I’ve always thought of myself as a quickstep sort of person, full of joie de vivre, zing, and fun. Dancing the quickstep, a mix of the foxtrot and the Charleston, usually transports me to the 1920s and Zelda Fitzgerald, champagne and flappers. But it’s tough to have much joie in your vivre when you’re dancing with a partner you loathe, especially when he’s the ex-fiancé you caught boffing a Latin specialist. Sometimes, though, you just have to suck it up and fake the zing, like when you own a ballroom dance studio and eight members of a wedding party who want to learn to dance before the big day are watching you demonstrate the quickstep.
Rafe and I glided across the smooth floor of our jointly owned studio, Graysin Motion, with the light and complex footwork that had won us more than one quickstep title. My sapphire dress belled out as we chasséed and spun the length of the ballroom to the corner in preparation for our run. Staying energetic and light on our feet, we skipped and hopped diagonally across the floor, our bodies staying upright and solid while our toes appeared to barely skim the ground. I tried to lose myself in the strains of Louis Prima’s “Sing, Sing, Sing” as it poured through the speakers, but Rafe broke into my reverie.
“You’ve got to listen to reason, querida.”
He kept his voice low, which deepened his sexy Argentinean accent. At least, I used to find it sexy until I discovered he had the fidelity of a mink.
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I said through my smile.
“Stacy, the studio… barely covering costs. Must expand… class offerings.”
Talking and quickstepping are pretty much mutually exclusive activities since you’re moving at about the rate of a sprinter attempting a four-minute mile, but Rafe and I were in superb shape and my anger drove me to gasp out a response. “If you think… I’ll let… you wreck… reputation… finest ballroom studio… D.C. area… by teaching hip-hop and tap and becoming… recital mill like Li’l Twinkletoes… No.”
I was a pro. Despite my anger and frustration, I smiled at him, my expression a nice blend of mischief and carefree gaiety. I tried superimposing Jay Gatsby (the Robert Redford version-yum) over Rafe. It didn’t work.
“Need the money.”
“Maybe you need money. I’m fine.” We slowed for a moment for him to bend me into a deep arch in the corner. “I didn’t just buy a Lexus.”
“Gift.”
His dark eyes locked onto mine and for a second, a nonquicksteplike passion that had more to do with anger and frustration than the volatile chemistry that had brought us together as ballroom partners and then lovers bled into the dance. We’d been engaged for two years and had bought Graysin Motion before the chemistry exploded the afternoon I found him practicing a horizontal mambo with Solange Dubonnet. I had ended our engagement on the spot-was it really four months ago?-but severing our business relationship was proving more difficult since neither of us could afford to buy out the other’s share of Graysin Motion. We moved apart for some Charleston-inspired side-by-side figures and I recovered my bright smile.
As the choreography brought us into a closed hold again, Rafe said, “Listen to reason, que-Stacy. Adding… bigger variety… children’s classes and… hosting… recital would bring in-just in costume sales-”
“Over. My. Dead. Body.”
The music ended and the bridesmaids and their escorts clapped. I dropped into a graceful curtsy, trying to catch my breath without looking like a gasping fish, the swishy sapphire of my demonstration dress draping around me.
“That was fabu,” the blond bride said. “Now you can see why I wanted us all to learn to quickstep, honey. Doesn’t that look like fun?” She cast a sweet smile at her groom, a hulking young man who looked like he’d be more at ease in a rugby scrum than a ballroom dance studio.
The groom nodded, gulping, as the best man said, “If you think racing around a dance floor at the pace of a zebra trying to outrun a cheetah looks like fun. It’ll be especially fun in a tux.”
The bride ignored his sarcasm. “Can you teach us to dance like that?” She gestured to her bridesmaids, who looked eager, and the groomsmen, who looked like they’d prefer a root canal to dance instruction. Not unusual, in my experience.
“When’s the wedding?”
“Saturday,” she said sunnily.
Teach these neophytes to quickstep in four days? Four weeks, maybe, if they were talented, coordinated, and aerobically fit. Rafe and I exchanged a look that said, “Yeah, right.” Our moments of agreement were rare these days and I suppressed a sad smile.
