Two to Tango (Erotic Romance) (4 page)

Sipping the first glass, I surveyed the three-quarters-full room for familiar faces. Three of the mothers of my dance students were seated together at one table. One of the mothers was a single mother with a low income, so that meant only two of my Level A mothers were planning to defect.

Only two.

Maybe things weren’t so bad.

I breathed a sigh of relief before starting the second glass of champagne. The woman up at the podium started to sound like a chicken clucking once the booze hit my system. I hadn’t eaten in hours, and my whole body
really
liked this sweet champagne. Plus the raspberries were fruit, which made it part of a healthy food group.

I started eating the snacks, and the waiter came by with two more glasses of champagne to replace my empties. “These glasses really are too small,” he whispered apologetically.

“Thank you,” I whispered back.

The staff was friendlier than expected, but of course I was dressed up like a rich lady. They wouldn’t have been so helpful if I’d come by in my jeans and worn-down running shoes.

As I ate the crackers, I watched the two mothers for any signs of interest. One had her arms crossed and a frown on her face. She wasn’t convinced about membership, which was good. Her daughter was one of my favorites.

I know we’re not supposed to have favorites, but you can’t help who you love. Her daughter was eight, with fiery red hair and the most amazing freckles, plus she had incredible kinesthetic memory. I’d take her through a routine one time, and she knew it forever.

The back of my neck prickled with the sensation of being watched. I turned my head slowly and spotted the cute groundskeeper.

He’d changed out of his tight-fitting black T-shirt and wore a gray, button-down shirt that looked like a uniform.

The shirt was big and loose on him, but I could still see his physique as clearly as if he’d been standing in the nude. It’s part of my training as a dance instructor, to identify people and their body types at a glance. It probably didn’t hurt that I’d seen a number of nude bodies during my time as an exotic dancer, but I hadn’t mentioned that during my teacher training classes, and nobody in my new life knew.

The groundskeeper had a good structure for being a dancer. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. He worked out steadily, by the look of him, but didn’t over-work the vanity muscles, like some guys do. He had the shape of someone with a strong core—the kind of compact power that fuels a sweaty session of dancing, or pilates, or…

He was looking right at me.

And what had I been thinking about? Dancing. Pilates. Sex.

My cheeks flushed hot. I slipped off my red jacket and folded it over the back of my chair, trying to take my eyes off the hot guy staring at me from the doorway. I couldn’t look away.

He broke the staring contest first, looking over at the podium as the woman who’d been speaking thanked everyone and brought to the stage a man who “needed no introduction.”

The man taking the microphone commanded everyone’s attention, including my own. He was tall and handsome, in a dark suit, with an orange tie—just flamboyant enough to read as rich, but still straight. I could hear the intake of breath all around me, as every woman in the place took in air and thrust up her chest. The man was in his fifties, by the look of the streaks of silver at his temples. I’d never been into older guys, but something weird happened inside me—a nervous flutter that made me wonder how well I knew myself.

Hello, Mr. Silver Fox.

He took the podium, said hello to everyone, and then stopped talking, mid-sentence. He stared directly at me, as though I was the only woman in the room.

After a few seconds of silence, other people noticed and turned to look at me—to see who he was staring at.

I turned and looked over my shoulder, wondering the same thing, but there was only a wall behind me. I slumped down in my chair, making myself smaller, the way I used to in high school, when I didn’t want the teacher to call on me.

He coughed to clear his throat, away from the microphone, then leaned in. “I do hope the champagne has done its work and made our exorbitant membership fees seem downright reasonable.”

People turned left and right, looking at each other in confusion. This man, who was obviously the owner or manager of The Cedars, was calling the fees exorbitant? At an Open House designed to get new members?

I let out a laugh, as did others around me. Pretty soon, everyone was giggling.

