Amanda wasn’t as quick to capitulate to his charm. In a way, she found Dean Eggars almost too agreeable. Was it really necessary that everybody like him? In a group the size of theirs, which contained as many diverse personalities as there were souls to house them, she had never yet managed to be everyone’s best friend. There was one dancer, in fact, that she downright disliked, although so far she had managed to disguise it well enough not to be out-and-out rude. She had to admit it made her feel a bit ridiculous to stand aloof from someone simply because he struck her as almost too accommodating to be true. But for a short time, she kept her distance for that very reason.
Besides, she couldn’t quite reconcile his friendliness with her first impression of him. When she had observed him during his audition, he had displayed a confidence nearly bordering on arrogance. Yet, up close and personal, he didn’t appear to have half the overblown ego she’d expected. It confused her.
Dean Eggars was one hell of a dancer, though, and if there was one thing Amanda admired above anything else, it was inspired dancing. Watching him over a period of several days, she thawed by perceptible degrees. And when he asked for her help with the steps of a new routine he was having a difficult time mastering, she decided it was time to quit acting like a suspicious old maid and give the poor man the benefit of the doubt. She invited him to come to her place the following day to practice the routine with her.
June and Rhonda, standing nearby, overheard and immediately invited themselves to join the rehearsal. June wanted to attend because she always felt in need of extra practice. Rhonda insisted on joining because fear of being bounced from the troupe had prevented her from initiating a hot and heavy flirtation with Dean thus far, and she was dying for a chance to get to know him away from Charlie’s all-seeing eyes.
Word spread, and by the time Amanda left the casino that evening she had been approached by three other dancers, each of whom expressed an interest in joining the impromptu practice. One of them, to her disgust, was the fourth male in the troupe, the one dancer she didn’t like at all—Randy Baker.
Privately she thought Randy was a sneaky creep, and in her opinion he was aptly named. He was as randy as a teenager riding the first raging crest of his hormones, and about as mature—more boy than man. Randy had a sly way of intimately touching the females in the troupe and then looking innocent and amazed when they called him on it, pretending it was an accident that his hand had just happened to skim across their butts or brush the sides of their breasts.
Amanda disliked being touched by strangers at the best of times. Having someone take advantage of what was supposed to be a professional situation struck her as particularly low. The few times Randy had pulled his little stunt on her, it had left her almost sick with frustrated anger, for dancers did touch each other in the course of a routine, and invariably, he had managed to do so in such a way that the only person who’d look foolish for making a fuss would be herself. He had a high school stud’s attitude and opinion of himself, apparently convinced he was God’s gift to the female population. She would just as soon he didn’t even know where she lived.
She merely shrugged, however, and said anyone who cared to come was welcome. Most of these people were her family. And while she might not like Randy personally, she identified with his desire to dance at any opportunity.
Gypsies all shared a common addiction. They lived to dance.
Chapter
11
By the time Amanda’s alarm rang the next day, the morning sun had been steadily shining through the French doors and windows of her apartment. The dining room was stifling when she stumbled in still half asleep to arrange it for her expected arrivals. She threw open the doors and windows to air the room and hopefully cool it down, grumbling to herself all the while. Dammit. She had dancers coming at any minute, the number of whom was anybody’s guess, and if there was one thing most dancers hated, it was trying to work out in an overheated, stuffy room. Of all the times to forget to drop the shades over the French doors, she wished she hadn’t picked last night. Rapidly, she converted the room to a studio, then ran to the front door and swung it back and forth to create a draft. She had to cool this place down.
Then she halted her frenzied activity in mid-movement. With a crooked, self-mocking smile, she lifted her face to catch the cool breeze that wafted through the open doorway. She couldn’t believe she was running around working herself into a lather over a slightly stuffy room that was already cooling down nicely. Lord above, if that wasn’t an indication of the state of her nerves these days, she didn’t know what was. Sure, most dancers preferred a cool room in which to practice. But there wasn’t one of them who hadn’t danced in halls and lounges that were either hot enough to bake a chicken or so frigid you could see the icy vapor of your own breath as it formed in front of your face. Truth was, if it was comfort they wanted, most dancers would have picked a different profession.
At ten o’clock the troupe members began to arrive, shuffling their feet and grumbling about the ungodly hour. Energetic wasn’t exactly the word she’d use to describe them, but Amanda, not a morning person herself, had prepared a large pot of coffee, and she watched them drink cup after cup until the caffeine kicked in and they began to come alive. Like her, none of them had gotten to bed before three in the morning. And for those who found it necessary to unwind a while after a late performance in order to sleep at all, it had been even later yet. One by one, however, they pried themselves away from the coffeepot in the kitchen and moved into the studio, where they began warming up. Soon there was no one left in the kitchen except Amanda and Randy.
“Nice place,” he murmured, and his gaze followed her as she moved around the room putting the cream back in the refrigerator and wiping the spills off the tile counter.
