Dead on the Dance Floor

  But he just held her for a moment, his breath hot over the top of her head, his chin brushing the softness of her hair. For a moment, he felt her heart beat. Felt the ragged rise and fall of her breath. Then he pulled away, lifted her chin and touched her lips with his own.

  Her lips were wicked, too. Full, sensual. Seducing rather than giving, drawing him into a hot wet duel of tongues that took flight in an instant explosion of teased hunger. Her very kiss evoked visions beyond, hinted of deeper pleasure. How could a mouth that was so taut at times melt into the pure exotic?

  They were touching.

  The clothing between them was suddenly unbearable.

  He drew away, long enough to try the buttons on the shirt, then rip half of them off with total impatience.

  Hell. It was his shirt.

  Shirt gone.

  He couldn’t shed his cutoffs fast enough.

  Their clothing lay on the floor. Her eyes touched his as she slipped back into his arms.

  Immense as a field of emeralds, green fire, alive, not hiding, and yet…

  That vulnerability. The look that told him, despite her words, the feel of her flesh, that those things were there. Something deeper. A need for honesty, a giving that demanded some kind of honor in the midst of excess and desperation and pure instinctive drive and need.

  Then they were really touching. Flesh on flesh. Fire and softness, supple vibrancy and heat. Tongues locked again in some desperate dance. His hands all over her. Breasts full and rounded, waist narrow, hips nicely flaring into a roundness of inspiration. He moved back, not breathing, he was so eager for her mouth. He thanked God that the cabin was small; one step, and he could simply fall against the bed, bringing her down.

  Good Lord, but she was erotic, and he was drowning in her. Waves lapped against the boat, rocking them into each other in what began a carnal rhythm. He felt her fingers raking his shoulders, back, chest.

  Now he was being touched. Really, really touched.

  The length of her rubbed against him, evoking a groan that ground roughly from his lips. She was beneath him, and he was seeking to know everything about her. He was burning in all the fires of both heaven and hell, and glorying in the pain. He tasted the curve of her throat, devoured the fullness of her breasts, reveled in the womanliness of her midriff and abdomen, let passion flow as he brought his attentions ever lower, turned them ever more intimate. Her movements were somehow beyond erotic and passionate. He was half-dying in pure sensuality, and still there seemed to be grace and beauty in every twist and cry. Her fingers dug into his flesh, evoking greater arousal. The taste of her seemed to cause novas to explode in his head. He rose over her, straddled her, met her eyes again, emerald burning in the night. Lips parted, damp, breath coming so quickly, a look of astonished pleasure, almost awe, something that touched manhood, then went beyond ego, the body, and touched his soul. Her arms wrapped around him. Her eyes closed.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  His lips found hers again. Locked in a taste of lava and honey, all that had come before along with all that would come next. His tongue teased, entered, thrust, drove and swept.

  His body locked with hers, as well, his sex teasing, entering, thrusting, driving in, deep, deeper. Her legs wound around his hips. The waves lapped at the sides of the boat. The master bunk rocked and within her, he felt as if a tidal wave were sweeping over them, as if the ragged violence of a storm at sea were surging through him, into her, allowing them to touch as no one else ever had.

  No one moved quite like a dancer, he discovered.

  No one else had such flexibility.

  No one could create such a raw sense of instinctive desire and need, nor fulfill it with such shattering finesse.

  Their bodies were both sheened in a fine, sweet film of sweat. Muscles flexed, tautened, twisted. Breathing came in a rasp of sound as high as the wind, and sounds, ancient, carnal, came keening from them both. He was aware of her face, her beautiful face, eyes half-closed, lashes sweeping her cheeks. He was aware of the length of her, of himself, and then, of that intimate part of himself, as if everything around him was a wrap of hot, liquid silk, while his true self existed in only one spot, rigid as steel, the only true part of his being.

