Before I Do Amazon

by Freethy, Barbara

  "Let me put the music back on."

  "Really? Music already?" he asked as she moved across the room. "Don't I need to learn the steps first?"

  "You will. I want you to listen closely to the beat, the rhythm," she said as she turned on the music.

  He stood self-consciously in the middle of the studio feeling like a fool as he saw himself in the mirror. He'd come straight from work and his white shirt, dark blue tie, black tie and expensive Italian shoes didn’t make him look much like a dancer. But he wasn't a dancer. He was an entrepreneur, a businessman, and this was just another part of his job.

  "I promise this won't hurt a bit," Isabella said as she rejoined him.

  "That's what my dentist says before he jabs me with a long needle."

  She extended her hands, palms open. "I'm unarmed."

  He didn't think her weapons were her hands. It was her smile and eyes that could probably kill him.

  "Let me show you some of the basic positions." She took his hands and placed one around her waist and then stretched the other out to the side. "Are you comfortable?"

  "It's all right. Now what?"

  "Now, we do the first simple combination of steps and we count."

  She showed him how to do the first five steps. He stumbled through her count that began with a one-two-three, and ended with an "ouch" as he stepped on her foot.

  "Sorry," he said. "I knew this would be painful."

  "Apparently for both of us," she agreed. "Let's try it again. If it's at all possible for you to lose some of the stiffness, that would be awesome."

  He had no idea how to lose the stiffness. He'd acquired a hard shell climbing up the corporate ladder, and he rarely let down his guard. He forced himself to try to relax as they went through the steps again.

  "Better," she said. "Now you're going to lead me across the room. I want us to glide—effortlessly. Then we will make a sharp turn and ended on a pointed step. Got it?"

  He seriously doubted it he was even close to getting it. "Let's give it a shot," he said tersely.

  "Hold on."

  "What?"

  "There's something you need to understand, Mr. Hunter. Actually, may I call you Nicholas?"

  "Nick works. And what is it that I need to understand?"

  "The tango is a dance of passion, excitement. Every movement is designed to entice, seduce. It's a push-pull battle of desire—need warring with resistance." She took his hand and twirled her body into his, coming to a stop with her hands on his chest, the tip of her head just touching his chin.

  His pulse quickened beneath her palms. He wanted to put his arms around her. He wanted to pull her even closer and cover her mouth with his. Before he could act on any of those thoughts, she pushed off, spinning away from him.

  "See what I mean?" she asked. "We come together, then break apart. The dance is a seduction, and if done correctly, the audience will yearn to see the dancers come together, to surrender to their desires."

  Every one of her words raised the heat level in his body. He swallowed a growing knot in his throat and let go of her hand. "I don't think this is going to work."

  She gave him a surprised look. "We've just gotten started."

  "I'm not a dancer."

  "You will be when we're done. You have to give yourself a chance."

  "This is more complicated than I thought."

  "Yes, it is, but that's what makes the tango so special."

  He wasn't just talking about the dance; he was talking about her, but she didn't need to know that.

  She gave him a speculative look. "I wouldn't have thought you'd quit so easily."

  He frowned. He'd never been a quitter, but he had excellent self-preservation instincts, and everything about Isabella and this damn dance was telling him to run.

  "It's really not that difficult," she continued. "I'm sure you've seduced a woman or two or three."

  "Not with dancing," he muttered.

  "So you'll have something new to add to your game," she said with a smile. "Maybe this would be easier for you if you brought your own partner. Do you have a woman in your life you'd feel more comfortable dancing with?"

  "No," he said shortly.

  "Then what do you want to do?"

  He hesitated. "Let's keep going."

  "Good." She extended her hand, and he took it.

  For the next twenty minutes, he followed her patient instructions and managed to learn a few combinations before Isabella called a halt.

  "That's enough for tonight," she said.

  "Thank God." He ran the back of his hand across his sweaty brow.

  She laughed. "There's a patio outside. Care for some air?"

  "Sounds great." He followed her out the side door and found himself on a small patio surrounded by tall buildings. The night was clear of San Francisco's usual fog bank and the mid-May weather was unusually warm.

  "It's a nice night," Isabella said, taking a seat at the table. "It feels like summer is not too far away."

  He sat down across from her. "Summer in San Francisco isn't always that warm."

  She tipped her head in agreement. "Very true. Are you a native?"

  "I am. What about you?"

  "I was born in Buenos Aires."

  His gut tightened at her words. "I didn't realize that."

  "Why would you? It's not on my studio brochure."

  "When did you come to the States?"

  "When I was eight." A shadow filled her eyes. "My parents got divorced, and my mother brought me to San Francisco."

  "Was your mother American?"

  "Yes. She was a translator working for the Foreign Service when she met my father at the U.S. Embassy in Argentina. He was a lawyer. They had a whirlwind romance and married within six months of meeting each other. But their love affair was too hot to last long."

  "Sorry."

  She shrugged. "It is what it is. I don't remember them being happy together, so I can't say I miss those times."

  "What about your father? Is he still in Argentina?"

  "He is," she said, a sad note in her voice. "He's been out of my life for a very long time."

