Nick’s stayed open late on Friday nights. He could hear laughter and conversation from the patio. Men and women, some together, some looking to be together, seeking what could be real, what could be permanent, and others hoping just to get lucky, to get laid. Not that Nick’s was really much of a pickup joint. It was usually too full of regulars, married and co-habiting couples, and friends. Sometimes the old jukebox played, and sometimes, on weekends, Nick brought in a band.
Tonight he would be keeping it down. Ashley was home with her new baby. She and Jake had always intended on moving on and buying their own home, but Jake had his boat here, and Ashley’s place was a separate apartment, anyway. Plus they had both been too involved with each other and their work to do any house hunting. Nick’s reflected that kind of commitment. Not like the places on the beach. Not like Suede….
Searched up and down by the narcotics squads, who had found nothing. So it was hot, a hot club, a hot pickup place. It was also an establishment that followed the law, crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s.
But two women had been found nearby, dead. A socialite and a hooker. Illegal substances…not like prescription drugs.
He gave up, dressed and went over to the patio at Nick’s. Lots of cops tonight. The old jukebox was playing softly. Dixon was there, eating a cheeseburger.
Inside at the bar, the television was on, though the music from the jukebox drowned out the sound. Quinn ordered a beer, staring at the screen. He froze, his drink halfway to his lips.
There, on the screen, was a picture of Manuel Taylor, and beneath it ran the words, “Caught in the crossfire?”
He rose, walked to the television, turned up the sound.
“Hey!” someone complained.
He ignored the man, turning to stare icily at the protester, and the guy turned away.
The newscaster came back on. “Manuel Taylor was pronounced dead on arrival at Jackson Memorial from a single bullet wound to the head. It’s believed that he was an accidental casualty of a gang war currently under way. In other breaking news…”
On Saturdays the studio itself opened for business earlier than on weekdays mornings. Despite the charter that night, plans were no different this Saturday.
Shannon dropped Marnie off, told Ella that she was just hopping over to the hospital, then went to visit Jane, who was both delighted and angry—she was being released the following day with a slew of instructions about what she could and couldn’t do until she was healed, which was great, of course, but not in time for her to go out on the boat. “It’s not fair,” she complained.
“It’s not, and I’m sorry. I’d change things if I could,” Shannon told her. Jane was restless; she’d been in bed too long. She’d heard all about Marnie’s progress, and she was both excited and worried, afraid that the younger girl might end up stealing some of her students.
“We have too many students. None of us can handle so many,” Shannon said soothingly. “Besides, pretty soon, you’ll be too busy winning competitions everywhere to do much teaching.”
“I can’t even dance again for weeks,” Jane moaned.
Unable to make her friend feel any better, Shannon told her that she would pick her up the following day and get her settled back at home. When Jane told her that she already had a ride arranged, Shannon didn’t push the point. She assumed it was going to be Doug O’Casey.
“Watch out for my students tonight, huh?” Jane asked her.
“You bet. I’ll keep old Mr. Clinton from flirting.”
Jane shot her a dry glance, and Shannon laughed. “Jane, just get better. It’s all going to be fine. Just get back on your feet.”
Shannon had more paperwork than classwork during the day, since it was time to arrange the group schedule for the following month, and she wanted to read all the notes in the suggestion box and find out what dances the students wanted on the roster.
Gordon wasn’t in—he was heading straight down in the afternoon to check out their charter boat and make sure the caterers were ready, that the trio was going to have enough room to set up, and that the dance floor was all it should be.
By three o’clock, the studio had emptied of students, with everyone anxious to get out and get ready, so they could make it to the marina by seven.
Ben was strangely helpful, though, anxious to hang around and help Shannon close up. Marnie was there, as well, and was the most helpful when it came to clearing up the bits of Saturday doughnuts and croissants left around the room, making sure they wouldn’t get bugs over the weekend.
As she locked up, Shannon realized that she was listening for the grating sound, but she didn’t hear it.
There wasn’t that much for her to do at home, since she had decided to adhere to the casual side of the dress code, wearing a pair of studded jeans and a halter top. Despite Marnie’s slimness, Shannon found a cocktail gown that fitted the girl perfectly. She also finally got Marnie to quit thanking her, reminding her that the studio needed her.
“But don’t you know how neat that is?” Marnie asked. “I’ve never actually been needed by anyone before.”
They made it to the marina by six. Gordon was already on board and as happy as a clam. He explained the arrangement of tables in the salon area, and introduced Shannon to the caterer and crew. Buffet tables lined the sides of the main salon, surrounding the dance floor. The trio would play in the rear, so they could also be heard on the open deck in back.
Shannon was somewhat surprised that Quinn wasn’t around, but Gordon told her that he’d had a few things to do but would be there by seven.
The cruise seemed to have been perfectly planned, and Quinn had definitely come through. The boat was great. Perfect for the fifty or so they would have aboard.
Long before seven, their group started arriving.
The staff of Moonlight Sonata lined the boarding plank from the dock to the boat, greeting their friends and students.
