Quickstep to Murder Read Free

wrong.
    A commotion outside caught my attention. Barefoot, I crossed to the large front window to see what was going on. Graysin Motion was on the upper level of the Federal-era town house I lived in courtesy of Great-aunt Laurinda, who’d bequeathed it to me, and had two studios: the main dance floor where we held large classes, and a slightly smaller room suitable for one-on-one practice, which most of the pros who trained here used. We referred to them as the ballroom and the studio. The ballroom looked out onto the tree-shaded streets of Old Town,Alexandria, and if you craned your neck, you could just glimpse the Potomac River. My office sat across the wide hall and had been a small music room or parlor in another life. Now that Rafe had moved out—he’d held on to his condo when we got engaged but we’d spent our nights here more often than not—I lived alone downstairs, which made for the world’s easiest commute, especially in the Metro D.C. area.
    Down on the sidewalk, two dogs—a shaggy mutt and a boxer—lunged and barked at each other as their owners tried to pull them away. My gaze drifted past them and I saw the limo—at least I thought it was the same limo—that had picked Rafe up the other day. It was parked across the street. If Rafe was holed up in that limo, swilling champagne with a new lover while I worked my butt off—! On impulse, I hurried down the stairs that ran along the side of the house.
    My mother always said my lack of impulse control would get me into hot water someday. It already had. Like the time in high school with the Bunsen burner and the crepe paper. It was just a dinky fire; they didn’t really have to evacuate the whole school. Or the fountain incident . . . I shook the memories out of my head as I reached the ground level. Lifting my long skirt, I ran down the slate-paved walk to the street, wishing I’d taken time to put on some shoes as the hot walkway burned my soles. Judging from the cars slowing and honking, I must have been quite a sight: a five-foot-six barefoot blonde in a form-fitting gown that displayed a generous amount of cleavage and leg. I probably looked like an escapee from a charity ball or a musical revue, not the usual sunburned tourist or Ann Taylor–shopping yuppie you see clogging the sidewalks of Old Town at three in the afternoon.
    At the curb, I had to wait for a break in traffic. When the light down the street turned red, I wove my way through the stopped cars, getting a couple of wolf whistles and invitations. I ignored them. The asphalt was so hot I barely touched each foot to the street before jerking it up; I felt like a prancing show horse. Panting, I reached the black limo, which idled at the curb. I couldn’t make out anything behind the heavily tinted windows. I knocked on the driver’s side window. Nothing. I rapped more insistently, bruising my knuckles. The window buzzed down a bare inch. I craned my neck, trying to see inside, but could make out only the dull gleam of expensive leather, a dashboard with enough electronics to pilot the space shuttle, and a sliver of profile topped by a chauffeur’s cap. Music played so softly I couldn’t identify it, and a hint of cigar smoke so expensive it didn’t make me retch drifted out.
    “Yes?” The voice was heavily accented, discouraging.
    “I’m looking for Rafael Acosta,” I said. “Is he with you? In there?” Boy, that was lame.
    Apparently, the driver thought so, too, because the window purred up again and the car moved forward slightly, forcing me back. As there was a steady stream of traffic behind me, stepping back posed life-threatening problems.
    “Hey, just give me a minute,” I yelled at the car, trying to inch down its length and reach the safety of the sidewalk.
    As nonresponsive as a shark, it nosed its way into traffic, pushing me aside. An Escalade blasted past, almost scraping my behind. That was too close for comfort—my rear end was one of my greatest assets on