Dying for a Dance by Cindy Sample Page B

glass in hand.
    Or better yet, a glass in each hand.
    “Good evening, Laurel,” Boris said, his Russian accent highly pronounced.
    “Um, hi, Boris. Nice to see you.”
    “Your dance...” His bushy black brows drew together. “She is progressing smoothly?”
    That depended on your definition of smooth. If his definition meant galloping across the dance floor without a clue, well then, yes, she was progressing smoothly.
    Bobby's eyes locked with mine as he visually pleaded for support.
    “The dancing is going great. Bobby is a wonderful teacher and very patient with me. I just need to practice more often.”
    “Da, I think maybe much practice would be good for you.” He wrapped a muscular right arm around my waist. “Come. I have idea.”
    He half urged and half shoved me across the dance floor. As we drew closer to his dark office, his grip tightened, resembling the embrace of a boa constrictor. When he stopped in the doorway to turn on the light, I wondered if I should make a break for it.
    Boris waved a meaty hand at me and pointed to a chair in front of his desk
    “Please. Now. Before is too late.”
    I reluctantly slid into the leather chair, my agile brain thinking way ahead of my clumsy feet.
    Too late for what? Or for whom?
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    SIXTEEN
    * * * *
    I perched on the edge of the chair, prepared to make a quick exit if the hulking bear of a dancer made any sudden moves.
    The studio owner leaned back in his oversized chair with his bear-paw-sized hands crossed over his abdomen. Based on the photos plastered on his walls, he had let his formerly hard-as-a-rock six-pack of nicely muscled abs turn into a six-pack of slushies.
    “Your friend, Liz, she is not so happy with your progress. She is worried that...” He paused as he tried to find the right expression.
    I jumped in feet first. “Liz is worried about what?”
    “She say you be da bomb.”
    I beamed at my best friend's compliment. “She thinks I'm the bomb?”
    He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No, I say it wrong. She worry you make dance bomb.” He grinned and banged his hand on the desk. “Yes, that is what she say.”
    My confidence burst faster than an overinflated balloon. Admittedly Liz is an anal obsessive perfectionist, but it was her wedding, after all. I didn't need to be included in her overly long list of concerns.
    “So I come up with idea.” He smiled widely and pointed at his broad chest. “I, Boris will teach you. Is good, no?”
    Is good? No, no, no. Is not good. If I could barely keep up with the slender and highly patient Bobby, how on earth could I follow this dancing giant?
    I tried to think of a polite way to turn down his offer.
    “Gee, Boris, I would hate for you to waste your valuable time teaching me to dance. It could take hours and hours to train me.”
    “It would please me so much to dance with you. Liz, she tell me you are single woman.” He winked. “I too am single. Very eligible bachelor.”
    Be still my heart. Which thudded at the rate of a super fast cha cha. Although the pounding was due to anxiety, not a romantic interest in the “very eligible bachelor” sitting across from me.
    “That's so sweet of you,” I floundered, trying to direct the conversation away from our mutual singleness and his proposition to tutor me.
    “Running this studio must keep you very busy, especially now that Dimitri is gone,” I said.
    At the mention of the dancer's name, Boris's face darkened like a thundercloud about to burst over the Sierras. He sneered and smacked the top of the scratched oak desk with his palm. “That Bolshevik SOB.”
    I jumped. My comment must have touched a nerve. “There's a rumor that Dimitri wanted to open his own studio and some of the teachers and their students were going with him. Is that true?”
    Boris glowered at me. “Who tell you this? Bobby?”
    I shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do was get my teacher in trouble. “No, I'm not sure who I