Hot Moves. Kristin Hardy
bar, ‘If you lived here, you’d be home now.’ Hell, I’d live there.”
“You’d live anywhere that was close to your beer.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea. I could read it bedtime stories before I went to sleep.”
“There’s something twisted about you,” Michael muttered.
Ahead of them, the broad swath of the Willamette River bisected the city on its way to join with the Columbia. The lights of the Hawthorne Bridge glimmered in the fading light. On the broad sweep of the waterfront park that paralleled the riverbank, a crowd of people were gathered. Music floated across on the night air.
“Oh, gee, let me guess,” Michael said, “another festival.”
“The joys of culture. Maybe we’ll be lucky and find out it’s a beer festival.” Brady hooked his hands in his back pockets.
“You really are an optimist.”
“They’ll have food, anyway. I’m starved.”
“You just ate dinner two hours ago.”
“Exactly. Time enough to get hungry again.”
It wasn’t about eating, though, he saw as they crossed the street to skirt the edge of the park. It was about the sound, the motion.
It was about the dance.
Moonlight and Tango read a banner. Curious, Brady wandered closer.
“Thinking about auditioning for ‘Dancing with the Stars’?” Michael asked.
Brady grinned. “Never know. I might need a backup if the theater doesn’t work out.”
Piano and strings, the slow, insistent thud of percussion. The exotic rhythms of the music whispered of passion, of dim, intimate cafés where couples embraced in the dance. Paper lanterns dangled from the trees. Ahead, people clustered around a spot in the open, watching. And beyond them, he glimpsed motion, color—a couple, dancing.
Something about the music intrigued him. Something about it had him wanting to see more.
“We don’t have all night,” Michael reminded him.
“Relax, will you? You can head out, I’ve got my truck. I want to see this.” He ignored Michael’s grumbling and moved closer. And when he got near enough to look past them, he saw.
She wore red, a narrow dress slit all the way up the thigh on one side to reveal a long, sleek leg jackknifed up to the hip of her partner. A matching red blossom was tucked into the dark hair gathered at the nape of her neck; her back, her arms were naked.
Brady swore that his heart stopped, or maybe it was just the music. When she moved again, with an almost catlike grace, he gulped oxygen out of self-preservation with the same rush of adrenaline he felt when shooting the rapids in his kayak.
He stared at her as the pair moved through their intricately choreographed…seduction. It wasn’t one of those artsy dances with all the feathers and floaty dresses. Dark and driven, it was a dance of lust, pure and simple. The woman prowled around her partner—her lucky, lucky partner—with a sort of predatory sexuality, every line of her body, every movement eloquent of heat and demand, every glance one of temptation.
Brady didn’t know how but he wanted—no needed—to be near her, touching her, tasting her, discovering the scent of that smooth neck, the taste of that full mouth that looked like some kind of ripe, exotic fruit. He stared at her face, her eyes as the pair whirled past. Wide and lovely, they drew him in, mesmerized him. Then she closed them as she abandoned herself to the dance.
The dancers spun, their steps now slow, now quick, circling around one another. They intertwined their legs in a stylized sequence that was the next best thing to foreplay. Unable to look away, Brady stared, his body tight with need. She was pressed to her partner, a teasing half smile on her face as they stepped ever closer to the edge of the crowd. Her eyes flicked open and she stared directly into Brady’s.
And this time, his heart really did stop.
IT WAS WHEN SHE DANCED the tango that Thea felt truly free. She’d draw the silk of one of her dresses over her skin and it would begin, the throb of arousal, the choreography of need. And when the dance began, nothing else mattered. She existed only for the rhythm, for the steps, her body flowing into the movements that became merely extensions of the music.
If the waltz was about romance, tango was about passion, the dance of lovers. For so long she’d existed without any touch but a quick hug from friends and family—and the contact of the dance. Torso to torso, thigh to thigh, the tango somehow refilled the dry well of her soul, renewing her week after week, allowing her to go on.
The night was warm, the stars just beginning to emerge. The seduction of the music eddied through her system. Eyes closed, she concentrated only on the steps and lead of her partner, the light touch of arm, the firm press of hands. She let the dance take control and in doing so be came something more than she was, a woman who could trust without fear, feel without consequences.
She felt the stir of longing. Not for her partner, Paul—a myopic shoe salesman with a wife and three kids—but for the touch of a man, the feel of a body against hers for the sake of her, not for the sake of a dance.
Paul pulled her to a stop near the crowd. Thea flicked her leg around his in a gancho, snapping her head to the side to stare at the people.
And heat punched through her. She swayed, lips parting in shock. And she stared, stunned, even when the dance whirled her away.
He stood at the fringe, part of the crowd, but separate. His gaze fixed on hers with a naked wanting that snatched the breath from her lungs. In the dim light, she couldn’t see the color of his eyes. It didn’t matter: blue or brown, gray or green, she could see, feel, sense the desire. He stood a distance away but she could have been in his arms. Suddenly all the unfocused need she felt, all the passion she’d always invested in the dance, coalesced. Paul’s touch became the feel of this unknown stranger.
Paul spun her back into the center of the circle. She obeyed his lead, swiveling left and right before him teasingly, though it was the stranger she moved for. She and Paul stalked each other in the ritualized pursuit of the dance but it was the stranger she wanted. It was the stranger whose touch she craved.
And he never stopped watching her. In the final throes of the routine, she was conscious, always conscious of his gaze and of the arousal that flared within her.
She hardly noticed the end of the song, only that she and Paul were bowing to the crowd amid the surge of applause.
Thea knew what she was to do next. This was a milonga designed to recruit more tango enthusiasts for the Portland Tango Club. The showcase was to get them excited about the possibilities; the subsequent impromptu lessons for the onlookers were meant to show them that they could do it, too.
The stranger didn’t look like the type who’d be interested in tango. Tall and rangy in jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked more like a guy who spent his time outdoors, hiking, mountain biking, skiing.
Anyway, she was being ridiculous. It was a glance across a dance floor, nothing more. It was the kind of thing people—guys—did all the time, she reminded herself. He probably hadn’t even thought twice about it. The only reason it spoke to her was that she didn’t have anything even remotely resembling a personal life.
Pathetic, she thought, glancing toward the river. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was looking to get caught up with a guy. She was only here for a short job. The strange interlude was best forgotten. She swallowed and turned to where he’d been standing.
Only to find him directly behind her.
“Nice dance.”
His eyes were green, she saw in the fading light, deepset, a little sleepy-eyed. His wasn’t a conventionally handsome face. The features were too strong: an aggressive nose, sharp cheekbones pushing out against