“I couldn’t agree more, Anastasia.” He cocked his head a bit to one side, clearly asking me how to fix the problem. One ankle rested on the opposite knee and his hands lay on his thighs.
“What did you do when these sorts of problems arose on your cruise ships?”
“Threw them overboard,” he said, straight-faced.
His deadpan humor never failed to catch me off guard and I gaped at him for a moment. Then I started laughing. His mouth twitched at the corner, and he leaned across the desk to hand me a pristine handkerchief as tears leaked from my eyes.
“Wouldn’t work here,” I finally said. “No ocean. Although the Potomac’s not that far…” I mused.
His blue eyes twinkled.
Damn, if I were fifty years older-make that thirty-I’d probably be fighting Edwina and Mildred for him.
“If it concerns you, Anastasia, I will fix the problem.” He opened his hands like a magician performing a trick. “I shall recruit two gentlemen of my acquaintance to attend the classes-perhaps I may tell them the classes are complimentary?”
“Absolutely,” I said, relieved to have such an elegant solution to the dilemma. “Thank you, Maurice. The real problem, you know, is that you’re much too charming. Do you think you could dial back the sex appeal a notch?” I smiled at him as he rose.
“Impossible, my dear Anastasia.” A look of mischief lit his face. “It’s a curse.”
Moments after Maurice left the office, I heard the outside door open and the click of high heels stop at my doorway. I looked over to see a woman posed in the opening. In that nebulous range between fifty and sixty, she had a flawlessly made-up face that had probably been lifted at least once. Her hair was an ashy blond cut to jaw length and expensively styled. A pink raw-silk suit clung to her lean curves and she wore matching stilettos that undoubtedly said Blahnik or Choo on the label. If her long neck was a bit scraggy and the skin on her hands a tad mottled, she was still a very attractive woman. Sherry Indrebo, the Republican congresswoman from Minnesota. And a talented amateur ballroom dancer who paid Rafe to dance with her at competitions, like Mark Downey did with me. I’d heard rumors that maybe she got more than dancing for her money, but I’d never believed them.
“Stacy,” she said with a tight smile. “Tell Rafe I’ll just be a minute, would you? I need to change. Thanks.”
Uh-oh. “Rafe’s not here, Sherry.”
Her perfectly arched and penciled brows snapped together. “He’s not? Well, I’m sure he’ll get here any minute. He wouldn’t forget. Not with the Capitol Festival so close.”
I didn’t tell her Rafe had been forgetting a lot of things recently.
“He’d better not forget.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “I had to completely rearrange my schedule and miss a floor vote to get here on time.”
“If he said he’ll be here, he’ll be here,” I lied. “He probably got caught in traffic somewhere.”
With a dubious look, she sailed into the bathroom to change. I was back at my computer when she poked her head in ten minutes later, dressed in a few strips of orange fluff that passed for a salsa dress and showed off her excellent legs.
“Is he here?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“I’ll give him precisely five more minutes and then I’m out of here.”
I’d hoped she’d do her waiting in the studio, maybe stretch to warm up, but no such luck. She sat in the wing chair by the window-the better to watch for Rafe, I guessed-and crossed her legs. “I’d kill for a cigarette,” she said, swinging one foot.
I didn’t respond to the hint. This was a strictly nosmoking building. Smoking killed your wind. And it stank. “I didn’t know you smoked,” I finally blurted.
The corner of her mouth crooked up in a wry smile. “Never where my constituents can see me.” She popped a piece of gum into her mouth.
I wondered what else she indulged in out of the voters’ sight. I tried to think of something to say to Sherry as the seconds ticked past and the tension grew thicker. Nothing came to me. Truth to tell, Sherry intimidated me. With money (from a rich defense contractor husband who spent at least half his time in St. Paul), looks, and power, she was a formidable woman. Even Rafe had mentioned once, half joking, that she scared him. At five minutes to the second, she rose to her feet and fluffed her orange feathers.
