Tremor Read online

  Table of Contents

  Front Matter

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  After losing her husband and dance partner to a motorcycle accident, ballroom showdance champion Arabelle has developed a hand tremor, making it impossible to perform the beautiful balletic feats she is known for. In her devastation, she’s lost her love of dance anyway. But when she meets Jett, a theatrical dancer specializing in daredevil aerial stunts, Arabelle feels a double tremor – one producing trepidation, the other pulsing excitement, as he evokes the bad boy ways of her husband that had so enthralled her but had also resulted in his tragedy. Can Jett help Arabelle overcome the pain of her loss, cure her trembling body, and reinvigorate her passion for dance and life? And can Arabelle tame Jett’s reckless ways before they result in his own misfortune?

  Tremor is the sixth book in the Infectious Rhythm ballroom romance series.

  Tremor

  Infectious Rhythm Series, Book 6

  Tonya Plank

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and is not the author’s intent.

  Copyright © 2019 Tonya Plank

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address Dark Swan Press, 4980 S. Alma School Rd., Ste. A2, Box 466, Chandler, AZ 85248.

  ISBN paperback: 978-1-942289-16-6

  ISBN eBook: 978-1-942289-17-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019914625

  Edited by Rebecca Pruner Kimmel, The Writing Refinery

  Cover design by Marisa-rose Wesley, Premades 4 Authors

  Cover photo from istockphoto.com

  Author photo by Bruce Heinsius

  For all of my wonderful readers, and for everyone who loves ballroom dance.

  Chapter 1

  Arabelle

  “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen…” The emcee’s voice boomed over the microphone, and was followed by a drumroll. “I introduce to you, Tarzan, King of the Jungle! And his sweetheart, Jane!” Loud applause, filled with lots of whoops and hoots, echoed throughout the theater, along with a good deal of whispers.

  “Oh this is it, this is them,” my friend Lucia squealed, squeezing my shoulder. The drumroll intensified as the lights dimmed. Lucia rocked back and forth, her butt knocking into mine on the padded bench seats. The percussive sequence ended with a loud clang of a steel drum, which made me jump in my seat. I was definitely used to live performances, but not of the circus-like thriller variety. I’d been—well, I still was—a showdance ballroom dancer. We did our share of stunts, but not death-defying, airborne acrobatics like the ones here.

  The spotlight shone across the stage, revealing a young woman. She was standing on a precipice that was made to resemble a very thick tree branch. She was wearing a teensy-tiny loincloth around her crotch and an even teensier bra. Yes, very Vegas.

  “That’s her! That’s Mandi!” Lucia beamed. I shot her a sweet smile. She was so proud of her little sister for getting this gig. I was happy she was proud, even if it was in a super risky show in Vegas.

  The “tree branch” was shaking and Mandi looked on the verge of falling. She had fear in her eyes, though I’m sure it was acting. I took a deep breath. I didn’t think watching such a show would make me so nervous.

  The music swelled into an old Hollywood movie-style crescendo. The spotlight on Mandi faded, and another shone across the stage. We all followed the light up, up, up—Lord knows how many feet high— to where a man stood. He had sexily messed-about dirty blonde hair, was well-built, very tan, and wearing only a skin-toned loincloth that made him look naked. I gasped, literally. I would have been embarrassed but the room was filled with gasps. There was no way a soul heard me, including Lucia. He was beautiful. He was also perched on a tiny stick of a beam, though I couldn’t tell how wide it was since he was up so high. He was holding onto the bar of a swing, about to take a step off the perch.

  Suddenly, Bonnie Raitt’s “Holding Out for a Hero” began to blast. He took off, flying across the stage on that swing. He was stunning. His upper body was generally lean, like the majority of dancers—you can’t stretch muscle if you build it too bulky—but still more muscular than most. His face was a mix of classic matinee-idol and strong he-man, with a square jaw, prominent nose and solid cheekbones. His large eyes held an intense gaze that was visible despite the distance. He was like a cross between Tarzan and an old time movie star.

  He swung back and forth through the air a few times like a well-seasoned gymnast, making gorgeously perfect lines with his legs. His attention to form revealed a ballet background. And his strength was insane, both in his arms and legs. He propelled himself up and over the bar, doing a handstand at the top. He held his legs upright before doing a straddle split. He held the position for a while, showing a great deal of strength. He then flew across stage, propelling himself with just a single hand. The theater was so full of cheers the music was barely audible.

  He swung through the air several more times, now showing the strength of his legs by supporting his weight with his feet and ankles. On one swing across, he flexed his foot over the bar and flew upside down, supporting his entire weight on the top of one foot. But it wasn’t solely about strength. He also made a variety of shapes with his upper body, some beautiful, some funny. He flexed his muscles as if he were a body builder, then made a kind of male model pose with arms folded in front of him and a handsome smile. Finally, he stretched toward the other side of the room, his arms outward, as if he were reaching for a long-lost love. I was getting so wrapped up in the amazement of it all, that I almost forgot there was another dancer on the other side of the stage.

  Now another spotlight shone on Mandi. My right hand began to shake. Crap. The tremor. I gave it a little smack. I wasn’t even dancing. Why was it shaking now? I was sick to death of it. I looked up at her again. The trembling grew more intense. I looked away. But then I suddenly felt a shadow over me. I looked straight up and saw him—the male dancer—reaching down toward me. Of course, he was way above me and couldn’t possibly reach me, nor could he see me with the bright lights. I was a performer; I knew how bright lights blinded you from seeing anything in the audience, no matter how much it seemed from the audience perspective the performer was looking right at you. It’s somethi
ng we dancers call presence. And this guy had it in absolute spades. But still, it was completely surreal how it seemed like he was reaching right down to me, as if to pull me up, pull me out of myself and toward him, toward the light.

