Two to Tango (Erotic Romance) (2 page)

I promised myself that I’d bring the clothes into my apartment, and if they didn’t fit me absolutely perfectly, I’d drop them at the charity the very next day.

For the drive home, I tried not to think about the dance program losing its biggest sponsors. I would get home, put on one of my favorite movies, and eat my chocolate-covered pretzels. Life would continue exactly as it was, and nothing would change.

I would
not
consider going back to stripping.

I was a good girl now, and I didn’t do those things.

Charlie
 

Things always go wrong on Open House night.

I swear, it’s as if everyone gets so tense and worked up over getting things perfect, they mess up worse than usual.

The tenth problem of the day took me to the kitchen of the club’s restaurant.

We didn’t have nearly enough champagne for the event. Someone must have missed a decimal point on the previous week’s liquor order, and we were short.

What we did have, however, was a less-expensive sparkling wine.

“But it’s not champagne!” everyone in the kitchen said. “And it’s not chilled!”

I walked into the giant walk-in freezer and grabbed a bag of frozen organic raspberries. “Here,” I said. “They’ll probably think this is better than champagne. Put three frozen raspberries in each glass.”

The kitchen staff got to work, grumbling, but accepting my solution.

It seemed to me like they made such a huge production over little glitches, just to make their jobs seem more difficult. When I solved their problems, they didn’t seem grateful.

I had to wonder if some people identified too strongly with being a person with problems. Did they get some sense of self-importance from always being at the center of some kind of drama?

Why did other people insist on being so difficult and illogical?

My phone buzzed with an incoming message. I pulled it from my pocket and gave it a shake to get the screen working. The phone had suffered a mishap with a wet puddle outside, and hadn’t been the same since. I really needed to get it replaced, once I was done with everyone else’s problems.

I groaned when I read the message.

One of the waiters caught my eye, grinning. “Girl troubles?”

“Not unless the irrigation system is a girl,” I said.

So much for getting out of there at a decent time and going to a party with Duncan.

So much for getting laid that night.

Skye
 

The boxes of clothes were heavy, and I was already sweating as I walked up the porch to the main door. I set the boxes down, opened the common door with the big key, and shoved the boxes through the threshold with my foot. Even with my strong dancer’s muscles, my inner thigh cried out in protest.

I picked up the boxes, proceeded up the old steps to the third floor, and struggled to get the apartment key into my door. The tall, skinny house I lived in was split into five apartments, and from the hallway, I could smell the lingering cooking smells of everyone’s dinner.

In my eagerness to get to my post-recital treats, I loosened my arms and nearly lost my grip on the boxes. I caught them, but realized with horror that I’d also snapped my apartment key off in the lock of my door.

After a few nasty words, I tried to get the broken key out of the lock.

It was no use. Nothing I had was going to get the door open.

I pulled out my phone and called my landlord.

He grumbled, but said he would drive over as soon as he could, in a few hours.

“But I’m locked out,” I said, grating at the desperation in my voice. “Should I call a locksmith instead?”

He gasped in horror. “Outside business hours? Emergency call rate? You know I can’t keep the rent low if we’re calling in tradesmen at emergency rates.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

I ended the call and slumped down to sit on the floor next to the boxes. I was hungry, but the nearby coffee shop was already closed for the day.

I opened the boxes and started checking out the clothes.

“Cinderella,” I snorted to myself, recalling Mrs. Winfield’s suggestion I go to the Open House to catch myself a rich man.

There was NO way I’d ever date someone rich, let alone let them take care of me.

I could, however, eat free food and drink free champagne.

I took off the clothes I’d been wearing, and started trying on the donations. My apartment was in the attic of the house, and it was the whole floor, so even the hallway was private. I settled on a sleek, red dress, paired with the stiletto heels. My muscular calves turned soft and feminine in the shoes. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me the clothes were flattering. I topped the dress with a matching jacket, and transferred half the contents of my patchwork denim shoulder bag into one of the designer purses from the box.

