Chapter 17: Chapter Sixteen

Patrick moved his partner through the basic steps of the tango, slow slow quick quick slow. The older woman stumbled a couple of times and readjusted her posture but was still leaning so heavily on his frame he felt like he was trying to prop up the leaning tower of Pisa.

But he had promised. Anita needed to rest. He wasn’t an idiot. He could cover the lessons. He was sure nobody would even show up with the inclement weather.

It hadn’t deterred Lydia Swann, the septuagenarian in front of him who was indulging a Fred Astaire fantasy.

“Great job today.” He forced a smile instead of wincing at the pain in his rotator cuff. She beamed with pleasure, the smile lighting her soft brown eyes. He needed to pull his shit together. Lydia had been his second-grade Spanish teacher, of all things. She just needed more practice.

“You’re such a good teacher,” she gushed. “Ricardo and Anita are wonderful, of course, but sometimes it is good to have an outside perspective.”

“Absolutely.” Patrick turned her into a bow to the right and a bow to the left. Thank goodness that was one hour down.

While Lydia changed back into her winter boots and coat, he walked over to the check-in desk and took a large drink of water. He had forgotten how exhausting it was to teach all day long. At least he wouldn’t have to add in a workout tonight. Maybe some yoga for once. He leaned into a deep back stretch. How did Anita not live on ibuprofen and ice baths?

“Hey there, snowman,” a female voice lilted from the door. Patrick’s heart sank. The woman should have a red alert bell around her neck.

Melanie Templeton slunk through the door, her white winter coat unbuttoned to show off the cleavage pushing through the deep V neck of her cherry-red, too-small cable cardigan. She had on tight white jeans tucked into a pair of brown, expensive-looking shearling snow boots, and her hair was long and flowing over her shoulders. Patrick assumed somehow she had missed the power outage, if her blow dryer worked.

“Of all the gin joints, am I right?” Her voice was lower, affectedly husky, than it usually was.

“Hello, Melanie, we weren’t expecting you. Zumba was canceled today.”

“I saw the light on.” She gestured vaguely. “Thought I might, I don’t know, take a chance.” She runway-walked toward him. Snow and slush in the shape of the treads of her boots followed her steps. He needed to find the mop.

He caught a sharp whiff of too-strong perfume. While he had gotten distracted by the snow melting on the floor, she had closed in on him faster than Nicolas Cage in “Gone in Sixty Seconds.”

She smiled. “Where’s Anita today?”

“Not feeling her best.” The hairs on his arms stood to attention. Had she known he would be alone? She did not seem aware of what had befallen Anita. “Where’s Kim?”

Melanie lifted her hands in a sultry, shrugging manner. “I guess we’re alone, then.” Her bee-venom lips tilted into a seductive sort of smile.

Patrick thought he might throw up. “Is there something you need, Mrs. Templeton?”

She laughed, too shrilly. “Patrick!” She swiped at his arm playfully, the shoulder of her winter coat sliding off her shoulder, revealing more of her décolletage and the sharp contrast of the cherry-red sweater against her pale skin. “I’ve told you before, you have to call me Melanie. Do you give private lessons? Maybe I should try.” She dropped her eyes and pushed her mouth into a pout. “I’m very good with my hips.”

A jolt of nausea. Maybe it was her perfume that was poison. “I’m just helping out a friend. If you want a private lesson, I’m sure Anita can help you when she gets back.”

Melanie, her eyes glimmering, moved directly in front of him. Her perfume smelled strongly of jasmine and bitter orange, the scent suddenly flooding his nostrils as she bent her head and exposed her neck in front of him. Everything about her was designed to seduce today. How had she known where he was? She couldn’t have done this, gone out the day after a blizzard, without the distinct motivation of finding him.

Social media.

He had posted a photo of the snow-filled parking lot behind the studio, himself frowning. #noparking #snowday. Idiot. He was a complete idiot. He might as well have stuck a giant red button on his head saying, “Hey, Stalker, I’m right here.”

“What do you want, Melanie?”

She locked her gaze on his and drew one finger up his arm. His blood chilled.

“I think you know,” she said huskily. Had the lights in the studio dimmed? “We’re both adults, Patrick.”