“Of course,” Rafe said, offering his hand and a roguish smile to the slender bride. “Why don’t we get started?”
The wedding party had barely limped out of the studio, the maid of honor complaining she’d be too stiff to walk down the aisle, when Taryn Hall and Sawyer Iverson, teenage dance partners preparing for the upcoming Capitol Ballroom Dance Festival, strolled in. We were taking advantage of spring break to work in some extra private coaching. I sipped from my water bottle as the teens put on their dance shoes and stretched. Sunlight streamed through the front windows of the studio, which ran the length of the town house. It showed scuffs on the oak floor that President James Madison may have trod when the house belonged to his cousin. I mentally factored the cost of refinishing the floor into the year’s budget and sighed.
“Rafe! Yo, man, watch this.” Sawyer dropped his lanky body to the floor and executed some tricky hip-hop moves, ending by twirling on his head.
“Where do you think you will use that?” Rafe asked with a grin. “America’s Got Losers?”
I’d always liked the way he connected with the teens and even the kids in the beginners’ class.
“Cold, man. Cold,” Sawyer said, shaking his head. The stud in his ear glinted. “The chicks dig it.”
“In your dreams,” Taryn said, sinking into the splits and stretching forward until she lay flat against the floor.
Rafe clapped his hands. “Let us get started, niños.” The couple took their positions as he cued the music. I moved with them as they danced, changing an arm position, giving a reminder about keeping their frames up. They took the corrections in good part, focused on becoming better dancers.
“No, no,” Rafe broke in over the foxtrot music. “Taryn, come here. Let me show you. Watch, Sawyer.”
Taryn hurried toward Rafe, her smile showing her pleasure at the prospect of dancing with him. With midnight-dark hair and a milky complexion, Taryn was a wisp of a girl whose slightness belied her strength. She looked even paler today, I thought, as she stretched up within the frame of Rafe’s arms. They circled the room twice, Rafe narrating each piece of footwork, each gesture, as they danced. Sawyer glowered at the twirling pair until I offered him my hand and dragged him onto the floor.
It ought, of course, to have been me demonstrating with Rafe. But the awkwardness between us made it difficult. I knew next month’s Blackpool Dance Festival, the prestigious invitation-only ballroom competition in England, would be our last competition together and it saddened me. He was the perfect partner for me in many ways; he was just the right height and his olive complexion and dark hair made a striking contrast with my paleness. In the heat of my fury and hurt at his betrayal, I’d initially told him I wouldn’t dance with him any longer. But after I’d auditioned a couple of prospective partners who answered my ads on the Internet dance sites (Disaster 1 and Disaster 2, I called them), and Rafe had danced with a couple of women who didn’t meet his standards (too whiny, no personality), we decided to keep our dance partnership intact until after Blackpool. To bolster the studio’s reputation, we agreed.
Deep in thought, I didn’t see how it happened, but suddenly Taryn was on the floor. “I’m okay,” she said weakly as Rafe helped her to her feet. “I don’t know why… I felt dizzy…”
Sawyer broke away from me and hurried to where Taryn stood supported by Rafe’s strong arm. “Taryn, let me-”
“Don’t fuss,” she said. “I’m fine. Maybe just some water.”
Sawyer jogged to her gym bag and pawed through it, searching for her bottle. Rafe said something to her in a low voice and she shook her head vehemently. When Sawyer trotted up with the water, Rafe stepped aside, but his eyes were full of concern as they dwelled on Taryn. Watching the way she trembled as she brought the bottle to her lips, I wondered if she had an eating disorder. Unfortunately, in a sport that prized thinness and a ripped physique, eating disorders were all too common. Taryn’s symptoms fit the bill-dizzy, thirsty, weaker than usual, thinner than a daffodil stem. I’d find a way to take her aside later, sound her out about it. Anorexia was nothing to mess around with, especially as a teen. A friend of mine from my ballet days had had to go away for several months to a live-in facility in Arizona to recover. She was thirteen. She’d never returned to dancing.