“Leave it to old Mr. Clinton to arrive first,” Sam said.
“You know,” Shannon teased, “his first name is actually John—not Old Mister.”
“Well, I don’t call him old Mr. Clinton to his face,” Sam protested.
“Oh, my God! He’s brought old Mrs. Clinton,” Rhianna whispered, watching the older gentleman escort a spry little white-haired lady toward them.
“His wife died years ago,” Gordon commented.
“He’s found a lady friend, apparently,” Ben said.
“I know all about it,” Ella whispered. “He lives at a retirement home, you know. And he says that it’s great—women outnumber men by two to one, and when you’re a man who can dance, you have the pick of the litter at every occasion.”
Mr. Clinton introduced his date, a retiree named Lena Mangetti. She seemed charming, and was delighted to be out on the cruise. They headed aboard, and others followed, including the group from their sister studio in Broward. The Longs came with the Beckhams, another couple that attended classes together, and Katarina and David arrived with Gabe, saying that they’d all shared a cab from the beach, since they intended to have more than a few drinks. Christie, who was both a student and a judge, also arrived—with her dog, as usual. She went nowhere without it. And whether the students were canine lovers or not, they all made a fuss over the animal.
It wasn’t until the boat was almost ready to go out that Quinn arrived, his brother in tow.
“You almost didn’t make it,” Shannon said lightly. “Late for what is actually your own party.”
He didn’t so much as crack a smile, but said, “Well, I’m here now.”
Doug gave Quinn a dry gaze and turned to Shannon, shaking his head. “We’re both here now. Guess he didn’t notice me with him.” He was trying to be polite, when Quinn was acting liking a jerk.
Quinn ignored Doug and walked by. Shannon thought, Oh, yeah, he’s madly in love. Can’t live without me.
She glanced at Doug.
“Don’t say anything yet,” Doug told her, “but
…that waiter was killed. He was caught in some kind of gang war, but Quinn is seeing something else.”
“What?” she said incredulously. “Waiter—you mean Manuel Taylor?”
“Don’t look so panicky,” Doug told her quickly. “He was shot—no overdose of anything. It’s got nothing to do with us. It’s all right.”
It had to be. She had too much to do.
She was shocked, but she couldn’t afford to worry about Quinn’s state of mind. There was too much going on. As they set sail, there were questions from all quarters. Cocktails were already being served as the boat moved out, but the caterers wanted to know how she wanted the food brought out. Cheese puffs and shrimp balls first? And the trio wanted to know when to play, when to give it a break. She noticed that the Broward and Miami-Dade groups seemed to have chosen opposite sides of the boat, and she wanted to tell the trio that they needed to sing the number from the musical Oklahoma, about how “the cowboys and the farmers must be friends,” or whatever it was they said exactly. She accepted a glass of champagne herself and went over to sit with Mary and Judd Bentley, who owned the Broward studio.
“Hi, Shannon,” Trudy Summers, one of their longtime students said. “Glad you’re here. Mary was just talking about how hard it was to dance with her husband.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be,” Judd said, perching atop a table and setting an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “It’s just that she’s a teacher, and she wants to lead all the time, even when we’re dancing together.”
“Especially when we’re dancing together,” Mary said, laughing. “Seriously, I do not try to lead.”
“You two will be dancing together tonight—it’s a fun evening,” Trudy said.
“Yeah,” Judd teased. “It will be a lot of fun. We’ll dance out on the deck. We’ll do one of those lifts she likes so much.”
“Right,” Mary said. “He plans on lifting me right overboard, I’m pretty sure.”
“Heck, you can swim,” Judd said.
“Not a good idea, there’s a propeller or something back there,” Shannon said lightly. “Trudy, don’t forget to mix and mingle. We’re all South Florida, you know.”
“No problem. Introduce me to some of your guys. Our studio is heavily weighted on the female side. Hey, that guy is really cute—and that one, too.” She pointed to Doug and Quinn. “Jane’s student. I’ve seen the younger guy before, but not the other one. Hey, they kind of look alike.”
“Brothers,” she told Trudy, then couldn’t help teasing, “I’ll introduce you to Mr. Clinton, if you haven’t met him yet. He says that women always outnumber men, two to one,” she said with a laugh, and moved on.
She didn’t actually sit to eat with anyone, moving from table to table as others helped themselves to the buffet. Dancing went on along with the dinner, but picked up in earnest once the tables were cleared and it began to grow late. They were due to return by midnight.
Gordon and Judd introduced some of their people, who then did one-and-a-half-minute bits of the routines they were going to do at the Gala.
She was startled when Gordon announced that she and Quinn were going to do their waltz, and she was sure Quinn was equally startled, but he rose to the occasion.
She was glad to slip into his arms, feeling that electricity he could so quickly create. But she was troubled by his eyes.
“Are you all right with this?” she asked him.
“With this? Yes,” he said simply, and when the music came on, he proved it. The waltz was definitely the man’s dance. Dancers, especially beginners, were supportive of one another, but she was surprised by the applause that followed his movements, and the oohs and aahs when they went into their final turn, and he spun and lifted her into the “pooper-scooper.”
