“I’m not that flexible,” she said dubiously.
In the photo, I had my left ankle on Rafe’s shoulder, right leg extended behind me as he dragged me. “That’s the paso doble,” I said. “Probably not what you had in mind for your wedding. The waltz is much easier. Want to try?”
She shook her head and hurried past.
“We will get clients from this,” Tav said, noting my disappointed expression. “That dress was an inspired choice.”
I smoothed the deep orange skirt of the gown I used to wear for international standard competitions. Cut almost to the waist in back, with crisscross straps, it was eye-catching. I’d worn my hair up, like for a competition, but gone easy on the makeup, skipping the false eyelashes that I wore to compete.
“Orange stands out,” I agreed.
We weren’t as mobbed as some of the bakery or wedding dress vendors, but a steady trickle of people stopped by to take brochures. Several couples actually signed up for lessons, prompted by Tav’s smooth patter. One or two embarrassed couples even gave it a go, using the cutouts on the floor and my encouragement to guide their first tentative steps.
Shortly before lunchtime, a bride who looked close to my age stopped in front of the table, dragging her fiancé to a halt beside her. “Drew, doesn’t this look like fun?”
His expression suggested he’d rather wrestle alligators. “I don’t know, Hailey…”
“C’mon.” The woman laughed. “It can’t be that hard.”
“It’s easy,” I assured him, holding out my hand. “I’ll show you.”
“I’ve never danced,” Drew said, backing away.
“Even someone who has never danced before can learn to waltz. Look.” I turned to Tav with a mischievous twinkle. “Tav will demonstrate.”
He looked taken aback but came around to the front of the table.
“But he’s a dancer,” the groom-to-be objected.
“Not even close,” Tav said. “Football is my game.”
“He’s my business partner,” I said, “not my dance partner. Here, we’ll show you.” I grabbed Tav’s left hand and raised it to the proper position, then laid my other hand across the back of his shoulder, arching my back.
“Did I not mention once that learning to dance in front of a crowd does not appeal to me?” he whispered. He didn’t sound angry, although the look in his eyes promised retribution. His breath against my ear made me shiver.
“Think of it as growing the business.” I smiled up at him and felt his hand tighten against my back. We hadn’t been this close since we agreed to be partners and I’d given him an impromptu lesson in my kitchen. With his nearness creating a fog in my brain, I remembered why I’d kept my distance. Dancing with Tav undermined my determination to keep our relationship strictly business.
Faking a composure I didn’t feel, I talked him through a few steps, for the benefit of the watching couple. He moved gracefully, with the balance of an athlete. That didn’t surprise me greatly, because I knew he had played soccer seriously in college and now played with a league in D.C. a couple of times a week. Too aware of the muscled strength in his chest and thighs where they touched mine, I whispered, “There’s supposed to be more space between us.”
“Where is the fun in that?” His smile was devilish, and his hold tightened.
Resisting the temptation to melt against him, I ended the “lesson.” The engaged couple applauded when I stepped back and dropped into a curtsy.
“See? Easy.” I smiled as they let Tav sign them up for a series of lessons. My stomach growled, and I motioned to Tav that I was going to grab something to eat in the concession area. I’ll bring you something, I mouthed.
Serpentining through the maze of tables, booths, and displays, I made for the concession area and the tantalizing aroma of hamburgers and onion rings. I couldn’t afford to eat either one-Vitaly would kill me if I gained an ounce-but I could bask in the smell without worrying about weight gain. In the row adjacent to the roped-off concession area, with its rickety tables and folding chairs, I spotted a photographer’s booth with a poster-sized photo of a bride and her father sharing a private moment before the ceremony. I stepped closer to examine it, and read the photographer’s sign: SARAH LEWIS PHOTOGRAPHY.
The name seemed familiar… with a start, I realized she must be Marco Ingelido’s niece, the one Maurice had mentioned. Curious, I studied her as she spoke with a potential customer and what looked to be the bride’s parents. I could see a faint resemblance to Ingelido in the sweep of her cheekbone, the aquiline nose, and something about the eyes. Dressed casually in jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, her dark hair in a loose braid, she looked like she’d be more at home photographing wildlife in the Galapagos than persuading a wedding party of twenty to all smile at once.
On impulse, I crossed to her and introduced myself as the bride and family left. “Aren’t you Marco Ingelido’s niece?” I asked. “I was chatting with your uncle just yesterday.”
“Nice to meet you.” She smiled easily; she was attractive in an athletic, outdoorsy way. “You know, I’ve photographed you before.”
“You have? When?”
“I freelance for dance magazines at ballroom competitions. I also do a lot of publicity photos for people in the business, as well as recital photos for dance studios. In fact, I prefer that to this”-she gestured to the bridal fair chaos-“but weddings pay more bills. Let me know if you need photos-you’ve got a new partner, right? I heard your former partner died suddenly. He called me once, wanting to know my rates for doing recital photos. He never got back to me, and I didn’t understand why until I heard about his death. I’m very sorry.”
“Thanks.” I bit the word off, infuriated to think that Rafe had been going ahead with his plans to broaden the studio’s offerings and put on a recital behind my back. I’d wanted to build Graysin Motion’s reputation as a world-class ballroom dance studio; he’d wanted to rake in the bucks with tap for tots and beginning ballet classes, to become a recital mill like Li’l Twinkletoes. If he hadn’t already been dead, I’d’ve killed him.
Sarah gave me a funny look. “Sorry,” I apologized. “My mind drifted. Vitaly and I do need some publicity shots-do you have a card?”
She handed one over. “It seems strange,” she said. “Two prominent ballroom dancers dying so close together, and both murdered, from what I hear.”
I was pleased she’d brought up Corinne so I wouldn’t have to find a way to work her into the conversation. “It’s sad. The deaths aren’t related, but even so. Your uncle mentioned Corinne yesterday. I guess they used to be close?”
“So family rumor has it,” Sarah said, her face closing down a bit. “It was before he married Aunt Marian-at least thirty years ago-so I don’t know much about it. I heard him and my mom going at it once, and Corinne’s name came up, but I didn’t pay much attention. One doesn’t think of older relatives that way, does one?”
My mind flashed to Uncle Nico and conversations I’d heard between my mom and dad about Nico’s womanizing. Ew. One certainly didn’t want to think of one’s relatives that way, especially not the Uncle Nicos. Trying to blot from my mind the image of Uncle Nico with one of his much younger model-type girlfriends, I blurted, “Marco seemed okay with Corinne’s memoir not getting published, now that she’s dead, I mean.”
“I didn’t know she had a book coming out.” Sarah looked no more than mildly interested. “I’d’ve thought he’d be pushing for it if he was in it. He’s always looking for publicity, especially for Take the Lead with Ingelido. He’s become a workaholic in his old age, my mom says.”
Her mom must be Ingelido’s sister. Sarah certainly didn’t sound as if she cared about what Corinne might have had to say. Well, why would she? She was single, if her ringless finger was anything to go by, and even though the uncle-niece thing was a bit icky, they were both consenting adults. It looked to me like Ingelido had a lot more to lose if the affair became public than Sarah Lewis did. “So, you never wanted to be a ballroom dancer yourself?” I asked. “Even with a ballroom dance champion in the family?”