  "You didn't see him after the divorce?" he asked, wondering why he was so curious. He usually avoided getting personal, because once a woman answered questions about herself, she usually had questions for him.

  "I saw my father twice after the divorce. I remember each one in vivid detail. The first was my ninth birthday. We didn't make it to the cake before he and my mom got into a fight and she told him to get out. The next time was my eighth-grade graduation. He gave me a bouquet of flowers and told me he wanted me to come and see him and my grandparents in Argentina that summer. He was going to convince my mother it would be a good idea." A sad gleam entered her eyes. "But he couldn't convince her. She wouldn't let me go. She was very stubborn about it. I never saw him again after that. That was thirteen years ago."

  "There was no contact between the two of you after that?"

  "There were some letters, emails, a couple of texts, and then nothing." She paused, her gaze reflective. "I used to think about going to Argentina to see him, to ask him why he'd abandoned me. But I could never quite get to the point of buying an actual ticket. My mother didn't want me to have any contact with him, so she was also somewhat of an obstacle."

  "Did she explain why she didn't want you to have a relationship?"

  "She said he had a lot of problems, and she didn't want his problems to become mine."

  "What kind of problems?"

  "She was never specific, but I think he had a problem with alcohol. I know that they used to argue about his drinking. I occasionally tried to press for more information, but it always upset her, so I stopped. My mom had to work hard to support us. I don't know if my dad ever gave her any money. Maybe he did, but our lifestyle was very modest. We lived in the same apartment building as my mother's sister, and my Aunt Rhea became my second mom. She's the reason I became a dancer. She opened this dance studio when I wa
s eleven, and I would come here after school. Whenever I was anxious or frazzled, I would dance."

  "And that made you feel better?" he asked doubtfully.

  She smiled. "Yes, it did. Dance is a great stress reliever. My aunt studied ballet from the time she was three, and she was amazingly disciplined. When she started to teach me, she would work me out until I was dripping with sweat and every muscle in my body was aching. But it was a good ache, the kind that comes from hard work and a sense of achievement. When I was upset about my father or my life, Aunt Rhea would take me to the ballet barre. She would put my hands on the barre and say, 'This is home. This is where your center is. When you're spinning out of control, you come here. You remember what's important.' It always worked." She cleared her throat. "I'm rambling. Sorry."

  "Don't apologize. I've never met a dancer before. It's interesting. Did you ever dance professionally?"

  She stiffened at his question, and it was the first time since they'd met that she seemed uncomfortable. "I did, yes."

  "Where?"

  "New York, L.A., London."

  "That sounds impressive."

  "I had some good things going for a while, but I got injured, and everything went bad."

  "You couldn't go back to the barre and get it back?"

  She sighed. "I tried, but time had moved on, and I needed to come up with a new plan. So I decided to teach, help my aunt run the studio."

  "And you don't miss performing?"

  "Sometimes I do, but teaching others can be fulfilling, too." She took a breath. "Let's talk about you."

  There it was—the personal questions in reverse. He should have known better. "My life has not been as interesting as yours."

  "I seriously doubt that. Tell me why you want to learn to dance the tango."

  "It's a requirement for a business deal."

  She raised an eyebrow in surprise. "That's the first time I've ever heard that answer. What's the deal?"

  He didn't usually like to share business details, but he might need her help. In fact, he knew he was going to need her help, because the one thing he'd learned from his first lesson was that if he was going to successfully dance the tango, he would need a good teacher and a good partner.

  "I want to buy a piece of land in Argentina. The owner of the land wants to make sure that I understand his country and his culture. Apparently, my dancing the tango for him will prove that."

  "It might help," she agreed. "I don't know anything about your deal, but I do know that the tango is part of the Argentinian culture. If you can understand the passion behind the dance, you'll have a better understanding of the people who dance it. And if nothing else, you'll have learned something new in life. Nothing wrong with that."

  "I prefer to learn new things that can help me in my business."

  "Well, apparently the tango is going to help you in your business."

  "True," he conceded. "If I can find a way not to trip over my feet."

  "You will. You just have to learn how to get out of your own way."

  "You're making it sound easier than it will be. You and Ricardo were amazing partners. I can't imagine getting to that point."

  "Ricardo and I have known each other for years. He first came to the studio when he was fifteen, and I was thirteen. We grew up together. We know each other's strengths and weaknesses. That's why we tango so well. But each pair of tango dancers is different. When you and I dance…" Her voice drifted away.

  "What?" he pressed. "What happens when you and I dance?"

  She looked him straight in the eye. "I'm not sure yet. We're just getting to know each other."

  That was true. As much as he didn't want to dance, he found himself wanting to get to know her better. She was one of the most interesting women he'd spoken to in a very long time. But he hadn't come here to find a date. He needed to stay focused. "When can we meet again? Tomorrow night?"

  She hesitated. "Friday night? You don't have other plans?"

  "I will make myself available for these lessons. I don't have much time before I have to perform the dance."

  "Tomorrow night might work. I'll have to check my schedule."

  She'd no sooner finished speaking than the studio door opened and a slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman walked out to the patio. She appeared to be in her late forties, early fifties and bore a striking resemblance to Isabella.

