Shadow Dance

by Susan Andersen

  She wasn’t quite as resilient at twenty-eight. It didn’t seem possible that a measly little decade, particularly one that had passed as swiftly as the past ten years had done, could make such a difference. But the years between then and now had managed to exact a price—she was no longer tireless, and she had lost her unquestioning fearlessness. She used to be able to just pick herself up when she sustained a blow in the past. She used to pat herself back into shape, kiss the bruises better, and move on.

  Somehow, it wasn’t quite that simple anymore. And Maryanne’s murder had taken an even greater toll on her ability to bounce back. Closing her eyes for a brief rest, Amanda cradled her wineglass to her chest and snuggled into a stack of pillows on the floor.

  And she smiled.

  Because, sure. It was a fact that her life wasn’t as simple now as it had been ten years ago. Or perhaps her relative innocence back then had only made the world appear a simpler place. But once again she was attempting to overanalyze the situation. For the truth was, she had grown during that ten-year period. And despite the changes—the loss of innocence, the recently acquired fears—she still had to smile. Because hadn’t she just been thinking that these parties never varied? Some things did remain the same. And neither time nor the murder of a friend had the ability to alter at least two aspects of every single party she had ever attended—not if it was hosted or attended by gypsies. The main topic of conversation at one of these shindigs and the primary mode of entertainment remained constant.

  Dance. It never changed; it never varied. Always, these parties boiled down to dance.

  The only difference Amanda could discern between a conversation from ten years ago and the two or three she had inadvertently eavesdropped on when she’d closed her eyes was the name of the production everyone considered most desirable to land a part in, or the production currently offering the best potential for employment. The names of musicals, revues, and follies might change from year to year, but the context of the conversation hadn’t changed at all. All around her, everyone was still talking about what roles were available, who had attended what auditions, who had the best chance of landing a plum role, who had blown their chances in the most dramatic fashion.

  And then there was the favored entertainment at one of these parties. Opening her eyes, Amanda took a sip of warm wine and smiled anew as she watched the press of dancers on the small, hastily cleared area that served as a dance floor. In what other profession could you find so many people spending the best part of their recreational hours practicing the same craft at which they toiled to make a living?

  Pete materialized in front of her. “Why is it, I wonder, that the prettiest women can usually be found grinning all by their lonesome in a dark corner?” he asked as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet in front of her. “Aren’t you feeling social, Amanda Rose?”

  Amanda’s smile grew wider as she looked up at him. “It’s not that I’m anti-social. I was just sitting here stunned into silence by my awe of your party-throwing ability. It’s a rare, God-given talent that I, myself, have never possessed.” She laughed and assured him, “But I was planning on getting up and joining in the festivities any moment now. Honest, I was.”

  Pete’s return grin was all white, capped teeth as he squatted down in front of her.

  “Have you ever noticed, Pete,” Amanda asked, sitting a little straighter on her pile of cushions, “how certifiably fanatic most hoofers are when it comes to dance? It’s quite irrational. They live, talk, and breathe it. Don’t these people know there are other interests out there in the big, bad world?”

  “We can’t all be as multidimensional as you are, sweetcheeks.”

  “I suppose that would be too much to ask,” Amanda agreed in an affected tone of voice borrowed from countless remembered arguments with her mother over this very subject. “Well, what can I say? I’m certainly pleased to announce that I, for one, am much more well rounded. I find it quite distressing to see this many otherwise rational adults lose all sense of proportion over a subject as trifling as dance.”

  “I guess that means you wouldn’t be interested in learning how to shag, then, huh? It’s just a dumb little down-home southern dance that June taught me.” Pete stood up and looked down at her, shaking his head sorrowfully. “Nah, forget I even mentioned it. I can see it wouldn’t interest a genuine blue-blooded Yankee type like yourself.”

  Amanda immediately set aside her plastic cup of warm wine and extended her hand for Pete to pull her to her feet. “Show me.”

  Pete refrained from smiling. Instead, he said mildly, “Yes indeedy-do, I am certainly glad there’s still someone around here who can remain dispassionate when the subject of dance rears its ugly head.”

  “Oh, hush,” she mumbled and gave him a sheepish smile, deciding it really was a pity he was gay. A man as funny and decent and just plain nice as Pete Schriber could almost make a woman forget her policy of noninvolvement.

  Yeah, right, a little voice whispered in her brain. You don’t mind a little honesty being shed into your fantasy world, do you? Because the simple truth is, Amanda Rose, if Pete were both straight and available, you wouldn’t feel as free and easy with him as you do at this moment. Consequently, you would be busy as a beaver in dam-building season, erecting barriers between the two of you to keep him at a safe distance. Come on, girl; admit it.

  But there was a portion of her ego that shied from facing the unpalatable little home truths periodically tossed out by her conscience. She had been raised to project an image of perfection at all times. Day after day, as a child and a young adult, her obligation to uphold the family image had been drummed into her, and it was a lesson, once learned, that was difficult to reverse. She sometimes feared that no matter how much she had abhorred her parents’ hypocrisy, some of their public-versus-private behavior patterns had rubbed off on her. It was difficult for Amanda to acknowledge there were fragments of her personality that could be viewed as a little less than faultless. As much as she hated to admit it, she still occasionally caught herself in the midst of building elaborate rationales in her own mind, strictly for her own benefit—rationales that allowed her to dodge giving serious consideration to her commitment-phobic tendencies and other less pleasant personality traits.

