, he says, “Until morning, Abby. Don’t be late.”
“I’m never late,” I assure him and then remember that I was late twice today already. “Well, almost never.”
“Good, because ballroom dancing is all about discipline.”
“Discipline is my middle name,” I say firmly with a serious look of my own but thinking all the while that I’m really going to disappointment him with my skills . . . or lack thereof.
When I walk past Rio he stands to the side while holding the door open for me. Since I have to pass close by him I can feel the warmth of his body and then catch a delicious whiff of his aftershave . . . it’s something spicy and manly but erotic and a sigh escapes me before I know it. When he shoots me a look I try to turn it into a yawn but unfortunately it becomes this weird noise that starts out high and then goes low. Thoroughly embarrassed, I add a cough at the end to throw him off.
“Do you have something caught in your throat?”
Think fast. “Um . . . yeah, maybe a . . . a moth or somethin’.” I’m thinking that this is a good cover-up, but he appears horrified.
“You swallowed a moth?”
“Maybe just a tiny one.” I pound my chest with my fist and politely cough.
“Let me get you something to drink.”
“No . . . I’m fine, really.”
He looks uncertain and still a bit horrified. I’m thinking that I should just come clean and tell him that his aftershave made me swoon and a moth isn’t flapping around in my stomach, but he’d surely think I was crazy. What the hell was I thinkin’? Swallowed a moth . . .
“Okay then, see you bright and early.”
“And bushy-tailed.”
“Bushy-tailed?”
“Yeah, you know . . . bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?” I venture with a weak smile. Good Lord, this whole thing is going downhill as fast as a sled on a snow-covered hill.
He shakes his head and looks as if he wants me to explain, but I simply bid him good night and hurry up to my room. Once inside I lean against the door and groan. “So much for first impressions. Swallowed a moth? Good God.” With a weary glance at my pile of stuff and another tired glance at the unread packet, I shake my head. “I’ll deal with it in the morning . . .” I say in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice, stumble into the bathroom to wash up, and fall into bed in my undies.
6
Just Rewards
“What happened to bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?” Rio asks with a hint of a smile.
“My doggone tail is draggin’.” I try not to glare at him. While swallowing a groan, I blot beads of perspiration from my brow with a small towel.
“Okay, let’s take five.”
Oh, thank the Lord! Waiting tables is way easier than this! Plus, I’m surviving on a glass of orange juice and a hastily consumed bagel because it took me forever to decide what to wear this morning. Since Rio is looking classy in black pants and a formfitting white shirt I’m wishing that I had settled on something more stylish than gray sweatpants and a pink T-shirt.
“Okay, try again. A bit longer if you will. Keep your back straight and your chin up.”
“What? It hasn’t been five minutes, has it?” Again? Longer? Turning away I toss the towel into the corner of our rehearsal room and mutter, “Jerk.”
“Excuse me?” Rio asks with the arch of one dark eyebrow, the same eyebrow that he has arched at me all morning long.
“Work. I said this sure is work.” I add a sweet smile for good measure bu
t when he turns around I stick out my tongue, deriving a small sense of satisfaction. I swear if I find him fast asleep somewhere I’m going to shave the doggone eyebrow right off. I giggle at the thought and he whirls around.
“Do you find something amusing, Miss Harper?”
I’m picturing him minus one eyebrow, so I sort of do, but I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Good, now let’s try this again.”
Again? How many times do I have to stand on one doggone foot and point my outstretched arms to the ceiling?
“You have to do this until you don’t topple sideways,” he explains as if reading my mind. “This is called Pilates. It will help you with balance, flexibility, and eventually strengthen your core muscles. Eventually you’ll be able to control your muscles with your mind using this method.” He points to his abdomen and doggone core muscles clearly defined by the tight shirt distract me from his instruction. This constant distraction has been happening all morning, making me appear stupid, but hey, the man should wear something other than butt-hugging pants and a shirt that shows each and every ripple of muscle.
“We’ll work on endurance later.”
Oh, goody.
“Now let me show you how to do this again. Inhale deeply while bringing your right leg up to your left thigh. Get your balance first, Abby. This is where you’ve been going wrong. Then slowly push your arms skyward, palms together like this. Press your knee back without moving your hips. Alignment is crucial. Hold this position for thirty seconds while pointing your fingertips to the ceiling. Stretch as far as your body will allow.” He demonstrates this move with such grace and agility, none of which I have been able to master.
“Will I have to wax your car, Mr. Miagi?”
“What?” That one danged eyebrow goes up again and he looks at me still in the pointing-to-the-ceiling pose that has some crazy name that I’ve of course forgotten.
Oh yeah, the tree pose.
Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues Page 6