“Thanks.” She tossed the sponge in the sink. Something about the way he watched her filled her with tension. “Well, we’d better join the others if we’re ever going to get this show on the road.” Trying not to be obvious about it, Amanda skirted the area where Randy lounged, giving him a wide berth. Good manners be damned, if he so much as laid one finger on her this morning…
Everyone was in the process of warming up when Amanda entered the room with Randy so close upon her heels she could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck. Rhonda, Kelly, and David were squabbling good-naturedly over the best method for loosening tight muscles. Rhonda and David declared with stubborn insistence that the most efficient course was through floor exercises, while Kelly maintained that stretches at the barre were the only sensible way to begin a warm-up. June and Dean were ignoring the debate and every effort made by the others to draw them into it. They obviously preferred action to argument, as they steadfastly completed a series of rigorous exercises designed to warm up their muscles.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean panted when Rhonda once again solicited his opinion. “I just want to get it over with.” Rhonda laughed and agreed it was probably time she did less talking and more exerting herself.
Practice began slowly. At first they merely walked through the steps, repeatedly going over the combination that had been causing Dean difficulty. While the dancers were still largely uncertain of their ability to perform the routine, their feet were placed with hesitant lightness upon the wooden floor. But as their confidence increased, their feet began striking the floor with more firmness and strength. When David’s flew out from under him and he crashed to the floor, they laughed, picked him up, and started from the top once again. They decided to put the whole thing together this time and try to run through it from beginning to end. They were determined not to give Charlie an excuse to berate them at this afternoon’s rehearsal.
During the actual performance, the curtain opened on four women held aloft above the men’s heads while the remaining four women were arranged at their feet as supplicants: on their knees, back bowed and heads bent. As there were only three men at this practice and Kelly’s usual role was
one of the women on the floor, Amanda found herself partnered with Randy.
In this particular number, the women were suspended aloft in a forward-facing splits position, except the right leg was bent at the knee with the heel tucked into the crotch, toes pointed toward the left leg. Their partner’s right hand cupped their crotch to support the majority of their weight while his left hand, primarily for balance, steadied the extended leg near the knee. Amanda had been hoisted over a male partner’s head in this manner innumerable times, and except for the first few times when she was very young and still easily embarrassed, she’d never given much thought to the intimate placement of her partner’s hand. Within seconds, though, of being boosted into the air this morning, it was evident that Randy wanted her to be totally aware of his sexuality.
The weight of her body pressing down on his hand limited his mobility, but nevertheless, his fingers managed to clumsily trace the shape of her, nudging into private hollows through her damp leotard. One finger stretched out to insinuate its tip between the division of her cheeks, while his palm cupped and flattened itself over her mound. Stealthily, his thumb caressed the tender area where her thigh joined her body.
Amanda seethed with frustration. There wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop Randy while she was suspended over his head—at least, not without upsetting her balance and probably crashing to the floor. But, by God, he was enjoying himself, wasn’t he? She could practically feel the waves of smug satisfaction that emanated from him.
She clenched her teeth furiously. Well, the hell with that. She was tired of always displaying her pretty manners when what she really longed to do was put a halt to something that she knew in her heart was just not right.
“Put me down, you little creep!” Amanda didn’t care that everyone stumbled to a confused halt at the sound of her angry demand. Randy lowered her, and the minute her feet touched the floor, she whirled to face him.
“If you ever,” she said, emphasizing each word she spoke with a furious poke of her forefinger to his chest, “I mean ever, pull something like that again, Randy Baker, I will bust your chops.”
“Hey,” he said, shrugging with feigned innocence. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Oh, no?” Amanda’s chest heaved with fury. “Well, let me spell it out for you then, you slimy little grabby-fingered opportunist. I’ve had it with your sly feelies. If you think the women in this troupe were put on earth to provide you with a cheap thrill, think again. I’m a dancer, dammit, not some two-bit bimbo. You aren’t going to use my vulnerability in the air to get yourself off, and if you ever try it again, buster, I’ll simply dive for the floor.” She stared at him with contempt. “And believe me, Randy, I’ll figure out a way to break your neck on my way down.”
“You’re certifiable, girl.”
“No, she’s not,” Kelly said, stepping forward. “Every female in the troupe has had a run-in with your hands. Just because no one’s ever nailed your ass to the wall on it before doesn’t mean we aren’t wise to you.”
Breathing heavily, Amanda looked around, becoming aware of the rest of the dancers for the first time. Dean was studying her with interest; David was trying hard not to smile; and Rhonda and June were nodding in agreement.
“I take it you were less subtle than usual, Randy,” Rhonda said. “You must be losing your touch—or getting desperate.”
Amanda snorted. “Subtle? God, You can’t imagine how rich that is. He was copping feels for all he was worth. But then, all things considered, I suppose it’s the only way he can get within touching range of a woman.”
“You bitch.” Color high, Randy stepped forward, his body language promising retribution.
The outside door suddenly crashed back against the wall, and everyone jumped. “What the bloody hell is going on here?” demanded an unmistakable, Scots-accented voice.
Amanda’s head snapped around. Standing in the open doorway was Lieutenant MacLaughlin. But—she stared at him in openmouthed amazement—it was a Lieutenant MacLaughlin such as she had never seen before. The man was practically naked.