I walked over to the girl and put my arms around shoulders that felt bony through her thin sweatshirt. “Come on, Taryn. I’ll call your mom and you can wait in my office until she comes. Maybe some cheese crackers would help. I’ve got some in my drawer.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t eat anything.” She put a hand to her mouth like she might throw up, confirming my suspicions.
The music started up again as I led Taryn out of the studio. Sawyer trailed after us, but Taryn stopped him with a shake of her head.
“I’ve got the car,” Taryn told me. “I can drive myself home.”
“Are you sure you feel up to it? Maybe Sawyer-”
“Yeah. The fresh air will do me good.” She managed a wan smile. “Thanks, Stacy.”
I watched as she navigated the stairs that ran down the side of the house, creating a separate entrance for Graysin Motion just off my office. Her shoulders were slumped, whether from the weight of her dance bag or something else, I couldn’t tell. As I returned to the studio, I wondered if I should share my suspicions with her mother. No, I decided. I’d talk to Taryn first.
Two hours later, I slouched into my office, kicked off my dance heels, and put one foot on the desk to massage it. Ahh. I was exhausted. Resting my head against the chair, I stared at Rafe’s desk, set at a right angle to mine. We used to work in here together, with him doing billing and payroll stuff while I worked on schedules and choreography. He hadn’t spent much time at his desk since our split, preferring to work from home on his laptop, and dust coated his computer and keyboard. Somehow, that film of dust made me want to cry. It wasn’t the empty desk that bothered me, I told myself; it was Rafe’s escalating irresponsibility.
Rafe had walked out today without a word of explanation not long after Taryn left, leaving me to teach a beginning Latin class on my own. I’d wanted to put a spear between his shoulder blades but had to act like his leaving was no big deal. Grrr. His behavior the past month had grown increasingly strange-disappearing at odd times, whispered phone conversations he obviously didn’t want overheard, furtive meetings in a limo I’d seen parked outside the studio several times this week-and I’d had to cover more than one of his classes when he didn’t show. It wasn’t like him. He knew as well as I did that reliability was critical to the studio’s success. Students tended not to come back if their instructors didn’t show up as scheduled. No duh, as my brother, Nick, would say.
Rafe might have fewer morals than a feral cat, but up until now he’d been a conscientious businessman, scrutinizing the books, finding ways to cut costs, charming the customers into buying packages for multiple lessons. Then, three days ago, he’d shown up in the black Lexus, acting more uneasy than thrilled. And now he said it was a gift? Hmm. How come the gifts I received ran more to toaster ovens (Mom), eHarmony memberships (my sister, Danielle, who never liked Rafe), or tarty lingerie (assorted boyfriends) than high-performance sports cars? I must be doing something wrong.
A commotion outside caught my attention. Barefoot, I crossed to the large front window to see what was going on. Graysin Motion was on the upper level of the Federal-era town house I lived in courtesy of Great-aunt Laurinda, who’d bequeathed it to me, and had two studios: the main dance floor where we held large classes, and a slightly smaller room suitable for one-on-one practice, which most of the pros who trained here used. We referred to them as the ballroom and the studio. The ballroom looked out onto the tree-shaded streets of Old Town,Alexandria, and if you craned your neck, you could just glimpse the Potomac River. My office sat across the wide hall and had been a small music room or parlor in another life. Now that Rafe had moved out-he’d held on to his condo when we got engaged but we’d spent our nights here more often than not-I lived alone downstairs, which made for the world’s easiest commute, especially in the Metro D.C. area.
Down on the sidewalk, two dogs-a shaggy mutt and a boxer-lunged and barked at each other as their owners tried to pull them away. My gaze drifted past them and I saw the limo-at least I thought it was the same limo-that had picked Rafe up the other day. It was parked across the street. If Rafe was holed up in that limo, swilling champagne with a new lover while I worked my butt off-! On impulse, I hurried down the stairs that ran along the side of the house.
