Dead on the Dance Floor

by Heather Graham

  “I can shoot you right now!” Richard said.

  “Yes, but it won’t look right. Let me have my waltz. What have you got to lose?”

  Richard still hesitated, then shoved Shannon toward Quinn. She was frowning fiercely as she reached him. He smiled, trying to explain with his eyes. Trying, in seconds, to say that he needed her help. That they had one chance.

  “Our routine,” he said aloud.

  “You’re crazy,” she told him. Tears stung her eyes. “We’re about to die, and you want to waltz?”

  “Our routine,” he repeated.

  She arched a brow to him. He went into a competition position, inviting her to him. She moved into his arms, and they began dance.

  Chain steps, turns…promenade, one, two, three, rise and fall…

  “Get on with it,” Richard said.

  “It’s our routine,” he snapped back.

  Aloud, he continued to Shannon, “One, two, three, one, two, three, turn…and pooper-scooper coming up.”

  At last something registered in her eyes. Knowledge of what he wanted.

  Fear that she couldn’t follow through.

  “Hey, I can do the lifts,” he told her. “And you’re the dancer—you can do them, too.”

  “What the hell does it matter?” Long exclaimed.

  “One, two, three…now.”

  Shannon moved around him. He dipped to sweep her up into the lift. He spun.

  And she performed magnificently, body flying out with the force of his spin…and slamming hard into Richard Long, forcing him backward, forcing him to fall…then falling, and herself landing hard atop him.

  Then Quinn was down, as well, pushing Shannon away, going for Long. The other man rolled, desperate to elude Quinn, to reach the gun that had fallen from his hand when Shannon smashed into him.

  Quinn dragged him back. Long lashed out. Quinn slugged him hard, in the jaw, just as Shannon flew across the floor, retrieving both the gun and Quinn’s phone, which she handed to him.

  Straddled over Long, Quinn dialed 911. “Emergency, major emergency. We need several ambulances, stomach pumps…”

  Before he finished talking, they could hear the sirens.

  EPILOGUE

  The beach was always crazy, that night more so than ever.

  Highly publicized, written up in every magazine across the country as “The little contest that could,” the Gator Gala—the first-ever competition sponsored by the Moonlight Sonata Dance Studio—was creating pure traffic havoc.

  The hotel hosting the gala was booked to overflowing, with people spilling into the neighboring facilities and even beyond. Restaurants thrived. The wicked tale of adultery, narcotics, the wild side, and murder among the elite and famous connected to the studio—which had survived all the ills assailing it—had made the competition taking place that night not notorious, but so fascinating that many of the big names in ballroom dancing had felt that they had to be there to get their share of so much publicity. The more big names that were offered, the more tickets that were sold, the more the prestigious the judges who wanted to be associated with the competition, the more the students who poured in.

  It was almost out of control.

  And there was more, of course.

  Shannon Mackay, who had retired nearly eight years ago, after a broken ankle, was back.

  Back in a big way.

  She was, quite simply, dazzling. Poetry set to music. Her gown shimmered, exquisitely molding her elegant curves, billowing softly beneath the lights with each movement of her body. She seemed to create such splendor effortlessly, blond hair in a shimmering knot at her nape, studded with jeweled stones to match those on the gown.

  Just a stretch of her finger spoke volumes. The tilt of her head, the look in her eyes. She was dance at its most complete, every part of her attuned to the music and the steps. She was lost in the rhythm, and those who watched were lost with her.

  It was fairy-tale music, and a fairy tale that was created. She was tall, slim, delicately curved, and her smile was infectious. Her partner was tall, dark, handsome, assured and equally talented. Together they went beyond human belief, sometimes moving in such perfect unison that they appeared almost to be one.

  “Lord, she’s incredible,” Gordon breathed.

  “She makes Ben look damned good, too,” Sam added.

  “Ben can dance,” Quinn commented, smiling.

  “They complement one another,” Rhianna approved. “As dancers, of course,” she said quickly, causing Quinn to laugh.

  “We were almost as good,” Jane said, squeezing Sam’s hand.

  “Almost,” he agreed, smiling.

  “I’d say that Marnie and I have a good chance of taking the salsa trophy,” Justin said.