  It was hard to admit, so she didn’t; she put the entire dilemma out of her mind. This was a party, for heaven’s sake. It was neither the time nor the place for deep introspection into her messed-up psyche or the possibility that scars had been inflicted on it at a tender age. The subject under discussion had been dance; how on earth had her thoughts gone off on such a tangent? Besides, she’d said it before, and she’d say it again: she liked men. She didn’t have a problem with the idea of getting close to one. She had just never met one special enough to be worth the effort.

  Amanda smiled up at Pete. “Never make fun of a woman with a longing to learn a new dance, Pete. Didn’t your mother ever explain to you about the really important issues in life?”

  “You mean like world peace, and an end to homelessness and hunger in our times?”

  “Well…yeah. Those are real imperatives, for sure. Not the one I was thinking of, but important, Pete—no doubt about it. But the absolute definitive topic, Important Issue number one, is…”

  “Finding that one perfect love, and having him turn out to be great in the sack,” Pete interrupted.

  What was it with everyone? Why did love and sex seem to have so much significance for everyone but her? She was beginning to feel like she was really missing the boat here. Was something vital lacking in her? Or was this some sort of conspiracy?

  “Dance, Peter. The number one important issue is dance.”

  “I knew that. I was just testing you.”

  “Sure you were. As usual, a woman tries to talk to a man and it lands her in a heap of trouble. Well, that’s okay, dear.” She patted him on the cheek. “We don’t have to make conversation. I won’t ask you to say a word, as long as you show m
e how to shag.”

  “Duh…thank you, Amanda.” He crossed his eyes and gave her an idiotic smile and they both laughed.

  And for the next twenty minutes, they were both completely absorbed as they mastered the steps of the new dance.

  It was nearly 7 A.M. when the feeling of being watched broke Amanda’s concentration on the number that she and a fellow dancer were trying out. Breaking eye contact with her partner, she looked across the room—straight into a pair of rain-gray eyes watching her with laser-sharp concentration from behind freshly washed, dark-rimmed lenses.

  Unfortunately, in the split second before she caught MacLauglin’s eye, she’d already begun the process of bending backward from the support of the masculine arm that clamped her lower body to her partner’s. Once arched in a back bend, she was supposed to sway languorously. The unexpectedness of seeing MacLaughlin, however, made her go stiff where she was supposed to be loose-limbed, and consequently she was off balance. Her uncentered weight nearly knocked both herself and her partner to the floor.

  “What the hell?” Her partner did some fancy footwork to save them from sprawling in a graceless heap on the ground. He squatted slightly to compensate for her uncharacteristic awkwardness, braced himself, and planted a muscular thigh between Amanda’s legs, tightening his hold on her waist with an abrupt tug that pulled her hips flush against his. Amanda quickly planted her right foot and completed her back bend. Her left knee rose up on the outside of his leg to his hip as she swung in a sinuous side-to-side motion in his hold, but as soon as she could, she completed the movement and brought her foot back to the floor, then arched and lifted her upper body until she was upright again.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, wishing the music would come to an end even as she moved with automatic sensuousness to its rhythm. She couldn’t think over the tiny panicked voice in her brain that kept asking with frantic repetition, “What is he doing here? What is he doing here?”

  Tristan was wondering the same thing. It had seemed like a good idea when he’d received the phone call from Rhonda Smith inviting him, but now he almost wished he had stayed in bed and gotten an extra hour’s sleep instead. He felt utterly out of place, and he had no business being here when there was real police work to be done—more work than he could realistically hope to accomplish in his normal ten-to-fourteen-hour day. So, not only did he stick out like a bloody sore thumb in his conservative suit and tie, he didn’t even have the authority of being here in an official capacity to back up his impulsive decision to crash this affair.

  Tristan rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, eyeing the rainbow flamboyance of gold and silver lamé, multicolored sequins, and glitter spandex as it caught the light with the crowd’s perpetual movement. Outfits flashed with fire as the dancers wearing them moved in and out of light and shadow. Next to him stood a woman with a friendly smile, moving in time to the music blasting from stereo speakers and humming along with the song between sips of wine. She wore a purple wig that looked like nothing so much as a dandelion gone to seed—a pinkish-purple explosion of synthetic fibers. Her breasts were barely contained by the sparkling little matching tube top she wore, and the brief flash from someone’s lighter made her navel ring wink. Tristan decided he must have been out of his mind to have thought he could blend into this crowd.

  He hadn’t passed unnoticed, that was for damn sure. He watched drugs quietly disappear, a roach pinched out and pocketed here, a line of coke hastily scraped into a minuscule bottle and palmed there. He could bust the whole damn party if he was of a mind to do so.

  But that wasn’t why he was here.

