Dead On The Dance Floor

Her smile stayed in place, though the uneasy sense swept through her again.

One hell of a challenge.

She had a feeling that he was right. On more than one level.

What the hell was he really doing here? she wondered.

“Ella, could I get a chart for Mr. O’Casey, please?” she said aloud. “Come into our conference room, and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

The conference room wasn’t really much of a room, just a little eight-by-eight enclosure. There was a round table in the middle that seated five at most, surrounded by a few shelves and a few displays. Some of the teachers’ trophies were there, along with a few she had acquired herself, and several indicating that they had won in the division of best independent studio for the past two years.

Ella handed Shannon a chart, and the others, rather than discreetly going about their business, stared. Shannon arched a brow, which sent them scurrying off. Then she closed the door and indicated a chair to Quinn O’Casey.

“Have a seat.”

“You learn to dance at a table?” he queried lightly as he sat.

“I learn a little bit about what sort of dancing you’re interested in,” she replied. Obviously, they were interested in selling dance lessons, and the conference room was sometimes referred to—jokingly—as the shark-attack haven; however, she’d never felt as if she were actually going into a hostile environment herself. She prided herself on offering the best and never forcing anyone into anything. Students didn’t return if they didn’t feel that they were getting the most for their money. And the students who came into it for the long haul were the ones who went into competition and kept them all afloat.

“So, Mr. O’Casey, just which dances do you want to learn?”

“Which dances?”

The dark-haired hunk across from Shannon lifted his brows, as if she had asked a dangerous question and was ready to suck him right in.

“We teach a lot of dances here, including country and western and polka. People usually have some kind of a plan in mind when they come in.”

“Right, well, sorry, no real plan. Doug talked me into this. Um, which dances. Well, I…I can’t dance at all,” he said. “So…uh, Doug said something about smooth, so that’s what I want, I guess,” he said.

“So you’d like a concentration on waltz, fox-trot and tango.”

“Tango?”

“Yes, tango.”

“That’s what you call a smooth dance?”

“There are quick movements, yes, and sharpness of motion is an important characteristic, but it’s considered a smooth dance. Do you want to skip the tango?”

He shrugged. “No, I haven’t a thing in the world against tango.” They might have been discussing a person. He flashed a dry smile, and she was startled by his electric appeal. He wasn’t just built. He had strong, attractive facial features, and that dimple. His eyes appealed, too, the color very deep, his stare direct. Despite herself, she felt a little flush of heat surge through her. Simple chemistry. He was something. She was professional and mature and quite able to keep any reaction under control—but she wasn’t dead.

He leaned forward suddenly. “I think I’d love to tango,” he said, as if he’d given it serious thought.

And probably every woman out there would love to tango with you, too, buddy, she thought.

She had to smile suddenly. “Are you sure you really want to take dance lessons?” she asked him.

“Yes. No.” He shrugged. “Doug really wanted me to get into it.”

Shannon suddenly felt hesitant about him. She didn’t know why—he was so physically impressive that any teacher should be glad to have him, as a challenge, at the least.

A challenge. That was it exactly. Just as he appealed to her, he created a sense of wariness in her, as well. She didn’t understand it.

She sat back, smiling, tapping her pencil idly against the table as she looked at him. She spoke casually. “Your brother is a police officer. Are you in the same line of work, Mr. O’Casey?”

“Quinn. Please, call me Quinn. And no, I’m not a cop. Although I was a cop once.”

He didn’t offer any further details.

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m with a charter service down in the Keys.”

“Fishing? Diving?”

He smiled slowly. “Yes, both. Why? Are only certain men involved in certain lines of work supposed to take dance lessons?”

She shook her head, annoyed to know that her cheeks were reddening. She stared down at the paper. “No, of course not, and I’m sorry. We just try to tailor a program toward what an individual really wants.”

“Well, I guess I just want to be able to dance socially. And I’m not kidding when I say that I can’t dance.”

Those words were earnest. The dimple in his cheek flashed.

She smiled. “Doug came in with the movement ability of a deeply rooted tree…Quinn.” His name rolled strangely on her tongue. “He’s made incredible progress.”

“Well, he just kind of fell in love with it, huh?”

Her smile deepened, and she nodded. “You don’t think you’re going to fall in love with it, do you?”

He shrugged, lifting his hands. Large hands, long fingered. Clean and neat, though. Of course. Fishing and diving. He was in the water constantly. Face deeply bronzed, making the blue of his eyes a sharp contrast. “What about you?”

“Pardon?” she said, startled that they had suddenly changed course.

“When did you fall in love with it?”

“When I could walk,” she admitted.

“Ah, so you’re one of those big competitors,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. I’m an instructor.”

He arched a brow, and she felt another moment’s slight unease as she realized he was assessing her appearance.

“I bet you would make a great competitor.”

She shrugged. “I really like what I do.”

“I guess competition can be dangerous.”