  Quinn felt another smile coming on. He glanced at Marnie, the street kid, the runaway. She had come into her own. She hadn’t made enough yet to afford her own clothes, but with Katarina’s help, they had reworked one of Shannon’s old Latin dresses, and it would be difficult to point to a figure more perfect than Marnie’s at this moment. She had turned nineteen, and it looked as if she had matured far more. Like the others, she had her hair neatly coiled, making the fine lines of her profile more evident, along with the size of her eyes. She smiled back at Quinn. “A very good chance,” he told her affectionately.

  Perhaps just because of the circumstances of her life, she still tended to be nervous. And Sam still tended to be protective. He had taken a larger apartment, and she had moved into one of his bedrooms. Neither one was allowed to go out unless the man was first approved by the others. They were jokingly considered the “Will and Grace” of the dance world.

  “Rhianna, you were striking tonight, too,” Gordon said. “You and Doug.”

  Doug had quit the police force. He had really liked being a cop; he had simply decided that he loved dance more. Besides, with the popularity that had descended upon Moonlight Sonata, they’d been in need of another male teacher. He and Marnie still didn’t have the certifications to teach at the higher levels, but they were favorites among the beginners.

  “While we’re all getting sticky and gooey here,” Doug said, “may I compliment your waltz tonight, big brother?”

  Quinn laughed. “We came in second. With another partner, Shannon would have won.”

  “You’re a beginner, and you were excellent,” Doug said.

  “Both my boys were terrific,” Mona commented, sliding between them to squeeze their hands.

  “Hush. The finale,” Gordon commanded.

  It almost seemed that Shannon paused in flight, above Ben’s head, then alit in his arms, sinking slowly into a perfectly timed stillness.

  The applause was deafening.

  But after her bows, Quinn saw Shannon searching the room. For him. She flew to him, made another fantastic leap and landed in his arms.

  She accepted his congratulations on her performance, and he smiled as he brought her slowly down, kissing her. The act of dancing would always mean more to her than a trophy. And the approval of those who loved her would always mean more than any other judgment.

  There were others, of course, from whom she accepted accolades. Her new mother-in-law, her co-workers, her old friends, his old friends, total strangers. But eventually the last of the awards was given out. As expected, she and Ben took the crowning prize of the night, leaving Gordon to boast about the studio. It got a bit ridiculous at times, but even so, it was both gratifying and exhilarating.

  But in time they were in their room together, a fantastic suite they’d taken at the hotel, since Shannon had so much to do for the gala that she needed to be on site. Moonlight poured in from the heavens beyond their balcony, and she walked up to him, slipped her arms around him. “I’d never have done it without you.”

  He gave her a smile. “And I’d never have rejoined the Bureau without your encouragement. And I am good at what I do.”

  “You’re good at everything,” she assured him, her eyes searching
out his. “You would have taken first for that waltz if I hadn’t…well, I back led you, and I shouldn’t have.”

  “I forgot the step. Besides, I won when it mattered.”

  “I took the trophy with Ben, but I should have taken one with you, too.”

  He could tell she was anxious. He knew that she had wanted to win far more for Ben than for herself. And she had wanted a win for him.

  He cupped her face in his hands. “We won together once,” he told her. “We won together with that silly pooper-scooper—and the most incredible waltz ever mastered by man. Ben may have his trophy, but I get to go home with you, and that’s all that matters.”

  “That was one hell of a pooper-scooper, wasn’t it?” she whispered.

  “There will never be another like it.”

  She smiled, moving against him, touching his ear with her whisper. “It’s amazing when you know your life is the best applause you’ll ever earn. I can’t tell you how I love it. It’s like my life is a dance I’ll never do better with any other partner but you. It requires all kinds of very special moves.”

  “Leaps and bounds?”

  “The most incredible ones.”

  “Ah, well, you are the instructor. Show me.”

  “Even teachers can learn.”

  “A dual session. Sounds fascinating.”

  He swept her up.

  And like everything else that night, it was beautiful beyond belief.

  They were alive; they were together. Now the years and the world stretched out before them with assurance hard-won, confidence earned, and the dance of time the one they would practice forever.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-2867-6

  DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

  Copyright © 2004 by Heather Graham Pozzessere.

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