He smiled; he was charming. When people rushed up, saying they couldn’t believe he was a beginner, he said that they should see his fox-trot. He accepted Doug’s warm hug and sincere congratulations, but he wasn’t really paying attention, not even to his brother. He was watching Gordon, she thought.
She didn’t get a chance to stay with him, though, because Judd announced that she and Ben were going to do a bolero. Another surprise.
Ben asked her, “Do you mind?”
“No, let’s do it,” she told him.
They did, and she had to admit that, as partners, they were good together. Better than good. They excelled.
“Will you really enter as a pro with me at the Gator Gala?” he asked her, hugging her in a brotherly fashion as their number ended and applause sounded.
She squeezed his hand. Something about Ben had changed since Lara’s death. She took the microphone herself to announce, “Thank you. Thanks so very much. And here’s some news. Ben and I will be entering the professional division at our first ever Gator Gala!”
Ben gave her a look of pure gratitude, but she sidestepped him, anxious to find Quinn. Gordon announced that Judd and Mary would be dancing, followed by more dancing.
Shannon moved toward the aft deck. A few of the students had milled outside, but having heard the announcement, they were now returning to the main salon. She wandered out as they moved in, wondering where Quinn could have gotten to.
She paused, feeling the breeze. The night was beautiful.
The last dance was starting. She hugged her arms around herself and stared at the wake, the foam spewing out from the propeller at the back of the boat. Standing still and silent, she heard the rush of the water and the hum of the engine.
Then, slowly, she became aware of the voices.
Whispers, hushed.
She turned, not sure where the sound was coming from and unable to make out the words.
“…has to stop.”
“There is no visible connection!”
“She was too close. They’ll see the connection eventually.”
“Shannon!” someone called.
She turned back to the door to the salon. Judd was calling to her. Silently she damned him.
Gritting her teeth, she turned to stare out to the rear again, noting the way the water flowed violently from beneath the boat.
She felt a rush of wind and started to turn just as the boat did, starting to head back to the marina.
There was something…someone…
But what, she didn’t know.
Suddenly she was flying off the boat, falling toward the water, where it churned violently beneath the giant propeller.
CHAPTER 22
“She fell! She was there a second ago, and then…!” Mr. Clinton called out in horror.
Quinn had been looking for Shannon. He’d wanted to tell her, before they got off the boat, that, to the best of his knowledge, no one but Gordon had known about the lunch meeting he had staged with Manuel Taylor. Maybe the man really had been caught in the crossfire of some gang war, but just in case, Quinn didn’t want Shannon alone with Gordon.
Threading his way through a friendly group of Broward students, he had searched the crowd for her but he hadn’t been able to find her. Then Clinton had yelled.
The she in “She fell!” had to be Shannon.
Panic gripped his heart with fingers of sharp ice.
He pushed past people, heedless of who they were. He practically knocked old Mr. Clinton right out of the way. At first it seemed no one was near the area from which Shannon had disappeared, but by the time he got there, a crowd had already formed.
Tearing across the deck, he plunged into the water.
Someone turned on floodlights; the motor was killed. As he hit the water, chilled by night and depth, he feared to open his eyes not just to the sting of salt but because he was afraid to see a blur of red, if she’d been caught in the propeller.
He scissored himself to the surface, shouting her name.
“Shannon!”
“Here!” she called.
Though the motor had been cut, the boat was now a good distance from them, due to sheer momentum. He could hear the crew lowering lifeboats, so th
at people could come after them.
“Where?”
“Here!” The word ended with a gurgle. He shot toward the sound of her voice.
“What the hell are you doing?” He swam toward her strongly, then realized that she was treading water with no difficulty, actually pushing away from him when he came close.
His heart was still pounding. Her hair was slicked back from her face, and in the expanse of the night sea, she looked frail and delicate—and defensive.
But all in one piece. She had missed the blades of the propeller.
He fought the frantic urge to reach out for her despite her apparent competence.
“What am I doing?” she repeated incredulously. “I’m just out for a midnight swim.”
He reached her in the water. “You fell overboard?”
“I think I was pushed.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t see anyone?”
“No.”
“How do you know you were pushed? Could you have been leaning over? We took a bit of a sharp turn—is that when you fell?”
“No. That’s when I was pushed.”
The seas that night were two to four feet, causing small swells around them. Since she seemed to be doing fine on her own, Quinn made no attempt to reach out for her.
“Mr. Clinton saw you go over, but there was no one else there.”
She glared at him but didn’t respond, instead swimming toward the lifeboat that was now coming their way.
Gordon was aboard with two of the crew members, Javier Gonzalez and Randy Flores. Quinn knew them both, since Randy was a permanent employee and Javier often worked the cruises. They were ready to help them both aboard. It wasn’t cold, but definitely cool, and Shannon shivered as she was helped up. There were blankets on board, and one was quickly wrapped around her. “Are you all right?” Gordon asked Shannon, seeming genuinely anxious about her.