Well, not really naked, but compared with his usual neat suit and tie, which was the only apparel she had ever seen him wear, the worn gray sweatpants riding low on his hipbones barely seemed decent. His thick, wiry hair was flattened on one side, his normally smooth-shaven jawline was dark with stubble, and his feet and chest were bare. All that exposed skin, stretched tautly over clearly defined muscle and lightly dusted with feathery hair several shades darker than the sandy-brown on his head, made him appear larger than ever.
Amanda took a reflexive step backward when he strode into the room. Even without the gun that he had hastily withdrawn from a firing stance, letting the hand that held it fall to his side, he projected a definite air of menace.
“I want to know what’s going on,” he repeated in a deceptively quiet voice. “And I want to know now. It sounded like a bloody war zone up here.” Tristan felt fury climbing perilously close to the surface and tamped it down. God, his head hurt. He’d been jerked out of a restless sleep by a tremendous crash overhead, and by pure reflex he had snatched up his gun, jumped into his sweats, and raced up here, certain the killer he’d been matching wits with for the past week was mutilating Amanda.
Now he felt like a flaming idiot, and seeing the expressions on this group of dancers as they stood rooted in place, gawking at him, wasn’t improving his mood any. They looked at him as if he were mere seconds away from mowing them down where they stood.
“We were dancing, Lieutenant.” Amanda felt the anger that had been directed toward Randy transfer itself to the big cop. She dragged her gaze away from his bare chest, and dropped it pointedly to the gun in Tristan’s hand. “Is that a shooting offense?”
Tristan swore under his breath. Dancing? It was hard to think straight with this pounding headache, but by exerting the considerable force of his will, he managed to say in a neutral voice, “I was sleeping, lass. Do you have any idea what dancing”—the word came out between clenched teeth, but he quickly regained control—“sounds like over the head of someone who’s sound asleep?”
“Like a herd of elephants, I should imagine, especially when David hit the floor,” Rhonda said and grinned unrepentantly. She stared at Tristan’s body with undisguised interest, cataloging each separate feature. Tristan failed to notice, having barely glanced at anyone but Amanda.
“I’m sorry we woke you, Lieutenant,” the recipient of his regard said softly, trying to be reasonable. After all, no one liked to be awakened by loud noises, and he was being fairly amenable about it, not yelling at them like a lot of people would do. “But, honestly,” she couldn’t refrain from adding, staring with loathing at the gun he held at his side, “there’s really no need to come up here brandishing your gun. All you have to do is ask us to stop.”
Sweet mother of God, give me patience. “Excuse us a moment,” Tristan growled at the interested group, grabbed Amanda by the arm, and dragged her out the front door. Closing it softly behind them, he maneuvered Amanda into the small alcove to the left of her front door.
Enraged all over again, Amanda twisted her arm from his grasp. “I’ve told you before, cowboy, I don’t like being manhandled.”
The front door opened again and Randy stepped out, his dance bag flung over one shoulder. Tristan half turned to see who it was, and Amanda peered past the smooth, rounded expanse of his shoulder at the disgruntled dancer.
She smiled sweetly. “Leaving so soon, Randy? Don’t you go running away mad, now.” He glared at her and she added, “Just as long as you go away.”
The look he directed her way was pure malevolence. “You’re a real ball-busting bitch, Amanda, you know it?” he demanded and stomped down the stairs. Then he was blocked from sight when Tristan abruptly turned back to her. All she could see for a moment was the fan of hair that lightly furred his chest. She drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled it, feeling hemmed in by his huge bod
y trapping hers in the small alcove. He peered down at her quizzically through his dark-rimmed glasses.
“What was that all about then?”
“Nothing that need concern you, Lieutenant,” Amanda replied. “Randy and I simply had a disagreement.” She glared at the gun in his hand, then raised her eyes to meet his. “We don’t need you and your gun to mediate.”
Tristan stared down at her delicate dark eyebrows, furrowed in distaste over her long, slim nose; at her blond hair curling wildly away from her face; and at her flushed cheeks and full mouth; and he felt weeks of accumulated aggravation and frustration rise up and threaten to explode in the face of her transparent antagonism. Stonily, he clamped a lid on his temper, and his voice became cold and level from the effort. “I wasn’t offering myself or my gun for mediation,” he said dispassionately. He tucked the weapon that she found so offensive into the waistband of his sweatpants at the small of his back and tightened the drawstring. Bracing his hands on the walls on either side of the small passageway, he leaned over her. “You’ve made your opinion of my profession and my gun quite apparent several times now, and frankly, it’s beginning to bore me.”
Anger flared in Amanda’s eyes, but Tristan ignored it. He was pissed off himself, even if he did refuse to show it. He might be reserved by nature, a loner by circumstances, but he wasn’t some freaked-out commando with a gun in one hand and a grenade in the other, looking for an excuse to pull the soddin’ pin with his teeth and the trigger with his finger, the way she apparently viewed him.
“I didna come running up to your apartment, brandishing my gun, as you say, because you were making a great deal of noise.” He could feel his grasp on his accent slipping away, but he didn’t care. “I thooght y’ might be in trouble, then, didn’t I. And I thooght I could be of assistance. You seem to make it a point to forget there’s a killer out there stalking dancers.”
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