  Shit, he wasn’t exactly sure why he was here. Rhonda had rousted him out of a sound sleep and had suggested he come over. He had told himself at the time that it was only the opportunity to satisfy a purely professional curiosity that made the invitation sound so appealing. But it was more than that, and if he were to be the least bit honest with himself, he would have to admit he’d known it all along. It was curiosity, all right, but not necessarily related to the case.

  He watched the way the dancers at this party related with one another, as they talked and gossiped and laughed and argued, and he wondered if that was something one had to be born knowing how to do. Or maybe one was taught social interaction as a child by one’s family. It was not a lesson the orphanage where he’d been raised had spent a lot of time on, that was for damn sure. That establishment had been more concerned that the children under their supervision learn obedience and a healthy respect for the rules of society. It had most likely assumed that if a child wished to have friends, he’d make them on his own initiative on his own time.

  Except Tristan never had.

  Institutional life had not been the Dickensian horror that it was often portrayed to be—at least, not in Tristan’s experience. The staff, as he remembered it, had been nice enough, and they had seemed to care about the children. But the employees of the orphanage had also been overworked and underpaid, and there hadn’t been a great deal of time or money for the little niceties that make the difference between a home and an institution.

  Tristan had been painfully shy as a boy, and the intermittent need to be paraded before prospective adoptive parents—men and women with regretful eyes who had rejected him time and again as an adoption candidate—had merely served to reinforce his shyness. More than anything as a very young boy, he had desired a real home. But the day had finally come when he had known in his gut that he would never again be told to clean himself up and report to the musty-smelling visitor’s room to endure another inspection. He had become too old to be considered a desirable candidate, and he was too big. It was common knowledge that only the smallest, cutest children—and preferably babies, at that—were in demand in the adoption market. Nobody had need of a boy with poor vision who had grown too large too quickly.

  From that day on, he had taught himself not to care. He had learned to guard what was his, to trust no one, and to assume a mask of indifference to disguise and protect his feelings. If he didn’t expect anything, he figured, he couldn’t be disappointed. He had also given up what had only been a halfhearted attempt in the first place to make friends with the other boys in the orphanage, because it was too disruptive when they moved on, as they so often did. The orphanage’s population was a fluctuating, transitional one. He had never really had the knack, anyhow, and he had always figured that the ability to make friends must be one you either possessed or did not. He imagined it was something you were born knowing.

  So, why was he suddenly questioning that decision now? He had spent most of the afternoon and part of the early evening yesterday at the Cabaret, and in the course of his investigation, he hadn’t failed to observe the way the members of the dance troupe had interrelated with one another.

  He couldn’t fail to notice it now.

  And it tugged with near-painful insistence at something deep inside of him.

  Tristan had found it difficult to fall asleep when he had finally gone back to his overheated motel room last night. He had lain there for what seemed like hours, mulling it over in his mind, moodily watching the red glow that tinted his room and then faded as the neon sign outside his window blinked on and off. He didn’t know what it was, but there was something about the way these dancers kidded and talked and supported one another that had made him want to reevaluate his way of looking at friendships.

  Perhaps it wasn’t something that came naturally to a lucky few, after all. Watching the give and take, it had been his reluctant observation that it appeared to take a bit of effort on everyone’s part.

  Unfortunately, he also had a sinking feeling it had something to do with trust—not an emotion he felt at home with. Trust was not a commodity in which he had dealt as a youth, and in his line of work, it was generally considered more of a liability than an asset. Just contemplating the dangers inherent in opening himself up to another person made him edgy and irritable. Bugger it. He didn’t belong here.

&
nbsp; Actually, he was beginning to establish a tentative friendship with Joe Cash. Why couldn’t he just be satisfied with that? It was sure as bloody hell more than he had ever managed in the past, even if he couldn’t claim much credit for it. Joe was actually the one who was actively pursuing a relationship both in and outside of their regular working hours.

  Tristan had assumed these dancers would be a bunch of dilettantes—only to discover that they worked hard at their craft. And he admired hard work perhaps more than any other ethic.

  He had thought they would shun his company. He had certainly run into his share of that in the course of past investigations. He could probably cite a hundred victims or witnesses who’d seemed to confuse him with the crime in which they’d involuntarily become involved. Yet many of these dancers, rather than scurry away to the safety of unsullied territory the minute he was through with them, had stayed to talk to him about his line of work and to ask him personal questions.

  He should hold himself aloof from them, Tristan knew, if for no other reason than to maintain a professional objectivity.

  But, dammit, he harbored an urge to know more about them.

  He harbored an urge to know more about her.

  That cut right to the heart of the matter. Tristan closed his eyes and swore beneath his breath. Reopening them, his gaze was drawn straight back to Amanda Charles, just as it had been from the very instant he had walked through the door.

  Flaming lot of good it would do him. He had taught himself a long time ago not to want those things he could never have. So what the bloody hell was he doing here when he should be downtown mapping out the specifics that would set his investigation in motion? It sure as shit wasn’t to get a professional perspective on the world of dance.

  He had never in his life been stimulated by a woman’s antagonism, and God knows, in his profession, he was subject to a lot of it. So why was it different with her? Why did even her hostility strike a responsive chord in him?