Hot Moves

2

“WHY DO I FEEL LIKE I should have a hall pass?” Thea asked Robyn as they walked down the broad hallway of the Lincoln School. Eighteen years had passed since she’d graduated from sixth grade, but the black-and-white-tiled floor and the glassed-in display cases on the walls brought it all back. All she needed was the beaded metal chain from her I.D. tag to use as her hopscotch marker and she’d be set.

“Just wait,” Robyn said.

“Tell me you’re not going to take me to the principal’s office.”

“Nope. Someplace better.” She stopped before a wooden door with Cafeteria emblazoned on its frosted glass insert.

“Let me guess. You’re taking me out for sloppy joes?”

“If you’re good,” Robyn promised and swung the door open.

It reminded her of her elementary school cafeteria, only homier, friendlier. Butter yellow walls, black-and-white tile and polished chrome, in a room buzzing with conversation and laughter. Straight ahead lay the counter with its row of stools. Waitresses in thirties-style diner uniforms circulated with laden trays. Behind the counter lay not only the window to the kitchen but a full bar with a dizzying array of taps; on the far wall, copper-clad brewing tanks gleamed.

Thea turned around with a broad grin. “This is the coolest place I’ve ever seen.”

Robyn laughed. “I knew you’d love it. Wait until you see the bathrooms. It’s just like you remember from being a kid, only better.”

They threaded their way to a table that overlooked a playground mostly occupied by the staked green rows of a kitchen garden, but still boasting a swing set and slide off to one side, and yes, a hopscotch grid on which a trio of animated girls hotly contested the lead.

“They grow a lot of their own vegetables right here,” Robyn explained, taking the menu the hostess handed her. “About the best salads you’ll get in town, even at the farmers’ market. Although you can also get a sloppy joe.”

Thea shook her head. “It’s brilliant.”

“It’s the McMillans. Brilliance is their specialty.”

“A chain?”

“Brothers,” Robyn explained. “They’ve got a string of places. Some of them are just brewpubs, some are pub hotels, or even spas. But they pick up these quirky themes—one of the places is a decommissioned jail, and they converted the old county work farm. Oh, and then there’s Suds n’ Celluloid. It shows old movies. You kick back on sofas and old chairs and waiters bring you beer and food.”

“Now, that’s what I call civilization,” Thea commented. “They’d clean up in L.A.”

Robyn grinned. “Sorry, they’re pretty much a Portland-only gig. When everything you touch turns to gold, you don’t have to go far. I should be so lucky,” she trailed off.

“Business tough?” Thea asked sympathetically, after they’d ordered.

Robyn moved her water glass around. “It’s going well, just not fast enough. It’s always hard the first couple of years, I knew that getting into it. I’m hanging in there.” She squared her shoulders and rearranged the cutlery.

“You know, if you needed a loan—” Thea began.

“Yeah, I know,” Robyn said and gave her hand a brief squeeze. “I don’t want to go there, though. I’m already asking enough of you by hauling you up here on zero notice. You walked away from your job.”

“My McJob,” Thea pointed out. “I’ll find a new one.”

“Even so.”

“Robyn, you were there for me, remember? There’s no way I can ever pay you back for that.”

“That’s what friends do.”

“Exactly,” Thea said. “You have to go. You’ve been talking about going to Australia someday for as long as I’ve known you. Besides, you need time to yourself, time to recharge. Just think, in a week you’ll be flying off to do just that.”

“What about you? When do you recharge?”

Thea grinned as the waitress brought their beer. “Shoot, I’ve spent the last eight years recharging. I’m powered up, now.”

“Yeah, I buy that.” Robyn raised her glass. “To being powered up.”

“To being powered up,” Thea echoed, and the ring of their toast echoed out. A moment later, Thea blinked. “Wow, that is some seriously wonderful beer,” she said. “Maybe that’s what you need to do, set up a microbrewery in your dance studio. Robyn’s Tango Ale. Just like the McMillans.”

“Honey, there’s nobody like the McMillans. They’re a force unto themselves.”