My mother always said my lack of impulse control would get me into hot water someday. It already had. Like the time in high school with the Bunsen burner and the crepe paper. It was just a dinky fire; they didn’t really have to evacuate the whole school. Or the fountain incident… I shook the memories out of my head as I reached the ground level. Lifting my long skirt, I ran down the slate-paved walk to the street, wishing I’d taken time to put on some shoes as the hot walkway burned my soles. Judging from the cars slowing and honking, I must have been quite a sight: a five-foot-six barefoot blonde in a form-fitting gown that displayed a generous amount of cleavage and leg. I probably looked like an escapee from a charity ball or a musical revue, not the usual sunburned tourist or Ann Taylor-shopping yuppie you see clogging the sidewalks of Old Town at three in the afternoon.
At the curb, I had to wait for a break in traffic. When the light down the street turned red, I wove my way through the stopped cars, getting a couple of wolf whistles and invitations. I ignored them. The asphalt was so hot I barely touched each foot to the street before jerking it up; I felt like a prancing show horse. Panting, I reached the black limo, which idled at the curb. I couldn’t make out anything behind the heavily tinted windows. I knocked on the driver’s side window. Nothing. I rapped more insistently, bruising my knuckles. The window buzzed down a bare inch. I craned my neck, trying to see inside, but could make out only the dull gleam of expensive leather, a dashboard with enough electronics to pilot the space shuttle, and a sliver of profile topped by a chauffeur’s cap. Music played so softly I couldn’t identify it, and a hint of cigar smoke so expensive it didn’t make me retch drifted out.
“Yes?” The voice was heavily accented, discouraging.
“I’m looking for Rafael Acosta,” I said. “Is he with you? In there?” Boy, that was lame.
Apparently, the driver thought so, too, because the window purred up again and the car moved forward slightly, forcing me back. As there was a steady stream of traffic behind me, stepping back posed life-threatening problems.
“Hey, just give me a minute,” I yelled at the car, trying to inch down its length and reach the safety of the sidewalk.
As nonresponsive as a shark, it nosed its way into traffic, pushing me aside. An Escalade blasted past, almost scraping my behind. That was too close for comfort-my rear end was one of my greatest assets on a dance floor, especially for Latin numbers that required a lot of hip rotation, what nondancers thought of as “booty shaking.” I teetered backward on my heels and windmilled my arms, knowing that if I fell, no one would even hit the brakes when their tires thumped over my body. D.C. drivers during rush hour wouldn’t slow down for the president or a volcanic eruption or an alien spaceship (as long as it didn’t land on the beltway). I flung myself forward and flopped over the trunk of the limo. It crept forward again and I felt my feet leave the roadway. Yikes! My hands scrabbled over the waxed surface, looking for purchase. Nothing. I got the ball of one foot down just as the car accelerated. One minute it was there, the next it was half a block away and gaining speed. I fell to my hands and knees in the spot it had vacated.
I sucked in a deep breath and my arms trembled. Pebbles dug into my palms and I didn’t even want to look at my skirt. Two women emerged from the heavy glass doors of Spactacular, the day spa directly across from Graysin Motion. They had the dewy glow and gleaming nails that spoke of facials, massages, and a gossipy interchange while the manicurist toiled. They both noted me from the corners of their eyes, the look city dwellers have perfected to avoid eye contact with homeless people, and one whispered to the other, “Probably drunk.”
“What do we pay taxes for?” the other asked, somewhat obscurely. Climbing into the Mercedes sedan parked behind me, they angled away from the curb, almost running over my toes.
Instinctively, I put a hand to the gaping neckline of my gown and struggled to my feet. A horn blared two inches behind me and I jumped. A soccer mommish woman in a green van was making shooing gestures. She wanted the parking spot. Her bumper nudged my thigh. The hell with her. I slammed my palm down hard on the van’s hood and leaped to the sidewalk. Stalking to the corner, my knees throbbing, I crossed at the light. The woman was still backing and cutting in, trying to parallel park. I waved at her in apology as I started up the stairs to Graysin Motion and she gave me the finger.