“Good,” he said, staring right at me again. “Our fees are exorbitant, and now that we’re all friends, and you’ve had a small sampling of what The Cedars has to offer, I’m going to make you a bet. By the time you leave here tonight, you will be thanking yourself for coming to this Open House. And tomorrow you will phone your friend…” He finally stopped staring at me, and directed his attention to a table of women closer to the podium. “You will phone up your friend—the one who said she’d come with you tonight to get some free food and booze, then chickened out at the last minute—and you’ll brag to her that you are now a member of The Cedars. And do you know what she’ll say?”

He waited for a response from one of the women at the table. Finally, a woman who seemed tipsy from the champagne replied, “She’ll say I’m crazy!”

He smiled. “Exactly. And then the next thing she’ll say will be, ‘So, when do I get to come with you as a guest?’”

Everyone laughed, playing right into the palm of his hand.

He continued with his pitch, building up excitement.

I had to admire the man. By starting off with the statement that memberships were exorbitant, then playing up everyone’s desires to be envied by their friends, he was making even me, the girl who despised rich people, think about that membership as a prize.

A prize.

It wasn’t just something you paid for. Membership was what you won, for being successful.

For a few minutes, he had me in the palm of his very handsome hand. What if I’d gone to law school instead of years of shaking my booty for dollar bills?

What if I’d chosen dry eyes from reading textbooks over blisters on my feet and bruises on my ass from getting pinched?

If I’d been born into privilege, I’d be on my way to enjoying…
all this
. I looked around the ballroom, at the attentive waiters bringing around dessert choices on rolling silver trays. The man’s hypnotic voice continued its refrain, describing the wondrous abilities of their in-house massage therapists.

I finished my third glass of champagne and hiccuped as I set the glass down. My stomach tightened with each hiccup. People turned to look my way, to stare at the inebriated girl who’d greedily downed her champagne too fast and had the hiccups.

I turned my attention inward, the same way I would calm my body before a performance. I imagined the muscle tissue of my diaphragm smoothing out.

HIC.

That didn’t work.

I tried to breathe through the hiccups, but they persisted. I slowly slid my chair back, preparing to make a break for the exit as soon as there was a pause in the man’s presentation, but he wasn’t letting up.

“Million dollar deals are made on our golf course,” he said to a rapt audience. “Friendships are forged in our steam rooms. Strategic alliances. Who do the top architects in the city want to award their building contracts to? Not some sweaty guy in a cheap suit who fumbles over a PowerPoint presentation in the board room. No. He wants to do business with his friend, who he can speak honestly with over a cigar in our gentleman’s smoking lounge.”

The men in the audience perked up at this, their heads nodding along as they heard, “It isn’t what you know, but who you know.”

They knew the truth when they heard it.

My hiccups continued, quiet enough to be heard only by a handful of people around me, but I kept checking the door in case the opportunity to flee arose.

The groundskeeper was still there, and he was still watching me. I grinned to myself, wondering if he’d been hired simply because he was so cute.
Handsome groundskeepers were just one of the many things that justified the exorbitant fees at The Cedars.

The speaker turned his attention back to the audience, asking for questions to answer.

A woman seated at the front corner raised her hand and asked, “Are membership fees tax deductible?”

The man chuckled, dimples forming in his cheeks as he grinned. “Entertain your clients here, and you’ll be able to deduct any fees incurred during that visit. The IRS will not allow deduction of the annual fee; however, when you consider the valuable contacts you’ll make here, it will more than offset your initial investment.”

He went on to answer the next question, but I didn’t pay any attention, because I was clenching my jaw and staring at the woman who’d asked the question. She was another one of my students’ mothers. The women hadn’t all sat together, but as I surveyed the room, I saw they were seated throughout the ballroom.

Every one of them was there.

“Could you tell us more about the dance programs?” she asked.

My heart sank. Every Level A parent who wasn’t already a member was in that room, considering membership. The man at the podium hadn’t even mentioned the dance program, until now.

“I’m glad you asked about the dance program,” he said, looking right at me.

I stopped breathing.