BRADY AND MICHAEL STOOD on the threadbare carpeting and looked around the Odeon Theater. The seats had been upholstered in plush red velvet some seventy-odd years before. Now the worn fabric was faded to a rusty dun color, mottled with stains. Overhead arched a trompe l’oeil ceiling, bordered by gold-leafed carvings. The stale air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

Michael scanned the rows. “Don’t really want to think about what’s on those seats.”

“Given that the last movie they showed here was Horny Coeds Going Wild, that’s probably smart.”

“They all come out, first thing,” Michael decided.

“Probably smart, too.”

“It’s a great space. The question is, how do we turn this into a brewpub?”

Brady began to amble down the aisle. “Same way we did with the jail and the Lincoln School. Think outside the box. The two floors above here will be the hotel. This is the common area. We add a bar at the back, take out a lot of the seats and put in tables. Leave in the box seats.”

“And what, show movies here, too?” Michael followed Brady to the stage.

“Naw. We’re already doing that at Suds n’ Celluloid. We need to do something else with this.”

“Such as what, idea man?”

Brady boosted himself up onto the chest-high wood platform. “I dunno.” He stood staring around, hands in his pockets. “We’ll figure it out.”

“It’d be nice to figure it out before we pop a couple million buying and renovating it,” Michael said dryly.

“Yep.” He could see it, Brady thought, even through the shabbiness. It had been built in the heyday of the thirties movie palaces, with the sweeping curves of gilded wood, the opulent carvings, the private boxes that rose along the walls. High overhead soared the crenellated wood arch that framed the stage. Heavy gold velvet curtains, now falling apart under their own weight, hid the wings. He could see it cleaned and painted and polished, hear the laughter and the buzz of conversation as the tables of diners held their beers and looked up at…

What?

“We’ll figure it out,” he said again.

At the sound of a throat clearing, they both looked up to see the seller’s agent standing at the top of one of the aisles. “Have you gentlemen seen everything you wanted to see?” she asked, making a show of checking her watch. She had better things to do at eight o’clock on a Friday night than show real estate, her posture clearly telegraphed.

Brady and Michael glanced at each other and nodded. “Yeah, I think so,” Michael said. They started back up the aisle.

Outside, the air was warm in the last light of a summer evening. “Where are you parked?” Brady asked.

“By the Cascade Brewery,” Michael said, naming their flagship brewpub on the other side of the downtown.

“Me too.” They ambled along to turn onto Front Street. “We’ve got a great entry area,” Brady said. “Classic old-time theater. We keep that the same. Maybe have someone in the ticket booth to take people’s names.”

“Stuck out there in the middle of that coved entry area? Is that going to be practical?”

Brady shrugged. “We find a way to make it practical. It’s like the Lincoln School, we keep as much of the vibe as we can. Make up sheets that look like movie posters advertising the specials and seasonal beers, mix ’em in with pulp movie posters, sheets pushing whatever the entertainment is.”

“Yeah, whatever the entertainment is,” Michael echoed with a sidelong glance at him.

“You can’t push creative brilliance,” Brady said mildly.

Michael laughed. “I’ll remember that. Lindsay keeps telling me we’re nuts.”

“The woman’s going to be giving birth to your kid for the third time—”

“Kids,” Michael interjected. “Twins, remember?”

“Kids. And she says we’re nuts?”

“She says the hormones make her forget what labor’s like.”

Brady snorted. “It’d take a lot more than hormones for me.”

“You’re right about the property, though, it is a great property. Not that it shouldn’t be, for that price.”

“Hell, we convert the levels above the hotel floors to lofts and offices, we can probably make most of the mortgage off the rents.”

“Possibly.”

Brady shook his head pityingly. “You’re a pessimist, Michael.”

“And you’re way too much of an optimist.”

“One of my many fine qualities.”

“It’ll cost to renovate the office space, too, you know,” Michael reminded him. “We won’t get to it right away and there’s no way we’ll rent them all.”