  And then that exploding wave of pleasure, as if the ocean itself had erupted, as if the boat were rocking in a perfect storm, pitching, catapulting, shaking over and over again, and finally, after aeons, drifting into calmer waters, edging into the sand, catching there.

  He lay draped over her, pulling her into his arms. His words caressed her forehead as he said, “Miss Mackay, I can assure you, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone quite so right in my life.”

  She twisted slightly, eyes rising to his with that slight glint of vulnerability in them again, a hesitancy now, along with something so soft, trusting and awed that it awoke a new wave of sensation in him. Strange, but that simple look made him want to believe in his own invulnerability and strength.

  She didn’t speak, only touched his cheek, as if she were seeking words. “You really are quite awesome yourself,” she whispered. “And honestly, I’m not drunk.”

  He smiled. “I know.”

  She nuzzled against him. “It’s been so long…. I didn’t even remember.”

  “It hasn’t been that long for me, and there’s nothing like you in my memory,” he assured her.

  She rolled slightly, looking at him a bit skeptically. “Really? Or is that something you say to everyone? I’m usually pretty good at spotting lines. I get to hear quite a lot of them, hanging around at Suede.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not a line. But…there is a bit of a problem.”

  She drew the sheet up around her, as if his simple statement had brought out something defensive in her once again.

  “What?” she murmured.

  “I would definitely call this fraternization.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Can you lose your job?”

  “Technically? Yes.”

  “That’s serious.”

  “Indeed,” she said gravely. She touched his face. Ran her fingers down his chest, then lower. She had the most elegant fingers.

  Elegant…and talented.

  “It’s so serious that, well, just in case there are repercussions…I wouldn’t mind fraternizing again. So I can really enjoy what I might get in trouble for.”

  “My dear Miss Mackay,” he said very somberly. “We can fraternize all night, if that’s what you want.”

  Her lips curved, her lashes fell, then rose. “That’s what I want,” she said very softly.

  “The way you say it, there’s absolutely nothing else I can do but my very best to fulfill your every desire,” he assured her.

  And when he kissed her again, he felt the rise of the ocean once more, the lapping of the waves, and the sheer, erotic beauty of the power and passion of a storm at sea.

  When she first heard the knock on the cabin door, Shannon felt panic set in. She felt almost like a little kid. Caught.

  Like Quinn had said, this was definitely fraternization.

  At her side, he bounded out of the bunk, found his shorts and slipped them on. He looked back to note the panic in her eyes.

  “Hey, it’s all right. I do know people who have nothing to do with the studio, and they seldom search the boat when they visit.” With a smile, he left her.

  Shannon listened intently, but the closed door buffered a lot of sound. After finding the shirt she’d been wearing, she slipped into it, did up the remaining buttons, and went to the door, cracking it just a hair.

  “No, I was up most of the night, but knowing what was going on with you, I thought you’d like to hear about it.” There was another man in the cabin. Tall, nice looking, well built. He was wearing dockers, a cotton shirt open at the neck and a casual jacket.

  Definitely not a uniform, but…

  Something about him
, his manner, maybe his air of confidence, of intensity, seemed to scream cop.

  “Of course, and thanks,” Quinn said. “Can I meet you on the patio in a few minutes?”

  “Yeah.”

  The visitor left. Quinn turned back toward the cabin, and she opened the door.

  “Just a friend of mine. I need to meet with him. You all right?” He smiled, pulling her into his arms. “You looked like the cat who ate the canary. Not all that sorry about eating the canary, either, but scared as hell about getting caught.”

  She smiled, but she felt uneasy. For some reason, his unknown visitor bothered her more than if it had been Gordon knocking at the door.

  “I’m fine. Bright light, daytime.”

  “And you’re glad you stayed?” he queried.

  “I told you, I wasn’t drunk.”

  He was tender, cupping her chin, brushing her lips. He was also anxious and in a hurry; she could feel it. Odd. She’d expected him to tell her that since it was Sunday and they’d already been fraternizing…well, she didn’t work on Sundays, so…

  But he didn’t say any such thing.