  "Aunt Rhea," Isabella said in surprise. "When did you get back from L.A.?"

  "About fifteen minutes ago," Rhea answered, giving Nick a curious look. "Hello."

  "This is Nicholas Hunter," Isabella quickly said. "My aunt, Rhea Carvello."

  "Nice to meet you," he said, getting up to shake Rhea's hand.

  "You, too. I didn't mean to interrupt."

  "I just finished giving Nick a tango lesson," Isabella said.

  "Out here?" Rhea challenged with a curious smile.

  "No, we were getting some air. The studio was quite warm tonight. I don't think the fan is working that well."

  "Or maybe the tango got you all hot and bothered," Rhea said with a gleam in her eyes. "At any rate, I just came by to tell you that I have some news. It may not make you happy, but I think I have to consider it."

  "You're not talking about selling the studio again?" Isabella asked, tension in her voice.

  "I have an offer, Isabella. It's a good one. I want you to look at it with me."

  "I don't want you to sell. So, no thanks."

  "Oh, honey, I know it will be a big change, but I need to move on."

  "And I understand that, but I want to be the one who buys the studio from you. I'm working on a plan to make that happen."

  "We both know a buyout will take more money than you have."

  "Business has been increasing," Isabella argued. "And I have some other ideas, too."

  Rhea frowned. "I don't want to make you unhappy, Isabella, but I don't want to worry about this studio anymore. I've given up a lot for this place and now it's my turn. David and I have something special. We want to travel. We want to be free of debt and responsibility."

  "I understand, but just give me some time," she pleaded.

  "All right, we'll talk again later." Rhea paused. "I'm sorry, Nick. I interrupted your session with my personal business."

  "Not a problem." He stood up. "I should be going anyway."

  "I'll walk you out," Isabella said as she rose. "We can check the schedule on the way out and see how tomorrow night works."

  They walked back into the studio together.

  Rhea said goodbye in the lobby, leaving them alone by the front counter.

  "So your aunt wants to sell this place?" he asked.

  Isabella opened her calendar on the computer and nodded, a grim expression on her face. "Yes. She fell in love last year with a man who lives in Los Angeles. He wants her to move down there and live with him. I can't blame her for wanting to do that. She's been single forever, and now she wants to have a relationship. I just don't want her to sell the studio to a stranger. It means everything to me."

  "It's your home." He remembered the passion and emotion in her earlier words.

  "Exactly. She taught me to love this studio, and now she wants to sell it and have me be happy about it."

  "It sounds like she wants to be happy herself."

  "I know, and I'm trying to put her interests in front of mine, because she's done a lot for me, but it's not easy."

  "Let me ask you another question. Is the studio profitable?"

  She sighed. "I'm sure the answer would be no by most standards. But this place isn't just about money; it's about dreams."

  He smiled. "You're talking like a dancer, not a business owner. Everything is about money. It makes the world go round."

  She frowned at him. "I don't agree. The arts are an important part of a civilized society."

  "But you can't continue to teach that art if you don't make money. From what your aunt said, it sounds like she's been struggling to keep this place afloat fo
r a long time."

  "Business is better now," she argued. "I'm not going to let this studio go without a fight."

  He appreciated the light of battle in her eyes. Too many people gave up too easily; Isabella obviously wasn't one of them.

  "So tomorrow night," she said, looking down at the computer. "I can do eight o'clock. Will that work?"

  As much as he wanted to say no, he knew he had to say yes. The clock was ticking. "I'll see you then."

  Chapter Three

  "Isabella, Isabella? Are you there?" Liz Palmer snapped her fingers in front of Isabella's face.

  "Sorry," she said, realizing she'd drifted away in the middle of lunch on Friday with two of her good friends, Liz Palmer and Julie Michaels. They'd met a half hour earlier at the Delano Street Café by San Francisco's Embarcadero, and judging by the curious expressions in both sets of eyes, she'd been distracted for far too long. "What did you ask me?"

  "What's going on with you?" Liz said. "It's like you're in a daze."

  "I have a lot on my mind," she replied.

  "The studio?" Julie asked sympathetically.

  She'd told Julie about her aunt's plans to sell the studio the night before when they'd confirmed lunch. "That and…"She stopped, realizing that a good part of her distraction was not just about the studio but also about Nicholas Hunter.

  "And?" Liz prodded. "There's a guy, isn't there?"

  She frowned. "It doesn't always have to be a guy."

  "But it is, right?"

  "I did get a new student last night," she admitted. "He's very interesting."

  "As in sexy, single, take-to-bed kind of interesting?" Julie enquired.

  "I think he's single, and he's very attractive, off-the-charts sex appeal, but…he's also a very controlled person. He doesn't smile much. He's very reserved with his conversation. So he's not really my type. I prefer more outgoing men. But he does have thick, wavy dark brown hair, a killer body, and a pair of light blue eyes that are amazingly intense."

  Julie laughed. "He definitely made an impression on you. No wonder you're daydreaming."

  "What kind of lessons is he taking?" Liz asked. "I hope he's not getting ready for his wedding. That's when most men seem to want to learn how to dance."