Dance with Me, My Lovely

by Jaye Roycraft

  "She's a spiritual healer. She travels to the spirit world to help people restore balance to their lives."

  He laughed. “You're kidding me."

  All of a sudden she was sorry she'd mentioned it. Most people didn't understand what her family did, but she thought ... she wasn't sure what she thought. “No, I'm not kidding."

  "Wow. Then I guess I'd better take you back to the dorm."

  She didn't want to leave, but there'd be next time. She wouldn't be a fifth wheel anymore, but part of a regular foursome.

  When he dropped her off, he gave her a long kiss good-bye. “I'll call you,” he whispered, and he gave her a wink before he pulled the visor on his helmet back down. She'd soared on a spirit journey, but she'd never soared in the world of ordinary reality until tonight.

  * * * *

  She stayed in her room the next evening, and the next, and the next, waiting for Bret's promised call, but it didn't come. He must have come down sick. He's busy at work. With every new day, she made another excuse for him. He'll call. He said he would.

  Two weeks later Zoe and Dion invited her out for pizza. It was just the three of them. “Where's Bret?” she asked.

  Zoe and Dion looked at each other, and Zoe shook her head. “Bret's got issues."

  Issues? “What does that mean?"

  Zoe looked at her. “You should be so glad you never got mixed up with him."

  She looked to Dion for more of an explanation.

  Dion shrugged. “He's an addict."

  "An addict?” She would have never guessed Bret to be one to take drugs.

  "He's probably shacked up with some girl. You know him. He binges on girls the way girls binge on food. It's all or nothing with him. It's too bad. He's really a nice guy."

  She silently cried herself to sleep that night, and for long nights after that.

  Chapter Eleven

  Twenty-four hours passed, and he hadn't called. Men not calling her was nothing new. She hadn't thought he would, but she'd hoped nevertheless. Now it was up to her. If she was to help him, she'd have to make the effort. And if she wanted him, she'd have to go after him. So once more she drove to Moves On Tap, and once again he was dancing in the front studio. She exited the car this time, standing outside the window. Courage comes in small steps, her mother had once told her. If he clearly saw her this time, there'd be no excuse for her to part without speaking to him.

  He was with his partner again, but this time several students were with him. She caught his gaze briefly through the glass before the steps of the dance turned him away from her. She drew a deep breath of crisp air and went inside. She was here to talk, not ogle her client.

  In the reception area a young woman in a tank top, mini skirt, and leotards stepped up to her. “Hi, I'm Michele. Can I help you?"

  "Yes, hi. I wonder if I could see Garran Lux for just a few minutes."

  The girl nodded. “He's just finishing a lesson."

  "Is it all right if I watch them dance?"

  "Let me check.” The girl opened the door to the private studio, stuck her head in, then waved for Cate.

  Michele took her coat, and as Cate entered the studio, the slow sultry music transported her to a land of palm trees, neon-blue water, and endless beaches. The students had left, but Garran was still dancing with his partner. Cate leaned against the wall and studied him. He was like two different men. Above the waist his body was so steady and controlled that a glass of water atop his head wouldn't have spilled a drop. But there was so much smooth, subtle motion in his hips and knees that Cate swore she felt a breeze.

  The music ended with Garran leaning toward his partner and whispering something in her ear. Cate felt a twinge of jealousy return and scolded herself for such a childish emotion. Garran looked at her, and the concentration of his midnight blue eyes made her feel transparent, as if he could see every lurid thought and feeling that lurked behind her reserved demeanor.

  "Wait here, Cate. I'll be back in a minute,” he said, leading his dancing partner out of the studio.

  She glanced around the empty room and barely had time to take in the movie posters along the wall when he returned.

  "Hello, Cate.” His features were relaxed, as if he were welcoming a new customer, but the brief moment he'd been gone hadn't been nearly enough time to break the spell of the music, his dancing, and those eyes that flashed with x-ray vision intensity.

  "Uh, that song was beautiful. What was it?"

  "It's called Forever and Ever. It's rumba music."