  “I’m not sure how long I’ll be. Can I call you later?”

  “Sure.”

  “I have to hop in the shower.” He turned toward the tiny head.

  “Your friend is a cop, isn’t he?” she asked.

  He turned slowly, frowning as he looked at her.

  “Yes, he is. How did you know?”

  “You can just tell.”

  “He won’t be happy to hear he’s that obvious.”

  “Tell him to slump some. His posture is too good.”

  “You think that will help?”

  “Um, no. He just looks like a cop.”

  Quinn grinned. “Maybe that is good.”

  He slipped into the head and closed the door. She heard the water running and walked back to the other head, wondering if what she was doing was, boatwise, correct. Would she run out of hot water?

  Apparently not. She was able to shower. When she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, he was already dressed in jeans and a deep blue polo shirt. He was sliding his wallet into his back pocket.

  “I’ll talk to you later, right?” he said. He sounded anxious. Either to get going, or he honestly wanted to see her later.

  He paused before leaving, hands on her shoulders, eyes doing a sweep of her in the towel.

  “You really are beautiful,” he said, and his tone was husky. Deep. A grating that touched a lot of newly aroused instincts inside her.

  He lingered, as if he honestly would have liked to stay. But then he broke away. “You’re all right here alone, right?”

  “Of course. I’ll be heading home in a few minutes.”

  He nodded. “I’ll talk to you later.” He started up the steps, then turned back. “Make yourself at home in the galley, if you want to have coffee before you leave. And hit the lower lock on the cabin door.”

  “Right.” She waved to him, and he went out.

  To find out about something important.

  Without him there, she felt uncomfortable, standing in his cabin in a towel. She dressed quickly and was about to head out when she hesitated.

  It actually felt strangely pleasant to be trusted alone in his personal space. She had been wondering if she should berate herself, feel some strange sense of having given in to something she shouldn’t have. But she couldn’t begin to remember a night that had felt so good. She’d probably never had one before.

  And as for Quinn…

  The more she was with him, the more she wanted to be with him. She liked his grin, his laugh, and he wasn’t at all bad on the eyes. She liked the feel of his hands, and, most of all, she liked his quick sense of humor and the dimple when he smiled, the way that he talked.

  She also rather liked the feel of being in his personal space, trusted to be alone. She hesitated, then decided that since it was Sunday, and she didn’t have to be anywhere, maybe she would make some coffee before she left.

  The pot and coffee were visible on the counter in the galley. Shannon measured some out and reminded herself that there was something going on with him. All he ever did was ask questions, and yet he denied being a cop. It was illegal, of course, to lie and say that you were a cop when you weren’t, but undercover cops had to lie all the time about their jobs.

  But him being an undercover cop didn’t make any sense. Surely, she wasn’t the only one who thought the circumstances of Lara’s death had been suspicious. The police had openly questioned everyone. There had been an autopsy, a case file.

  A case file that was now closed. Why not close it? One of the county’s best forensic physicians had done the autopsy, they had been told. Human remains didn’t lie. Lara’s blood had been saturated with prescription drugs and alcohol. There was no denying it.

  So…he couldn’t be a cop, because the cops had no further interest in the case.

  The coffee perked, and she found herself a cup. It was easy to find a small container of milk in the refrigerator, but a search through the cabinets didn’t produce any sugar or its substitute, blue or pink, or even off-brand yellow.

  “Have some balls, drink it black,” she said aloud, as Gordon often did, especially when he had forgotten to buy sugar or cream for the studio.

  She made a face. She liked what Rhianna called “evil chemical substitution” in her coffee. Maybe in one of the drawers?

  She opened a drawer and found silverware, while another had some kitchen towels. A third drawer held knives and serving pieces. She moved on to the last kitchen drawer.