Damn, my knees hurt. I struggled up the stairs and hobbled to my office. Plopping into the chair, I hiked my skirt up. Ick. My knees were scraped up good and oozing blood. Just what I needed. They’d better heal before the Capitol Ballroom Dance Festival, our warm-up for Blackpool in less than two weeks. And the dress was ruined. I examined the rips and oil stains on the stretchy fabric. I didn’t use the dress for competition, just for teaching, and I’d bought it for only thirty-two dollars at a Goodwill store, but still. Holding my dress at thigh height and hoping I didn’t run into anyone, I scuttled to the half bath down the hall. Washing my knees with soap and water, I patted them dry and stuck Band-Aids on before sticking my asphalt-blackened feet one at a time under the cool water flowing from the faucet. Aah, much better. Drying my tootsies, I grabbed a sparkling water from the mini-fridge we kept in the bathroom before slinking back to the office. I settled into my chair and stretched my legs out under the desk, wincing.
“I don’t know where you think we’re lunching, but you’re waaay overdressed for the Falafel Hut.”
I looked up with a smile. My sister, Danielle, slouched in the doorway. About my height, she’s thin where I’m curvy and practical when I’m occasionally-witness the limo incident-a tad impulsive. She has a long, narrow face and straight brows that give her a serious look she says is a real asset in negotiations. She’s a union organizer for service and clerical workers. I don’t know what she does, exactly, except she disappears for a week or two now and then to participate in a strike and she gets a lot of satisfaction from helping wronged secretaries get back at harassing bosses. You’d think her head of flaming red curls-from Mom’s side of the family-would mean she has a temper, but she’s the calmest person I know.
“Come on down while I change,” I said, pushing to my feet.
She backed into the hall as I shuffled to the door. “What? Did you add judo throws to your class today? And I’ve heard of people paying obscene sums for ‘distressed’ jeans, but I didn’t know the trend had extended to ball gowns.”
“Since when are you a fashion critic?” I asked. Dani had the dullest collection of beige, navy, and gray suits ever assembled in a single closet. With shoes to match. She called her wardrobe “nonthreatening” and said it helped her connect with the pink- and blue-collar workers she represented. I’d rather starve on the street than wear beige. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we’re related.
Just as I reached the hall, the door leading to the exterior stairs swung open. Mark Downey stepped in, his sandy hair tousled, a grin on his face. A couple years younger than me, Mark did something with computers and danced on the side. He paid me a handsome fee to dance with him at professional-amateur competitions-common practice in the competitive ballroom world; in fact, it’s how most pros made the bulk of their money.
“Stacy! Just the person I was hoping to see,” he said. Two strides brought him to where I stood and he bent to kiss my cheek. I introduced him to Dani and they shook hands.
“Did we have a practice scheduled?” I wrinkled my brow, sure it hadn’t been on my calendar. His buttondown shirt and khaki slacks didn’t suggest he was here to dance.
“No. I was just in the area and thought I’d take you to lunch. You, too,” he said, politely extending the invitation to Dani.
“That’s sweet of you, Mark,” I said, “but Dani and I have plans. Maybe another time?”
“Sure.” He took the rebuff easily. “I’ve got a few errands to run anyway. See you at class tonight?”
“Probably.” Rafe was scheduled to teach, but I usually poked my head in.
“Great. See you then. Nice meeting you, Danielle,” he said. With a flip of his hand he disappeared out the door. I could hear him clomping down the stairs.
“He’s got a thing for you,” Dani observed slyly.
“He’s a kid,” I said. “And he’s got a girlfriend. She’s come to watch us in competitions once or twice.”
“Still. You could do worse. He’s cute if you like the boy-next-door type. Beaver Cleaver or Richie Cunningham all grown up.”
I didn’t answer since we both knew my taste ran more to an edgy, dangerous, heartbreaking Rafe Acosta type.
We headed down the hall that ran the length of the house to a door marked PRIVATE. As we descended the interior stairs to my living quarters, I told Dani about Rafe’s strange behavior and about my run-in with the limo.
“What’d they say before they ran you down?” Danielle asked as we emerged into my sun-drenched kitchen.
Although I loved the natural light, it did tend to spotlight the worn areas in the lichen-colored linoleum that was probably laid down before the Iron Curtain went up, and the stained grout on the turquoise tiled counters, remnants of an unfortunate redecorating effort in the 1960s. As soon as I had any money to spare, I was redoing the kitchen. “Zilch.”
“Have you considered the possibility this was just some poor chauffeur waiting for his employer to finish at the day spa? He probably thought you were a celebrity stalker or something.”