“I can’t wait any longer,” she said, her voice dripping ice. “My husband and I are attending a thousand-dollara- plate fund-raiser tonight and I can’t be late. Please tell Rafe that I was here for our practice.” Her anger was way out of proportion to being stood up for dance practice, and I wondered uneasily about their relationship. “I’ll expect him to call me with an explanation. And it had better be good.”
“I’ll let him know,” I said and breathed a sigh of relief when she swept out of the office.
Without bothering to change, she charged out the side door. I went to the window and watched as a driver held the door of a black Lincoln Town Car for her. It wasn’t quite a limo, but it was certainly a more luxurious mode of transportation than my yellow Beetle. An orange feather dangled out of the door, but the car moved off anyway.
I hoped Rafe knew what he was doing. But I doubted it.
At eight thirty I sat at the dinette table in my breakfast nook, eating a late dinner of spinach and water-packed tuna, wishing I could have a cheeseburger and fries. But Blackpool was only six weeks away and I didn’t need an extra pound or two straining the seams of my fitted costumes. Rafe had complained during a lift last week that I was gaining weight and although I denied it, I was counting every calorie. Winning trophies at the big competitions was excellent advertising for the studio and the prize money was nothing to sneer at, either.
And now the studio’s very existence was at issue. Clearly, Rafe was going to push for some decisions if he showed up tonight, which was beginning to look doubtful. Trouble was, I didn’t see a solution that we could agree on. I wanted to build Graysin Motion into one of the country’s most respected ballroom-dance training centers and that took time. I was willing to live on the bare minimum while we grew the business. Rafe, for whatever reason- expensive new girlfriend? Bad investments?-wasn’t.
I sipped my mineral water and downed a handful of vitamins. How had things disintegrated so quickly? A few short months ago we’d had similar goals for our relationship and our business; now… well, I’d rather shave off my hair than turn Graysin Motion into a kiddie recital mill. If Rafe insisted on taking more money out of the business, I’d have to do something drastic. I cleared my place and tried to decide what “drastic” would be. There was really only one answer and I shied away from it: borrow money from Uncle Nico to buy Rafe’s share of the business.
The banks weren’t lending to small businesses-I’d already approached eight of them-and my parents, divorced, weren’t in a position to invest in a ballroom dance studio. My brother and sister had less money than I did, and my lottery picks never seemed to win. Uncle Nico, my mom’s brother and an entrepreneur with his fingers in many pies (not all of them strictly legal, I suspected) would happily lend me the money. The problem was, what would he expect in return? He’d loaned me a hundred bucks in high school to buy the bicycle I needed to get to dance lessons, and told me I could just do him a favor someday in return. The favor turned out to be going to the prom with the son of one of his business associates. I was a senior and the kid was a pimply sophomore who laughed in little snorts, tipped a bottle of Southern Comfort into the punch bowl, and tried to feel me up during the slow dances. Gag me.
I was trying to decide whether to call Uncle Nico now, so I could have a solid offer for Rafe, or wait until after I’d heard what Rafe had to say, when a thump overhead brought my gaze to the ceiling. Someone was in the studio. My watch read 8:45. The last class had let out at eight-Maurice taught it-and those students were long gone. A car backfired out front and then another noise, like something heavy landing on the floor, thudded through the centuries-old boards. What the-?
I ran to the stairs and pounded up them in my bare feet, impulse taking over once again. Pushing open the door that led into the upstairs hall, I expected lights, but it was almost totally dark. Slivers of moonlight, stippled by passing clouds, provided faint illumination. The studio that was like an extension of my home, a cocoon that gave me comfort, suddenly seemed eerie and alien. I hesitated before stepping into the hall. I held my breath and listened. Nothing. I took a deep breath. This was silly. I didn’t need to slink around my own studio. I slid my hand along the wall to the light switch and flicked it. The sconces in the hall lit up, casting a warm glow on the wooden floors. The hall was empty.