“Cinderella,” I said again, only this time I meant it as a compliment.

Using the makeup in my purse, I gave myself a rich-person makeover. Instead of the blue eyeliner and bright eyeshadow I usually wore, I applied the never-used neutrals, and red lip gloss to match the dress.

My naturally stick-straight brown hair looked exactly the way it always did. Straight and boring.

However, from what I could see in my tiny round compact’s mirror, the designer dress—which fit perfectly—made my hair look sleek and elegant, rather than limp and plain.

I ripped off a corner piece of cardboard from one of the boxes and left my landlord a note, asking him to leave the door unlocked once it was fixed, and I started stepping carefully down the stairs in my new-to-me shoes.

~

The new clothes gave me confidence. I had a spring in my step as my stilettos made their satisfying spanking noises on the sidewalk. I got behind the wheel of the old car, though, and my confidence dropped a notch.

What was I thinking?

Crashing a party at The Cedars?

Was this really what my life had come to?

I could
say
the reason I was going to the Open House was to scam free food, but that wasn’t the whole picture.

I was also planning to talk to the Level A mothers about why we needed them to keep coming to the community center. They liked to talk about how good it felt to help out “those needy girls” who couldn’t afford new ballet shoes. If they switched to classes at the country club, they’d be deprived of all those good feelings.

~

At The Cedars, I steered my car into the parking lot and squeezed into the last available space.

Stepping out of my car, I froze in panic for an instant. I was dressed in Mrs. Winfield’s cast off clothes. She would
know
if she saw me. I yanked open the car door and got back in.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I said, slapping my forehead.

Then I remembered—Mrs. Winfield had said she wouldn’t be going. She was already a member, anyway.

I got out of the car and froze again.

Something moved, halfway between me and the entrance. Something, or someone, was in the bushes surrounding the building.

Slowly, I got back into the car again and locked all the doors.

With my eyes on the bushes, I sat in the dark, waiting.

After a few minutes, I convinced myself that there was nobody in the bushes after all, and the shadowy figure was a manifestation of my social awkwardness. I’d always needed a few drinks or drugs when I was a stripper, to get over that awkwardness.

I got out of the car for the third time. I slammed the door and strode toward the entrance with purpose.

At the edge of my vision, something moved.

I sped up to a fast walk, then a run.

I pulled open the glass door and entered The Cedars for the first time in my life.

The lobby was a round room, with a sparkling chandelier high overhead. The place smelled like fresh flowers, thanks to the sumptuous display on a marble table in the middle of the room.

I was late to the Open House, and by the look of the sign on an easel near the door, everyone was already in the ballroom, wherever that was.

My choices were two hallways, one to the left and one to the right.

I caught sight of an attractive woman in a red dress and waved to get her attention. She waved back. I giggled in embarrassment when I realized the woman was me, reflected in a mirror.

I looked back over my shoulder, checking to see if anyone was walking up to the place—anyone who might have seen me waving to myself.

The walkway was empty, but I could see movement in the bushes again.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I said, and I started walking down the hallway to the left.

I walked past doors with numbers and names, none of them leading to a ballroom. I kept going. With every spank of my stilettos on the gleaming floors, I became more certain the ballroom had been to the right. Still, I kept going, because I’d made two right turns already, and something told me the hallway ran in a loop through the whole building. I’d chosen the wrong direction, but if I kept going, I’d eventually end up at the ballroom.

I turned another corner, and when I saw the door labeled with the letter B, I turned the handle and walked through. I wasn’t in a ballroom, though, but a stairwell. The door clicked shut behind me, and even before I tried the handle, I was certain it was locked. I tried the handle anyway. Locked.

B was for Basement.

With a sigh, I started walking down the stairs. The stairs would probably have an exterior exit, then I’d just have to make my way around to the front entrance again. Or, better yet, I could go to my car and return home to wait for my landlord, where I couldn’t embarrass myself further.