  "Rumba?” She felt stupid. She recognized it as Latin, but knew nothing beyond that.

  He smiled. “They say rumba is the ‘dance of love.’”

  Of course. What other kind of dance would Garran be doing? She wanted to do the dance of love with him all right, but it had nothing to do with the rumba. “Oh.” She needed to remember why she was here. Now. “I'm sorry to bother you at work, but you didn't return my calls, and I think it's important we talk."

  His gaze drifted to the posters, and she swore he was undressing Ginger Rogers with his eyes. “I needed some time to think about what had happened."

  That was certainly reasonable. Still, a little voice in the back of her mind told her that his reluctance to talk was more than needing time. Maybe he really was embarrassed at what had happened between them, though she doubted that a man with so few inhibitions would feel embarrassment at anything, especially in an understandably disorienting situation. But whatever the reasons for his reluctance, she had to respect them.

  "I understand completely. I didn't come here to press you, believe me. But I was concerned about you, and I thought at the very least we could schedule a time to talk. I still believe I can help you, but I need your assistance."

  "All right. You help me, and I'll help you. I'll come back to your house for another journey, and you learn to dance."

  "That's not what I meant.” She felt heat rocket to her cheeks, proof that her thoughts were still being ruled by her fascination with Garran's dancing.

  "I know it's not what you meant, but you said yourself you wish you could dance. You're doing your best to help me, so it's only right I give something back to you."

  "No, really, I couldn't."

  "I don't have another lesson scheduled until seven-thirty. Give me just fifteen minutes, right now, and I promise I'll be at you house tomorrow night."

  She desperately wanted to try another retrieval journey for him, but she resisted his deal. Mixing business and pleasure was dangerous, and dancing with Garran would definitely fall into the pleasure category. And the danger category, she amended. She peered down. Her two left feet were encased in winter boots, giving her a handy excuse. “I can't dance in these."

  "What size you do wear?"

  "Uh, five, but..."

  Garran leaned out the door. “Michele, bring me a pair of ladies’ shoes, size five, please."

  A moment later he handed Cate a pair of open-toed, high-heeled shoes. They were gold, strappy, and trimmed with rhinestones. She looked up at his face, and her disciplined mind went AWOL again.

  "Okay, but can you close the blinds on the window? I don't want any of your arriving students to see how bad I am."

  He laughed. “They've all been beginners at one point or another.” But he glided to the window and obediently drew the curtain of vertical blinds while she tugged off her boots and slipped into the golden shoes. They were wonderfully light and flexible, unlike any she had ever worn. Thank goodness I'm wearing a dress and not blue jeans.

  Garran pressed a button on the sound system built into the wall, and languid Latin music filled the room.

  "I'll show you a basic rumba step so you can learn the rhythm.” He turned so that he was facing away from her. “This is the step from the woman's point of view. Just watch for now.” He glided to his right with a long step, did two steps in place, then glided back to his left, but there was such a delicious exchange between his hips and feet that she had no idea wha
t he really had done.

  "I'm clueless as to what you just did."

  "I'll do again and try to break it down for you. Think of it as four beats. The slow step is two beats, followed by two quick steps, one beat each.” He repeated the step, his feet gliding back and forth in effortless motion, like he was skating on ice. “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four."

  She could die now and die happy. The sight of Garran's tight ass engaged in very smooth motion was something she could stare at forever and never tire of.

  He stopped and turned around. “Let's try it in the dance position.” He raised his arms, encircling her right hand with his left, and placing his other hand on the center of her back. She felt his fingers pressing ever so lightly against her spine, and she reached up to put her free hand on his shoulder. It was broad and hard. He definitely had muscles.

  "Not quite so high. Just rest your hand on my arm, so that your fingertips touch the armhole seam on my shirt.” His voice, so up close and personal, was as enthralling as the music. “We'll take it slow. Follow my lead. Slide your foot to the right."

  She moved her hand lower, feeling the top of his bicep swell under her palm. He moved, and she tried to mirror his step.

  "Good. Now together and step, step."

