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 thedeep 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! Theplowman 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.