I ducked into my bedroom to change, but left the door open so I could hear Dani.
“It wasn’t a celebrity,” I called, shucking off my ruined dress and reaching for a pair of green capris. “The car had diplomat plates.” I hadn’t learned much from my confrontation with the limo, but I had noticed the license plate as it sped away; the familiar blue and white bore the country code “PR.” I didn’t know what country that was offhand, but I could Google it later.
“Fine. So it was an ambassador getting a hot stone massage, not Tom Cruise.”
Pulling on a green-and-white-striped T-shirt, I slipped my feet into white espadrilles and joined Dani. She was seated at the kitchen table, watching a cardinal splash in the birdbath in my backyard. It’s not really a yard-just a ten-by-five brick patio surrounded on three sides by a three-feet-wide grass border-but I keep multiple birdfeeders and the birdbath filled and have a bunch of containers brimming with flowers and herbs, so it attracts a lot of birds and butterflies.
“Finally,” she greeted my appearance. “Let’s get going. I’m starved.”
Over a Greek salad at the Falafel Hut two blocks east, I told her about Rafe’s erratic behavior in recent weeks. The spicy scent of gyros and the sound of kitchen clinkings permeated my story.
She took her time answering when I finished, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin before saying, “Maybe you’re just a teensy bit too interested in Rafe’s activities for an ex-fiancée?”
“What? You’re saying I’m making this up? That I’m jealous?”
“Making it up-no. Jealous…” Her voice trailed off. “It’s only been a few months. You can’t expect to be over him so soon.”
“I was over him the minute I caught him in bed with Solange,” I said. I gulped some iced tea and choked, earning stares from the family standing in line to order.
“Uh-huh.” Dani took a bite of her pita-wrapped falafel.
“Don’t uh-huh me like that. Just say what you’re thinking.” I glared at her.
She gazed back calmly. “Okay. I think the most likely explanation is that Rafe has another woman on a string and you like poking at the wound. Maybe catching him with another woman would be even more vindication for you, or something. It’s not like Solange was the first time he cheated on you. It’s just that she was the first one you caught him naked with so you couldn’t ignore the evidence.”
Damn. This honesty thing didn’t have much going for it. I blinked back tears, scooping salad into my mouth so Dani wouldn’t notice. An unwelcome thought crept in: Maybe she was a teensy, weensy bit right. Maybe I was still a bit emotionally connected to Rafe. Not in a loveydovey way, but in a woman scorned way, which was almost as bad. I aspired to total indifference.
“You okay?” She lowered her head almost to table level so she could look up into my face, which I kept bent over my bowl. One red curl dipped in the tzatziki sauce.
“Sure,” I mumbled around a mouthful of lettuce. “Peachy. For a neurotic, jealous, spying ex-girlfriend.” I pushed my salad away and flashed her a crooked smile. “You have yogurt sauce in your hair.”
She straightened up, a relieved smile on her face. Using a napkin, she wiped the sauce off her hair. The curl sproinged back into place when she released it. “Good. It’s time to move on, sister-mine. Forget the dirtball. Coop’s brother is in town this weekend-maybe we could double date.”
I curled my lip. Cooper Tate, her boyfriend of four years, was not my cup of tea. He was lanky and serious and did something in security for a local university. For a wild night out, he went to a chess club. I didn’t imagine any man who sprang from the same gene pool would light my fire.
She read my expression and scowled, tossing her utensils onto the tray. “Coop’s a good man. At least he’s never cheated on me.”
That was low. “And he’s never proposed either, has he?” Sisters can push one another’s buttons like no one else in the world.
We glared at each other, then bussed the table and hit the sidewalk. The heat and humidity draped over us like a wet mohair blanket. Feeling bad about my verbal jab, I offered a half apology. “I don’t think I’m ready to go out with anyone yet, Dani.”
After a moment, she muttered, “It’s okay. But you’ve gotta get over him sooner or later. I vote for sooner.”
As we hugged good-bye, I said, “You know, just because I’m neurotic doesn’t mean there’s not something fishy going on with Rafe. And if it’s something that can hurt Graysin Motion, I’m going to figure it out.”