by Lara, turned to Ben with a brilliant smile.
“Oh, Ben. You can’t still be bitter. She’s so good, it’s as if she’s not really of this earth.”
Shannon smiled at Jane’s compliment. Jane was stunning that night herself; her figure lean and trim, and her waltz gown, a deep crimson, set off her dark coloring in a blaze of glittering fire.
“I’d rather dance with you,” Jane’s partner, Sam Railey, said softly, giving her a squeeze. “You, my love, actually dance with someone. Lara uses her partner like a prop.”
“But she is brilliant, just brilliant,” Gordon Henson, owner of the studio, said. He was the one who had first taught Lara, and his pride was justified.
“Let’s face it—she’s a mean, ambitious bitch who’d walk over a friend’s dead body to get where she wanted to go,” said Justin Garcia, one of the studio’s upcoming salsa specialists.
Next to him, Rhianna Markham, another contender, laughed delightedly. “C’mon, Justin, say what you really feel.”
Shannon nudged Rhianna and said softly, “Careful. We’re surrounded by our students.” And they were, since the hotel was just north of the South Beach area where the studio was located. As a teaching institution, it was the envy of many a competitor, for not only was it located in the limelight of a varied and heavily populated area, it was situated right on top of a club that had turned into a true hot spot over the past few years, since it had been bought by charismatic young Latin American entrepreneur Gabriel Lopez—who had come this evening, as well, in support of his friends. Due to the proximity of the event, even a number of the studio’s more casual students had come, entranced to see the very best of the best, competitors from all over the world.
“She’s just gorgeous,” Rhianna said loudly enough to be overheard, making a conspiratorial face at Shannon and lowering her head. Shannon had to grin.
But then Gordon whispered to her softly, “You should have been out there. You could have been more gorgeous.”
She shook her head. “I like teaching, not competing.”
“Chicken?”
She grinned. “I know when I’m outclassed.”
“Never outclassed,” he said, and squeezed her hand.
On the dance floor, Lara executed another perfect lift, spiraling down her partner’s body in perfect unity with the music.
There was a tap on Shannon’s shoulder. At first, she paid no attention to it. The crowd was massive, including students, teachers, amateurs, professionals, press and those who just liked to watch. A jostle meant nothing as everyone vied for space from which to watch the spectacle.
The tap came again. Frowning, Shannon half turned. The sides of the stage were dark, cast in shadow by the spotlights on the floor. She couldn’t see the person summoning her, but it might have been the waiter behind her, a man dressed in tails. Strange, tonight the wait staff, some of the judges and many of the contenders were dressed almost alike.
“Yes?” she murmured, puzzled.
“You’re next,” he said.
“Next?” she queried. But the man, whose face she hadn’t really seen, was already gone. He must have been mistaken. She wasn’t competing.
“Ooh!” Jane said. “She’s unbelievable!”
Shannon looked quickly back to the floor, forgetting the man who had been trying to reach her in a case of mistaken identity. She wasn’t particularly concerned. Whoever was up next would know. They would already be waiting on the sidelines.
Waiting in a nerve-wracking situation. Following Lara would never be easy.
“Excellent,” Ben admitted. “Every step perfectly executed.”
From the crowd, a collective “Ahh!” arose.
And then, suddenly, Lara Trudeau went poetically still. Her hands, so elegant with their long, tapered fingers and polished nails, flew dramatically to her left breast. There was a moment of stillness, with the music still playing a Viennese waltz as sweet and lilting as the cool air.
Then, still graceful, she dropped.
Her fall was as elegant as any dance movement, a melting into the ground, a dip that was slow, supple….
Until her head fell to the dance floor in perfect complement to the length of her body and she did not move again.
“That wasn’t in her routine,” Gordon whispered to Shannon.
“No,” Shannon murmured back, frowning. “Do you think it’s something she added at the last minute for dramatic effect?”
“If so, she’s milking it too far,” Gordon replied, frowning as he stared at the floor.
At first, there was a hushed, expectant silence from the crowd. Then, as Jim Burke remained standing at her side, the room began to fill with the thunder of applause.
It ebbed awkwardly to a hollow clap here and there, then faded altogether, as those who knew dance and knew Lara began to frown, realizing that they hadn’t witnessed a dramatic finale but that something was wrong.
A collective “What…?” rose from the crowd.
Shannon started to move forward, frowning, wondering if Lara hadn’t decided to make use of a new ploy.
Gordon caught her arm.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. “I think she needs medical help.”
That must have been apparent, because the first person to rush forward was Dr. Richard Long, a handsome young surgeon, as well as a student at Moonlight Sonata. He fell to his knees at Lara’s side, felt deftly for a pulse. He raised his head, looking around stunned for a split second, then yelled out hoarsely, “Call an ambulance!” He quickly looked down again and began performing CPR.
The room was still for a second, as if the hundreds of people in it had become collectively paralyzed with shock. Then dozens of cell phones were suddenly whipped out from pockets and purses.
Whispers and murmurs rose from all around the dance floor, then went still.
Richard valiantly continued his efforts.
“My God, what on earth happened to her?” Gordon said, the tension in his eyes showing his inner debate on whether to rush up himself or not.
“Drugs?” Ben suggested.
“Lara? Never,” Jane said vehemently.
“No,” Shannon murmured, shaking her head.
“Yeah, right, no, never,” Ben said with a sniff. “Let’s see, drugs on South Beach? In Miami, Florida, gateway to South America? Right, never.”
“Never for Lara Trudeau,” Shannon snapped.
“There are different drugs,” Justin said.