“That’s okay. We’ll start small, give the place a chance to get hip, generate some buzz.” Brady grinned. “We can put signs up by the 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 the skin of his angular face. Humor lingered around the corners of his mouth, though, humor and promise from lips that looked way too intriguing. Her heart pumped faster in her chest.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. You like tango?”

“I’m getting a new appreciation for it by the minute,” he said, giving her a look that had her cheeks warming. “You two were something. Have you been dancing together long?”

“Oh, about four hours.” At his surprised expression, she laughed. “I’m visiting. This was a last-minute thing we threw together.”

“Don’t even try to tell me that you just learned tango today.”

Thea nibbled her lip. “Would you buy it?”

His glance sharpened with some special attention. “Right now, I’d buy about anything you tried to sell me,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

“I’m Thea. And the answer is no. I’ve been dancing for about eight years.”

“You’ve been using the time well.”

This time, she definitely blushed—she knew it because she saw his grin.

Up front, Robyn turned on the microphone. “Thea, Paul, thanks for that showcase. We’re going to go through another figure before the free dance, so if you’re interested in learning some tango instead of watching, pair up with a partner and let’s get started.”

Brady’s eyes glimmered. “I guess now’s my chance to get you to show me some of those hot moves.”

Thea eyed him. “Why do I think you already know all the hot moves you need. Or is it the smooth moves?”

He laughed loudly. “Oh, now that was harsh. For that, you have to teach me.” He stepped toward her and raised his hands.

He worked for a living, she thought, staring at them. They were long-fingered, strong, his forearms sinewy and tanned. And she suddenly found herself wondering what it would be like to dance with him, to have those hands on her, to be pressed against his body so tightly that not even air came between them. Why not, she thought suddenly. She was supposed to draw new students. Why shouldn’t she touch him, feel him, let him touch her? See what he was made of.

Besides, it was only part of the dance.

“All right, everyone,” Robyn was saying. “Line up in pairs, ladies facing me, gentlemen with your backs to me.” She walked them through the steps, first the gentlemen, then the ladies. It gave Thea the opportunity to study her new partner.

Lean, balanced, Brady moved with a deceptively careless grace. He didn’t seem to be focused on Robyn’s direction but he caught on to the steps immediately. And when Thea began moving through the ladies’ sequence, he stood, hands on his hips, watching her. “You don’t need to stare,” she said once as the step took her past him.

“I’m paying attention. I figure I might learn a thing or two.” His tone was light, but the heat in his eyes sent something skittering around in her stomach.

“Okay,” Robyn said. “Now that we know the basic step, let’s get into dance position and try it out. Stand opposite your partners. Ladies, put your left hand on the gentleman’s shoulder.”

He stepped closer. “Now, about that paying attention,” he murmured and Thea’s pulse bumped and sped up.

He was tall, she realized. She stood nearly six foot in her bare feet and had grown accustomed to towering over men, especially in high-heeled dance shoes. With Brady, she found herself looking up.

Taking a breath, she put her hand on his shoulder. And swallowed. It didn’t matter that she was only touching the cotton of his shirt. Somehow, all she was conscious of was the feel of the hard rise of muscle beneath.

“Gentlemen, put your right hand on the lady’s shoulder blade.”

His gaze fixed on hers, Brady pressed his hand in place and it was all she could do not to gasp.

He flashed a wicked smile. “Sorry, is my hand cold?”

It wasn’t cold at all, and he damned well knew it. Heat spread out from the extravagance of the fingers spread on her bare skin. It felt startlingly intimate. They were in public, among a throng of people. So how was it that she could only think of darkened bedrooms, of how it would feel to have that hand slide over her bare body?

Snap out of it, she told herself.

“Now join your other hands and space yourselves about six to eight inches apart. As you’ve seen, Argentine tango tends to be danced in a tight, closed position, with the inner thighs of the lady and gentleman pressed together. Those of you who like, step closer.”

Eyes staring unwaveringly into hers, Brady moved against her. “I like,” he murmured, close enough that she could feel the breath of his words. His fingers tightened slightly on her back, bringing her closer. “Yeah, I like a lot.”