  She didn’t find sugar substitute.

  She found papers.

  Manila files lay atop a stack of receipts and other bits of paper. She hesitated, brows knit, as she stared into the drawer.

  She should have closed the drawer, not having found what she wanted.

  Except that she just might have found some answers to the mystery of Quinn O’Casey.

  And it would have taken a better man—or woman—than she to turn away from what she saw.

  Reaching into the drawer, she pulled out the folders. One was labeled Lara Trudeau. The other held the name Nell Durken.

  Stunned, she stared at the names for several seconds. Then she set the second folder down to go through Lara’s. There was a police report in the front of the folder. Behind it, numerous statements. An autopsy report. Everything.

  She set the folder down and picked up the other. It was organized in the same fashion, but the faces and names were different. Police report, autopsy, pages of statements…the arrest record of Nell’s husband.

  She heard someone whistling, then footsteps on the pier nearby. She started to shove the folders back into the drawer. They wouldn’t go. There was something else in there. She pulled the drawer all the way out and discovered that a videotape was keeping her from stuffing the folders back in and closing the drawer. The tape was labelled with the name of the competition, Lara’s name—and “Property of Miami-Dade, Homicide Department.”

  She adjusted the tape, then the papers, hurriedly putting everything back. She froze and waited, torn between guilt at prying and fury that the man was such a liar.

  Fury took precedence.

  Along with the fall of her ego, and a geyser of hurt.

  Right. She was beautiful. And fascinating.

  Humiliation held her at a dead standstill. Yes, she’d come here. Yes, she’d come straight to him. But a man who was pretending an interest in her because he was a lying son of a bitch who was investigating her had no right whatsoever to fall so willingly into that kind of intimacy with the person under investigation!

  She hoped he was a cop.

  She wished fervently that she could get his ass fired!

  The sound of the footsteps, and the whistling, went right on by the boat. Whoever was walking by wasn’t Quinn O’Casey.

  He might come back any minute.

  He might not come back for hours.

  She gritt
ed her teeth, longing to go through every single thing on the boat—to trash it, as a matter of fact.

  A ringing sound stopped her. She paused, listening, then realized with a groan that it was her own cell phone, ringing from her purse.

  She quickly dragged it out and surveyed the caller ID.

  Justin.

  She punched in, feeling absurdly guilty over the night before—yes, this had certainly been fraternizing. And now, on top of having done something she should never, ever have done, she had been used. Pathetically.

  Because she basically had no life, other than dance.

  “Yes?”

  She was breathless as she answered the phone.

  “Shannon?” Justin said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You sound funny.”

  “Do I? Sorry. I couldn’t find the phone at first. Lost it down in the jungle of my purse, you know.”

  She heard his laughter on the other end. “That’s a jungle, all right.”

  “Mmm. Right. Funny. So, what’s up?”

  “We were going to go to the beach. Right down the street from your place. We wanted to know if you wanted to come.”

  “We—who?”

  “Just me, Sam, Jane and Rhianna. We’ve called Ella and Ben but haven’t gotten a hold of them yet. Gordon answered the phone half-asleep and said something really nasty to me, like ‘eat shit and die,’ because I woke him on a Sunday. But you’re usually up…so…hey, how about it? Come join your staff for a day of cleansing sun and sand, huh?”

  “Oh, wow, Justin, I don’t know…it’s been a long week.”

  “So you don’t want to see us, uh? I understand.”

  “No, I’m happy to see you. But—”

  “Come on, please? We’ll come by and hound your house until you do.”

  “No!”

  “We will. You’ll have to call the cops, and then the studio will suffer. There will be more horrible publicity, and your teachers will be in jail.”

  “Don’t come to the house! Give me an hour and I’ll join you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “You swear? This isn’t just to blow me off or anything? ’Cause we will come to the house. We’re feeling like a lonely group of kids, you know? In need of our fearless leader so we can have some fun with our lives.”