  She winced. Instead of making her feel like a princess, the golden shoes made her feel like one of Cinderella's stepsisters, clumsy and stiff.

  He seemed to take no notice. “Good. Now to the left. Slide, step, step."

  She stared down at her feet, willing the shoes to perform their magic.

  "No, Cate, head up. Look at me."

  She raised her head and looked into his eyes. Their blue depths were almost enough to make her forget his voice.

  "Feel the music. It's four beats. Try it again. One, two, three, four."

  She followed his lead, still feeling far from princess-like.

  "Relax, Cate,” he whispered. “And don't pick your feet up. The steps are more of a shift in weight. Again. Slow, quick quick."

  She narrowed her eyes to reduce the distraction of his and tried to relax and feel the music. But all she was aware of was him, so controlled yet so relaxed, as if he'd been doing this for a hundred years. His hand against her back was steady, guiding her, as professionally as a master at the wheel of his ship, and yet she was so aware of his touch that tingles spread from the point of contact on her back down to her struggling feet.

  "Don't worry about your feet so much. Bend your knees. All the movement is in your knees, hips, and ribcage. Slow, quick quick. Slow, quick quick."

  There it was again, the feeling that he could see right into her. She closed her eyes and shuddered. What he did for her body didn't seem to affect her ribcage or her knees nearly as much as all else in between. Slow, quick quick. The throbbing low in her body followed the rhythm of his voice, and all she could think about was how badly she wanted sex with him again.

  The song ended, and he stopped. “Very good. Did you enjoy it?"

  She was afraid to look him in the eye. What could she say? Dancing with him didn't just fall into the pleasure category, it descended to the realm of sinful pleasure. “Uh huh,” she mumbled.

  "You just need practice. And to loosen up a bit, that's all. Listen, I have to get ready for my next class. But I'll be at your house at seven tomorrow. Deal?"

  She didn't like deals, but her goal was accomplished. “Yes, all right. Seven.” She unstrapped the golden shoes and handed them back to Michele on her way out. But on the drive home, Cate couldn't get the image of her car turning into a pumpkin out of her head.

  * * * *

  Garran paced the length of his study. He'd left the studio early, telling Michele he was coming down with a “touch of something” and asking her to take his salsa class.

  I have a touch of something, all right. Damnation of the undead. Slightly incurable.

  He'd danced with hundreds of women over the ages, but other than Neva, none had ever affected him like Cate. Perhaps it was because he had seen her spirit. He marveled at how she could be so in tune with nature and the spirit world and so out of touch with her own sexuality. As they'd danced, he'd felt not only the tension and lack of confidence in her body, but her shyness in being so near him, even after everything that had already happened between them. Her body was still stiff, yet her emotions were easy for the vampire to see—colorful and bright behind her monochrome demeanor. There was no doubt that she wanted him. Damn it all!

  Uncharacteristically clumsy in his distraction, he brushed a table, and a porcelain vase tipped. His hand easily caught the vase, but instead of righting it, he flung it at the nearest bookcase. The vase exploded, showering bits of china over half the room.

  The problem wasn't that she wanted him. Hundreds of admirers of both Lucius Santangelo and Garran Lux lusted after him. The problem was that he wanted her, not just as the vampire, but as a man. But he couldn't have her. Not without the inevitable consequence of doing her harm and exposing his unsavory true self. The vampire, week after week, year after year, was easily satisfied. The man hungered.

  He stepped to the bookcase, squatted down, and picked up a large shard of porcelain. He squeezed it in his hand, and his strength easily broke the shard into smaller pieces, but the sharp edges sliced into his skin, and drops of blood soon dirtied the already littered floor. He didn't care. The pain was a welcome distraction, but it didn't sidetrack him from his morbid thoughts.

  He'd been living a double life for years. Like twins separated at birth, he'd kept his public and private lives independent of each other, and it had worked. He'd had his dancing and his endless servings of female flesh, his cake and eating it, too, as the humans said. Until now. Perhaps it was simply that nothing stayed the same forever, not even in the immortal world. He wanted more. Needed more. Oh, he'd often contemplated the folly of allowing someone to truly know him. He'd even tried it with Neva, and he'd tried it in every different city he'd lived in, but such attempts at closeness and understanding had always ended badly. Now, ironically, his survival depended on that which was so dangerous—true intimacy.

