memories came flooding back, so much so that she couldn’t help giving him a second look. He was too far away to get a close-up of his face, but he reminded her of the man she’d met in Buenos Aires, the man who’d broken her heart.
With a concentrated effort she tried to focus on the here and now. It had been six months since she’d last laid eyes on Marc LeClair and she should be over him by now. But how did you forget a man who’d seemed perfect for you—a man who’d made you laugh so hard your sides ached. Marc, of the jet-black wavy hair, and to die-for blue eyes. She’d fallen hard and fast, and moving on wasn’t easy.
Serena could still hear his raspy voice whispering endearments in her ear. When she closed her eyes, his unique spicy scent tickled her nostrils. With vivid clarity she remembered how he’d held her, loved her.
“Serena, you are a dream come true,” he’d said. “The woman I’ve been waiting for.”
Lines. All of it. And she’d bought them hook, line and sinker, convincing herself there was a future for them. She’d said those three little words I love you. Words she’d never said to another soul. And that was the beginning of the end, she suspected, because after that he’d disappeared.
The dark-haired man was laughing at something the woman next to him said. Serena wasn’t close enough to hear him, but Marc’s laughter had been distinctive and hardy, and this man certainly looked as if he was enjoying himself.
The resemblance was truly uncanny, although she’d never seen Marc dressed so casually or appear so relaxed. Marc LeClair had been polished and put together, and he’d said he had a twin. Serena wondered if this could be the twin brother.
His being a twin was another reason she’d been drawn to him. Twins had a special bond, an intuitive understanding of each other. She and Selena had been able to communicate without saying a word. And she and Marc shared a love of ballroom dancing and old movies, the kind where people wore elegant clothing and knew how to foxtrot.
In an especially intimate moment, Serena had shared with Marc the dark times after her sister’s equestrian accident when she could not get out of bed. Serena had been depressed and one step away from ending it all. It had been a painful heartbreaking experience. If she hadn’t had Pia to lean on she would probably not have made it through. It was Pia who’d been there to help her through that awful time after Marc dumped her, too.
“Dios mío!” Serena hissed, elbowing her friend in the gut and sloshing liquid from their glasses. “It is him.”
“Him who?” Pia answered distractedly, her attention still focused on the handsome cruise ship officer.
The attractive redhead was now whispering something in the look-a-like Marc’s ear. Her plunging neckline threatened to spill her considerable assets, and using those assets to her advantage, she brushed her breasts against the man’s arm.
Serena couldn’t help but gape. How could two people possibly look so much alike? On the one hand she hoped it wasn’t him. He was the last person she wanted to run into on her vacation. She was still embarrassed and more than a little angry at the manner in which their brief relationship had ended. She’d followed her heart and given in to passion, ending up in his bed. He’d said he loved her, yet he’d left her without a word; not a note or a follow up phone call. He’d treated her like a pick-up and she couldn’t easily get over that.
She was tempted to confront him just for the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. But what if it wasn’t Marc? Serena wished she could discuss her options with Pia. But her psychiatrist friend was too busy flirting with the hot-looking officer. Later maybe, they would have one of their talks.
To take her mind off the man who reminded her so much of Marc, Serena gulped her rum punch and focused on the female members of the Rhythm Dancers group. The women wore everything from microminis and swirling ankle-length skirts to Daisy Dukes, those sexy low rise cut-offs that Argentine women would only be seen in if their bodies were perfect, but Americans wore confidently regardless of their size.
Serena smoothed the skirt of the turquoise sundress and glanced down to admire the silver three-inch heel sandals she’d thought were sexy. At five feet eight inches she hardly needed the additional height, but standing out in a crowd helped boost her confidence. She fingered the teardrop pendant and returned her attention to the dance floor.
Across the way, a tall, olive-complexioned man lifted his glass and winked at her. Simultaneously the ship’s whistle blew and a voice boomed over the intercom.
“It is with great pleasure the crew of Alexandra’s Dream welcomes The Rhythm Dancers. If you have not done so already, please make your way to deck six for your Bon Voyage party.”
The dark skinned man continued to stare at her although she tried her best to ignore him. Something about him made her stomach churn and normally she did not have this strong a reaction to anyone. She kept her gaze on the dance floor, listening to the host and hostess, an Argentine and American pair. On a raised dais behind them, a D.J. adjusted the knobs of his stereo equipment, turning the volume up high. He was warming up the crowd already tapping their feet irritably.
More and more people began gravitating toward the dance floor. Pia was now trying to convince the officer to give it a whirl.
“I’m not a very good dancer,” he said in a Greek accent. “You mentioned you’ve been taking lessons for years. I will make a fool of myself.”
“No you won’t,” Pia insisted. “If you let me lead you, we can salsa like pros.”
Serena bet they would do a lot more than salsa if Pia had her way. Pia was a smart, confident woman extremely comfortable in her sexuality, and not the least bit shy about going after what she wanted. Right now the handsome officer was at the top of her list.
Pia had chosen a profession well suited to her. She’d always been the insightful one, forever in tune with people’s thoughts and motivations. If she hadn’t been away at a symposium when Marc LeClair had come to town, maybe Serena’s involvement with him would not have gone as far as it had.
Pia was now dragging the awed officer onto the dance floor, leaving Serena alone.
“Would you like to dance?” an accented male voice asked over her shoulder. The man who’d been gawking held out his hand. He was tall, tanned, and had spiky, gelled, black hair.
“Um, I’m waiting for my friend.”
“She is dancing and you should be, too. My name is Salvatore Morena. My friends call me Sal.” He pointed at her neck. “That’s quite the pendant.”
“Thank you. Serena d’Andrea,” Serena said, accepting his hand because she had no choice.
For some unexplainable reason her instincts were telling her this was not a nice man.
Sal placed a hand lightly on Serena’s shoulder blade as they began to salsa.
“Serena,” he repeated, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. “Bellissima. Serena means the calm one. I am in the jewelry business and I know a nice piece when I see one.” He reached as if to take the pendant in his hand.
Determined to avoid his touch, Serena stumbled. Sal brought her right back into step.
“Perhaps some time during this cruise you will allow me to appraise the piece?”
