ise for New York Times Bestselling Author
Heather Graham
“Graham shines in this frightening tale. Paranormal elements add zing to her trademark chilling suspense and steamy romance, keeping the pages flying.”
—Romantic Times on Haunted
“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead
“An incredible storyteller!”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“Demonstrating the skills that have made her one of today’s best storytellers, Ms. Graham delivers one of this year’s best books thus far.”
—Romantic Times on Hurricane Bay
“A suspenseful, sexy thriller…Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay
“A roller-coaster ride…fast-paced, thrilling…Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end. Captivating.”
—Literary Times on Hurricane Bay
“The talented Ms. Graham once again thrills us. She delivers excitement [and] romance…that keep the pages flipping quickly from beginning to end.”
—Romantic Times on Night of the Blackbird
“With the name Heather Graham on the cover, you are guaranteed a good read!”
—Literary Times
HEATHER GRAHAM
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
For Ana and John,
with congratulations on their tremendous successes, and best of luck, always, in the future!
For Shirley Johnson,
with the deepest thanks for all your instruction, your smile—and the laughter!
For Vickie Regan,
eternally gorgeous, and of course our true reigning diva, Honey Bunch.
And for Victor,
who always does me so much better than me! But teaches so much and, with his work, gives to so many.
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
There was always something to see on South Beach.
Always.
Glittering, balmy, radiant by virtue of the sun by day and neon by night. The rich and beautiful came and played, and everyone else came and watched. The beach sparkled, offering the most spectacular eye candy, gossip, scandal, traffic jams and more. Nearly bare bodies that were beautiful. Nearly bare bodies that were not so beautiful.
Models, rockers, skaters, bikers, would-be-surfers-were-there-only-some-surf, the MTV crowd, the very old, the very young.
But tonight there was even more.
One of the largest and most prestigious ballroom dance competitions in the world was taking place at one of the best-known hotels ever to grace the strip of sand called Miami Beach.
And with it came Lara Trudeau.
She spun, she twirled, she floated on air, a blur of crystal color and grace.
She was, quite simply, beauty in motion.
Lara demonstrated a grace and perfection of movement that few could even begin to emulate. She had it all, a flair to pin down the unique character of every dance, a face that came alive to the music, a smile that never failed. Judges were known to have said that it was difficult to look down and judge her footwork, much less notice the other couples on the floor, because her smile and her face were so engaging they almost forgot their duties. They had been known to admit that they hadn’t marked other couples as accurately as they might have; Lara was simply so beautiful and spectacular and point-blank good that it was hard to draw their eyes away from her.
Tonight was no exception.
Indeed, tonight Lara was more incredible than ever, more seductive, alluring, and glorious. To watch her was to feel that the senses were teased, stroked, awakened, caressed, excited and eased.
She was alone on the floor, or rather, alone with her partner, Jim Burke. During the cabaret routines, each of the couples in the finals took the floor alone, so there she was, her body a lithe example of feminine perfection in her formfitting ball gown of a thousand colors. Jim, as talented as he was, had become nothing more than an accessory.
Those who loved her watched in awe, while those who despised her watched with envy.
Shannon Mackay, current manager of Moonlight Sonata, the independent studio where Lara had long ago begun her career and continued to coach, watched with mixed feelings of wry amusement, not at all sure herself whether she loved Lara or despised her. But there was no denying her talent. Even among the spectacular performances by the best and most accomplished artists in the world community of professional dance, Lara stood out.
“She is simply incredible,” Shannon said aloud.
At her side, Ben Trudeau, Lara’s ex, snorted. “Oh, yeah. Just incredible.”
Jane Ulrich, who had made it to the semifinals but been edged out at the end, as usual, by Lara, turned to Ben with a brilliant smile.
“Oh, Ben. You can’t still be bitter. She’s so good, it’s as if she’s not really of this earth.”
Shannon smiled at Jane’s compliment. Jane was stunning that night herself; her figure lean and trim, and her waltz gown, a deep crimson, set off her dark coloring in a blaze of glittering fire.
“I’d rather dance with you,” Jane’s partner, Sam Railey, said softly, giving her a squeeze. “You, my love, actually dance with someone. Lara uses her partner like a prop.”
“But she is brilliant, just brilliant,” Gordon Henson, owner of the studio, said. He was the one who had first taught Lara, and his pride was justified.
“Let’s face it—she’s a mean, ambitious bitch who’d walk over a friend’s dead body to get where she wanted to go,” said Justin Garcia, one of the studio’s upcoming salsa specialists.
Next to him, Rhianna Markham, another contender, laughed delightedly. “C’mon, Justin, say what you really feel.”
Shannon nudged Rhianna and said softly, “Careful. We’re surrounded by our students.” And they were, since the hotel was just north of the South Beach area