Quickstep to Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

mouth tightened. “I had to completely rearrange my schedule and miss a floor vote to get here on time.”
    “If he said he’ll be here, he’ll be here,” I lied. “He probably got caught in traffic somewhere.”
    With a dubious look, she sailed into the bathroom to change. I was back at my computer when she poked her head in ten minutes later, dressed in a few strips of orange fluff that passed for a salsa dress and showed off her excellent legs.
    “Is he here?”
    “I haven’t seen him.”
    “I’ll give him precisely five more minutes and then I’m out of here.”
    I’d hoped she’d do her waiting in the studio, maybe stretch to warm up, but no such luck. She sat in the wing chair by the window—the better to watch for Rafe, I guessed—and crossed her legs. “I’d kill for a cigarette,” she said, swinging one foot.
    I didn’t respond to the hint. This was a strictly nosmoking building. Smoking killed your wind. And it stank. “I didn’t know you smoked,” I finally blurted.
    The corner of her mouth crooked up in a wry smile. “Never where my constituents can see me.” She popped a piece of gum into her mouth.
    I wondered what else she indulged in out of the voters’ sight. I tried to think of something to say to Sherry as the seconds ticked past and the tension grew thicker. Nothing came to me. Truth to tell, Sherry intimidated me. With money (from a rich defense contractor husband who spent at least half his time in St. Paul), looks, and power, she was a formidable woman. Even Rafe had mentioned once, half joking, that she scared him. At five minutes to the second, she rose to her feet and fluffed her orange feathers.
    “I can’t wait any longer,” she said, her voice dripping ice. “My husband and I are attending a thousand-dollara-plate fund-raiser tonight and I can’t be late. Please tell Rafe that I was here for our practice.” Her anger was way out of proportion to being stood up for dance practice, and I wondered uneasily about their relationship. “I’ll expect him to call me with an explanation. And it had better be good.”
    “I’ll let him know,” I said and breathed a sigh of relief when she swept out of the office.
    Without bothering to change, she charged out the side door. I went to the window and watched as a driver held the door of a black Lincoln Town Car for her. It wasn’t quite a limo, but it was certainly a more luxurious mode of transportation than my yellow Beetle. An orange feather dangled out of the door, but the car moved off anyway.
    I hoped Rafe knew what he was doing. But I doubted it.
     
    At eight thirty I sat at the dinette table in my breakfast nook, eating a late dinner of spinach and water-packed tuna, wishing I could have a cheeseburger and fries. But Blackpool was only six weeks away and I didn’t need an extra pound or two straining the seams of my fitted costumes. Rafe had complained during a lift last week that I was gaining weight and although I denied it, I was counting every calorie. Winning trophies at the big competitions was excellent advertising for the studio and the prize money was nothing to sneer at, either.
    And now the studio’s very existence was at issue. Clearly, Rafe was going to push for some decisions if he showed up tonight, which was beginning to look doubtful. Trouble was, I didn’t see a solution that we could agree on. I wanted to build Graysin Motion into one of the country’s most respected ballroom-dance training centers and that took time. I was willing to live on the bare minimum while we grew the business. Rafe, for whatever reason—expensive new girlfriend? Bad investments?—wasn’t.
    I sipped my mineral water and downed a handful of vitamins. How had things disintegrated so quickly? A few short months ago we’d had similar goals for our relationship and our business; now . . . well, I’d rather shave off my hair than turn Graysin Motion into a kiddie recital mill. If Rafe insisted on taking more money out