“You’re married.” He gently took her finger and removed it from his arm.

“He doesn’t matter. What matters is this, us. I know you feel it.” She moved to put both arms around his neck, pressing her body toward his, but he stepped away.

The bell over the door chimed, and Melanie whirled, a mutinous look marring her face.

“Patrick!” Nina Rabinova drawled in her thick Russian accent. Today she was dressed like a psychotic skier, a thick white puffer jacket and slim white leggings with bright neon pink boots. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate neon pink swirled turban. “I am so sorry I am late. The snow! The ice! The plowman came too late.” She cast a sharp glance at Melanie. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Patrick had never felt so grateful for her dramatic entrance. “No trouble at all.” He looked at Melanie. Her face grew steely with displeasure, and she haughtily tugged her coat back into its appropriate position. “Not interrupting anything at all.”

****

Later that night, Patrick sat in Anita’s office, searching through his social media accounts. It had to be in here. Somewhere.

He was just being paranoid. Of course. Just because Melanie had expressed interest in him didn’t mean she was the stalker.

It wasn’t hard to find her public accounts, the photos of her from college, one among a group of nearly identical girls in too-tight sweaters and too-short skirts. A sorority? Wouldn’t surprise him. The photos of her and her husband, stiff in formal wear, on a yacht, were more concerning. Her husband’s eyes never met the camera. Where was he? Patrick clicked over to Mark Templeton’s account and noted nearly daily pictures of meals and whiskey cocktails. Daily until a couple of weeks ago.

She followed Philly Proud and Toni, but not the studio. She probably couldn’t find the studio page. It was buried so low at the bottom of the algorithm it would take an excavator to locate.

Patrick tsked to himself. The studio’s social media presence was abysmal at best. Wasn’t there a dance this weekend, a comp next week? The least he could do would be to help Anita hush it. Maybe spend some time leaning over her shoulder, helping her edit photos.

He was pathetic. He knew it and knew there was very little he could do about it.

Patrick sat back in Anita’s office chair, hands cradling the nape of his neck. Melanie couldn’t be the stalker. Interest and sexual harassment did not necessarily equal stalking. He had traced some of the burner accounts that had left him messages, but none seemed remotely related to Melanie.

He heard the bell over the door chime, and he tensed. He could not recall how long he had been sitting there, but night had fallen sometime in the interim. The tension relaxed when he saw who had entered.

“Hey.” Anita stood in the doorway of the office, her face drawn but a little rosier than when he had left that morning. A twinge of something primal, some instinct to protect, clutched at him. “Thank you for today.”

She would not have needed help if he could have kept the stalker away from her. “No trouble. You feeling any better?”

“Finally.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a plastic container with a blue top. “My mom wanted me to give this to you.”

He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Your mom is the best.”

“Funny, she said the same thing about you.”

A beat. Patrick’s gaze dropped to her mouth. The last time they had been in this office, she had been in his arms. Long dormant arousal heated his stomach.

But this was not the time. She was still recovering, even if she looked better on her worst day than many people did on their best. Curvy and lithe and—

Staring at him like he had three heads.

She broke the silence first. “So, what are you doing?”

His mind went blank, so he surreptitiously glanced at the computer screen. Right. Melanie. Stalker. “Social media. Speaking of which, you really need to bulk up your website and accounts.”

“Do I, though? There’s just always so many other things to do.”

“Better things, you mean.” His chest tightened. His mother didn’t think his career was legitimate, either.

“No.” Anita moved toward him, standing so close he was having trouble remembering anything. Not his name, not his job. Not even really what they were talking about. It was impossible to focus on anything but her intoxicating smell of lilies and hibiscus. If he could bottle that, he might be able to take it with him when he had to leave. “Not better, just less—complicated.”

“It’s not rocket science.” She was so close. Her lips parted slightly, and for an instant, just an instant as any longer would be absolute torture, he imagined what it would be like to kiss her. To press his lips against her mouth, slide his tongue against hers, breathe the same air she did.

I need a cold shower. I need to move to Greenland.

Holding himself stiffly, he leaned forward and kissed the top of her soft mane of hair. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Sweet dreams, Anita.”