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‘Of course you’re in. It’s money and attention, your two favorite things.’
‘You don’t even know me, Brooks. How can you say that?’
‘Because I know people like you.’
Like Alice.
She drops her shoulders from their offensive position and lowers her screechy tone. ‘Come on, Brooks. It will be the last thing we have to do together. Then you never have to see me again.’
‘Sold.’
‘You’re in?’ She bounces excitedly on her seat. It’s not surprising she’s excited. More attention for Little Miss Fame and Fortune.
‘I said so, didn’t I? Are we starting this workout or what?’
‘I’ll let the reporters in,’ Madge says.
As the back of the room fills with reporters, Izzy loads a YouTube video of her and a male partner talking about the basic steps of the tango.
From my lone spot in the middle of the studio, I hold up a hand and Izzy pauses the video.
‘How am I supposed to tango alone when the video is you in a couple?’
‘Erm, I guess I could dance with you.’ Izzy walks over to me.
‘Did you plan this?’ I ask for her ears only.
She opens her eyes wide and looks up at me through her lashes. ‘No, of course not.’
‘So, this isn’t some game concocted by you and Kerry?’
‘No. I forgot this video shows a couple. Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’
Feeling like I’m being played is doing nothing to soothe my anger.
‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘Why are you smiling like that?’
‘Because that nasty little frown of yours is perfect for the tango. It’s a heated, passionate dance.’ She leans in and whispers to me. ‘Dance it like I get right under your skin.’
As I feel her breath, hot on my neck, I admit to myself she is under my skin, in more ways than one.
I refuse to do the pointed toe crap but otherwise pick up the steps relatively easily; at least I think I do. Izzy doesn’t seem to be growling at me too much, so I take that as a good sign.
We watch the full dance through on the big screen twice and I try to follow the steps of the male dancer. All I can think is how fantastic on-screen Izzy looks, with her legs drawing shapes, her hips twisting, her sultry attitude. But something that irritates me even more than Izzy’s damn diet plans is watching her with her hands on another man.
‘I think you’re ready,’ Izzy says, grabbing my attention. ‘Let’s try it. Remember, if you mess up, just keep moving to get your workout.’
I miss half the steps, but we manage something like a dance. She’s smug because she knows she is outclassing me in front of the reporters.
When I spin her into me, she raises her leg to my hip and I take hold of it behind the knee, pinning her to me. I lean into her ear and tell her, ‘For the record, this dance is too slow to be a workout.’
I wonder if she feels the slip of my hand up her thigh, the way I pull her pelvis against mine.
She looks at me and her lips part. Her leg squeezes harder against my hip. ‘And yet you’re sweating, Mr Adams.’
Like I watched the man in the video do, I move backward, dragging her long straight leg along the studio floor. She wasn’t expecting the move and the glint in her eye tells me so.
‘As are you, Miss Coulthard.’