I reached an exit and pushed the door open. It only moved a few inches, then stuck. I pulled back and tried opening the door again, this time putting my shoulder into it. As the door finally opened, I heard a muffled cry, and then the sound of a person crashing into the bushes.

“Sorry!” I called out into the darkness as my eyes adjusted. “Are you okay?”

A man with dark hair and a big grin peered up at me from the shrubbery. “Okay? I need you to define
okay
,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s been a fatality. This azalea bush won’t see another spring.”

I swallowed hard, not budging from the doorway. “Do you work here or something?”

He started extracting himself from the bushes. The concrete steps I’d apparently knocked him off of were only three steps high, which was why there was no guard rail at the side.

“Are you a groundskeeper?” I asked him.

“Well, I’m not here to crash the Open House and fill up on free food and champagne.”

“Me neither,” I lied.

“So, you’re already a member?” He’d gotten to his feet, and though he was three steps below me, I could see he was tall. And cute.

“No, I’m not a member.” My foot tapped twice in its stiletto, as if my body was reminding me that for once in my life, I didn’t
look
like someone who needed charity. “Not a member yet,” I said. “I came for the Open House, and I’m already disappointed nobody thought to put an arrow on the welcome sign, directing the way to the ballroom.”

He kept grinning up at me. “Are you familiar with the club’s fees? I only ask because I saw you drive up in… what would you say that car is? A Toyota Tercel?”

I inhaled sharply. He didn’t believe I belonged there, and wasn’t buying my act. Why not? I wore the same exact clothes as people who belonged to the club. I thought of my students, and how you could still tell who was rich, even when they wore identical costumes. The difference was attitude.

I rolled my shoulders back and did my best imitation of Mrs. Winfield, my words distinct and separate from each other, as though each word was its own sentence. “That’s. Not.
My
. Car,” I said. A story about it being a loaner from my garage came to mind, but I shut down the explanation before it began. People like Mrs. Winfield didn’t need to back up everything they said with more talk.

“My mistake,” the man said, dusting off his clothes and then leaning over the crushed azalea, its main stalk bent at an unhealthy angle. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the soft landscape lighting, I could see that the groundskeeper was more than cute. He also had buff muscles under his dark T-shirt, and the edges of a tribal-style tattoo visible just under his shirt sleeve, on his upper arm. And what a nice arm it was.

He turned his head to look up at me, and I quickly averted my gaze. A rich, classy lady such as myself wouldn’t eye-grope a groundskeeper.

“I have to admit I’m intrigued,” he said.

I looked around, trying to figure out where I was, and where the entrance might be.

“You’re intrigued? I’m lost. Nice to meet you. Where would you say the front door is?”

“Miss, I saw you arguing with yourself about getting out of your car. You’re not here to find out about membership packages, are you?”

I let the door close behind me and crossed my arms. With my most withering sarcasm, I said, “I’m here for free cheese and crackers. You caught me. I go from one Open House to the next, anything from self-help groups to real estate showings, all to get my hands on delicious, free cubes of cheddar. Oh, and those cow-brand cubes in the individual foil wrappers. That’s what I do, and you caught me.”

“Why are you really here?”

“Why are you lurking in the bushes like a raccoon?”

“We had a problem,” he said, brushing the remainder of twigs and leaves off his jeans. “So, I did what I do, and I fixed the problem. I located the leak in the irrigation system and closed off that run of pipes. Instead of letting the water leak for days and create a pond in the middle of the front lawn, I fixed the problem.”

“Why are you staring at me like I’m another problem you have to fix?”

“You tell me.”

Exasperated with this conversation that was going in circles, I walked down the steps and followed the connecting pathway, taking a right turn.

The guy called out after me, “If you want to get to the front door, it’s the other direction.”

“Thank you.” I turned around and marched in the opposite direction. When I glanced back over my shoulder, he was watching me.