  A scrap of paper lay on the floor, an obvious victim of the vase-bullet. He turned it over to read the title. My Lovely. It was a poem, one he hadn't read in a long, long time, and he read the first two lines of it now.

  Sweet maid of my soul my future control,

  O save it from sorrow and sin...

  He dropped his arm, and the paper dangled at his side from stiff fingers. He raised his head and squeezed his eyes shut, but the words of the love poem were not to be forsaken. They rang in his mind, as clearly as if spoken, for they were his own words, written many years ago. Geneva, my lovely. He'd given her his love and the truth of what he was, and she'd died an unnatural death soon after.

  Chapter Twelve

  August, 1925

  Chicago, Illinois

  A petting party. How uniquely mortal. And delicious.

  "I'd introduce you, but frankly, I don't think anyone cares who you are,” Neva whispered.

  He laughed, having no other response to her bald way of speaking.

  "Well, it's true. Do you care who any of these cake-eaters are?"

  She was right. “No."

  "Do you want a drink? I do. There should be some beer and gin in the kitchen. No coffin varnish, either, but the real thing. Harry's father has connections. He gets it in from Canada."

  He smiled, taking no offense to her reference of bootleg poison as “coffin varnish.” He himself had never actually slept in a coffin. “None for me, but I'll pour you one."

  She led him to a room at the rear of the house. “Say, you're not a teetotaler are you? I don't like men who get bent all the time, but I don't care what anybody says—there's nothing wrong with a little giggle water."

  "I agree. I've just got a different addiction, that's all.” He pulled a beer from the ice box, opened it, and poured it into a glass for her.

  "Dope? Harry might have some hop
around. I can ask if you'd like."

  "No. It's all right, really. You're all I want to taste tonight."

  She took a swallow of the beer, licked the foam from her lips, and looked him up and down. “What are we waiting for?"

  He led her back to the living room, where a second sofa had their name on it, and where a blanket conveniently covered the cushions. The room was in semidarkness, with a wall sconce providing the only light. A chorus of soft moans and giggles from the others filled the air. Garran sat down and pulled Neva onto his lap. “How far am I allowed to go?” he whispered.

  "Mmm. That's all part of the game, isn't it?” But just as quickly she climbed off. “First the jacket has to go. And the shirt."

  He obeyed with enthusiasm, after which she crawled back on his lap and straddled him.

  "You know, with your hair slicked back like that, you look a little like Valentino. Did you know he was a dancer before he was an actor?"

  He nodded. He knew. He took it as the supreme compliment that she would compare him to such an icon.

  She leaned forward to kiss him. He could taste the beer and ciggy as he kissed her, but he ignored the disagreeable taste and concentrated instead on the feel of her mouth—soft, warm, and welcoming. He parted his lips a little to see if she'd do the same. She did. His grin broke the kiss, and she giggled in turn. Tit for tat. It was going to be an enjoyable night.

  He slipped both hands up and under the bodice of her two-piece dress. The silk had no give, but was loose enough to give him room. She wore nothing underneath but a narrow bandeau brassiere. It was a worthless little scrap of material, but it gave him less fits than the corsets of previous years had. How he'd hated those. He didn't care much for the boyish flapper fashions, but the ease in undressing a woman more than made up for the unflattering styles.

  She purred her encouragement in his ear, and he unhooked the confining brassiere. She sat up straighter to give him more room, then raised her arms over her head and arched her back. He cupped both breasts, and she moaned softly. Her breasts weren't as small as he'd first thought, and they filled his hands nicely. The warmth of her flesh soaked into him and coursed straight to his cock, tenting his trousers. She didn't fail to notice, reminded that she, too, had playthings. She lowered her arms and undid his belt. With his hands still fondling her breasts, she opened his fly and reached for his cock, stroking it through his drawers.