Excerpt of Dead on the Dance Floor by Heather Graham

Chapter 1

There was always something to see on South Beach.

Always.

Glittering, balmy, radiant by virtue of the sun by day and
neon by night. The rich and beautiful came and played, and
everyone else came and watched. The beach sparkled,
offering the most spectacular eye candy, gossip, scandal,
traffic jams and more. Nearly bare bodies that were
beautiful. Nearly bare bodies that were not so beautiful.

Models, rockers, skaters, bikers, would-be-surfers-were-
there-only-some-surf, the MTV crowd, the very old, the
very young.

But tonight there was even more.

One of the largest and most prestigious ballroom dance
competitions in the world was taking place at one of the
best-known hotels ever to grace the strip of sand called
Miami Beach.

And with it came Lara Trudeau.

She spun, she twirled, she floated on air, a blur of
crystal color and grace.

She was, quite simply, beauty in motion.

Lara demonstrated a grace and perfection of movement that
few could even begin to emulate. She had it all, a flair
to pin down the unique character of every dance, a face
that came alive to the music, a smile that never failed.
Judges were know to have said that it was difficult to
look down and judge her footwork, much less notice the
other couples on the floor, because her smile and her face
were so engaging they almost forgot their duties. They had
been known to admit that they hadn’t marked other couples
as accurately as they might have: Lara was simply so
beautiful and spectacular and point-blank good that it was
hard to draw their eyes away from her.

Tonight was no exception.

Indeed, tonight Lara was more incredible than ever, more
seductive, alluring, and glorious. To watch her was to
feel that the senses were teased, stroked, awakened,
caressed, excited and eased.

She was along on the floor, or rather, alone with her
partner, Jim Burke. During the cabaret routines, each of
the couples in the finals took the floor alone, so there
she was, her body in a lithe example of feminine
perfection in her formfitting ball gown of a thousand
colors. Jim, as talented as he was, had become nothing
more than an accessory.

Those who loved her watched in awe, while those who
despised her watched with envy.

Shannon Mackay, current manager of Moonlight Sonata, the
independent studio where Lara had long ago begun her
career and continued to coach, watched with mixed feelings
of wry amusement, not at all sure herself whether she
loved Lara or despised her. But there was no denying her
talent. Even among the spectacular performances by the
best and most accomplished artists in the world community
of professional dance, Lara stood out.

“She is simply incredible,” Shannon said aloud.

At her side, Ben Trudeau, Lara’s ex, snorted. “Oh, yeah.
Just incredible.”

Jane Ulrich, who had made it to the semifinals but been
edged out at the end, as usual, by Lara, turned to Ben
with a brilliant smile.

“Oh, Ben. You can’t 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 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.

“Maybe,” Gordon agreed ruefully. “She’s been known to
swallow a few Xanax when she’s nervous.”

“Or maybe alcohol?” Justin said worriedly.

“When she’s dancing?” Rhianna protested, shaking her head.

“She truly considers her body a temple,” Sam informed them
with complete assurance. “But sometimes the temple needs a
few offerings, she says,” he added. “She must have taken
something I mean, look at her.”

“I hope she’s going to be all right. She’s got to be all
right!” Shannon said, sharing Gordon’s concern regarding
whether or not she should step forward.

Gordon set his hand on Shannon’s shoulders. “No,” he said
softly.

She stared at him, puzzled.

“It’s too late,” he told her.

“What?” Shannon said, disbelieving.

Yet even as she asked the question, Richard Long
rose. “Clear the floor, please. I’m afraid it’s too late,”
he said quietly.

“Too late?” came a shout.

“She’s . . . gone,” Richard said awkwardly, as if sorry
that his words gave the final ring of reality to the
unbelievable.

“Dead?” Someone in the crowd said.

Richard sighed, dismayed that he couldn’t get his words to
sink through the collective head of those surrounding
him. “I’m afraid . . .yes.”

The sound of sirens filled the night.

Seconds later the crowd parted and medical techs swept
into the room. They added emergency equipment and a
desperately administered injection to the CPR efforts.

But in the end, no matter how hard they tried, it was
over. Those watching kept their distance but could not
turn away.

Shannon stared at the uniformed men, frozen in disbelief,
along with the others. And as she watched, unbidden, a
strange whisper filtered back into her mind.

You’re next.

Insane. Silly. Someone had mistaken her for the next
dancer to compete, that was all. Everything was a mess,
Lara had fallen, but would be all right in the end. The
CPR would work. She would suddenly inhale and stand up,
and soon they would all be talking about her again, saying
that she would do anything to create the biggest
impression of the evening. She meant to be remembered, to
be immortal.

But no one lived forever.

As the crowd left the floor at last, still stunned, there
were murmurs everywhere.

Lara Trudeau. Gone. Impossible. And yet, she had died as
she had lived. Glorious, beautiful, graceful, and
now . . . dead.

Dead on the dance floor.