He continued, “The local community centers have offered dance programs for many years. I understand they are quite…
fun
. But while community centers excel at offering a broad range of activities for all ages, they are not athletic training facilities. You will not discover a future Olympian in the same room used for seniors’ finger painting. The Cedars is in the process of hiring world-class athletes and instructors for our new programs, and I’d be delighted to discuss our ambitions next month, when we’ll have some very exciting announcements.” His gaze drifted confidently across the whole room. “Next question. That was an easy one.”

I hiccuped so loudly, a waiter came rushing to my side with a glass of water.

I pushed back my chair and practically ran for the door.

Out in the hallway, alone, I gasped between hiccups.

The groundskeeper followed me out, closing the door to the ballroom gently behind him.

“Come here, I have a cure for hiccups,” he said.

I stood bent over, one hand on my knee and one hand held up to keep him away. “Don’t you dare try to make a loud noise and scare me. HIC! That only makes it HIC worse.”

He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and withdrew a ten dollar bill. “Here,” he said, holding the paper bill between us. “If you can hiccup again, I’ll give you this ten dollars.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a hiccup fetish, of course. I love to see a pretty girl hiccup, especially if she has legs like yours. Call me crazy, but it really does something for me.”

“You are the strangest groundskeeper I’ve ever known. No. Make that the strangest person, period.”

He shook the bill. “I’m waiting.”

I looked at the money. Ten bucks would buy me lunch on a day I forgot to pack something. Ten bucks would buy a bag of my favorite chocolate-covered pretzels. Ten bucks was ten bucks.

Something about a man holding out a bill was too familiar, though.
Slippery slope
, I thought.

My breathing was calm and steady. No hiccup.

The guy grinned, the cockiest look on his face. “See? It worked.”

“What worked? Hang on. When I get bad hiccups like this, they can last for hours.”

He leaned back against a wall and casually ran his fingers through his dark, wavy hair. He was right-handed, and the tattoo around his upper bicep revealed itself with this movement. His triceps bracchi muscles also revealed themselves, flexing with his movement.

I disappeared for a moment, inwardly drooling over that flexing arm.

Triceps bracchi
is Latin for three-headed arm muscle. During cable push-down exercises, these muscles bulge with power. My own are very small compared to a man’s, but I love to flex them in the shower and run my fingers along the inner groove. When I see good triceps on a man, horseshoe shaped, I get the urge to bite them.

“Your hiccups are gone,” he said.

“They’ll be back.”

He handed the bill to me.

I refused, smiling politely, and rolled my shoulders back, taking the posture of a wealthy woman. Someone in designer stilettos and clothes wouldn’t accept ten dollars from someone, no matter how cute he was.

“Why are you really here?” he asked.

“Not to get ten dollars.”

He gave me a sidelong, appraising look, his gaze sweeping all the way down to my toes and back up again.

“So you’re looking for a bigger payout,” he said.

I laughed, feeling nervous at the edge in his voice.

“More than a new car,” he said. “Maybe a condo? A townhouse?”

I pretended to look around in confusion. “Am I on a hidden camera show? What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering, he tucked the bill into his front pocket, then extended his arm, gesturing down the hallway, away from the ballroom. “Let’s walk and talk. How would you like a tour of the facilities? A private tour? Perhaps you can help me with a problem I have.”

I looked over at the door to the ballroom. I really should have gone back in, to talk to my students’ mothers and explain to them why they shouldn’t switch their daughters out of my classes. First of all, I had just as much accreditation as any so-called world-class teacher, and what I lacked in experience, I made up for in dedication.

I’d studied under many types of teachers, and the ones who were truly passionate about teaching were always the ones who turned out the best students.

Secondly, for every Level A student I lost, it would mean no more dancing for a Level C student. For some of those kids, it would mean losing the only stable thing in their life, along with their hope.

I took two steps toward the door and stopped.

Even though I wore a designer dress and shoes, I was still Skylar Evans, the girl who wore old, scuffed shoes and bought half-price cold cuts at closing time. The women in there knew who I was, and my begging would only remind me of why they needed to get their daughters into programs that cost more—programs that offered prestige.