  I had a brief flash of Willem, my husband. No. I mean, my former husband and dance partner. My now-deceased husband and partner. A quick wave of heat crested over me, before turning into a shiver. I tried to shake it off.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Lucia patted my knee.

  I sat up straight, took a deep breath, and nodded.

  The light was back on Mandi.

  “Oooh,” Lucia squealed again.

  Mandi now had a smirk on her face. She looked at her Tarzan while he flew across the stage in a variety of crazy poses, shaking her head as if he were such a show-off. It was meant to be funny, and it was. The guy was a major show-off, to put it mildly. This so-called duet was far more about him than her. But it seemed like the performers were going with it. The audience laughed along with her. As he went back toward her, he did the same stunt as before, holding himself by the tops of his feet and folding his arms in front of him, flashing her—and us—his handsome male model smile. I smiled, noticing my tremor had abated. Thankfully.

  He perched atop his own little tree branch again, right as she wobbled on hers and seemed poised to fall. He beat his chest as a Tarzan call sounded over the microphones. Funny again. But then he swung over to her again, the spotlight highlighting his stunning physique, making him look like a Rodin statue in motion. He reached out for her, and she jumped into his arms. Or rather, his one arm. He held her around her waist with that one arm as he gripped the swinging bar with the other. They flew together back across the stage.

  It was a spectacular stunt. But thrilling as it was, I couldn’t help thinking how wrong it could have gone, ending in a serious calamity for her—if not for both of them. The audience didn’t seem to share my worries, instead going wild with applause. The pair continued swinging back and forth across the stage from perch to perch, doing all kinds of miraculous holds and making a multitude of beautiful shapes with their bodies wrapped around each other. I felt my trembling start again. I looked away, annoyed with the choreographer for creating something so death-defying. But when they passed over us I felt that weird sensation again, like his eyes were shining down on me, like he was compelling me to look up at him, to see him.

  And when I did look up, it was impossible to take my eyes away. The choreographer had arranged their swings back and forth to resemble the development of a relationship, each rotation illustrating a different stage. First, she hung below him, holding his feet with her hands while he let go of the bar with one hand, as if they’d just met. Then they tumbled about each other playfully, exemplifying the fun, flirty stage of their relationship. Then, they did things that looked more sexual—this was a show for eighteen-plus, after all. She spread her legs into a wide split, then wrapped them around him, which, completely ludicrously, made me feel a pang of jealousy. What was that about? Then they grew into love, embracing each other in a variety of poses that were simultaneously risky and extremely difficult, yet immensely beautiful. In their last pose, they looked like another Rodin sculpture in the air. Okay—the choreography was amazing, though still nerve-wracking.

  The audience went completely wild at the end of their number. His face oozed boyish charm as he took a bow with her far, far above us. Lucia raised her hands above her head as she clapped, chanting Mandi’s name. But all I could think was how much he outshone her. Hot as he was, he really was the definition of show-off. I’d been in the ballet world before I switched to ballroom and I knew so many of these kinds of men. They all wanted to be Baryshnikov, stealing the spotlight for themselves with no regard to their partner. Cocky male bravura asses. I emulated Lucia, raising my hands high above my head and screaming, “Mandi! Mandi! Woo!”

  Chapter 2

  Jett

  As much as I loved this show, as much as I loved highly theatrical, stunt-based dancing, as much as I loved Vegas, I was getting kind of tired of these after-show receptions where I had to spend hours meeting audience members with backstage passes. They all—both women and men—always seemed to hover around me the most. Yeah, I know that sounds cocky. And I understood why, with the routine and the Tarzan character and all. I admit, at first when I was new to Vegas, it was a blast, getting all fawned over. But it got old; setting boundaries, toeing the delicate line between pissing someone off with a rejection and letting them touch you practically wherever they wanted, incurring the wraths of their husbands or boyfriends.

  I’d taken to staying out of the limelight as much as possible. So, at this party I stood in the corner with my dance partner, Mandi, and two other dancers in the show, Max and Rosy, eating sushi and drinking sake at the table in the back. As guests arrived, a few spotted us. Friendly chatter and handshaking ensued.

  And then, my more typical encounter occurred.

  “Oh, what a true hero you were!” an older woman said to me, raising her brows, as she pawed at my chest. She was dressed to the nines and her crimson lipstick matched her hair color and the little red hearts on her inch-long fingernails.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I laughed.

  “You were just totally sexy and amazing, with all those feats and those legs and big man-arms,” she went on. The man beside her looked away. He wore beige shorts and a stained t-shirt. He looked dressed for a day on the beach, and she for a fancy cocktail party.

  “Thank you, again,” I said.

  “Where are you from?” She reached under my suit jacket and ran her long fingernail down the buttons of my shirt.

  I backed away a little, not liking where those nails were headed.

  And then I saw her. This holy beauty. She was standing on the opposite side of the room, next to another girl. She was looking all around, her eyes big and a soulful gray-blue, taking everything in. She was simply radiant. She had light blonde hair that hung nearly to her waist, like a ballerina’s. She stood with feet turned slightly out in third position, her long, luscious arms held gracefully out in front of her in an oblong pattern, as if she were subconsciously making a ballet-perfect port de bras. She was tall and thin, and her long legs had the fine musculature of a dancer. Definitely a ballerina, either now or in the past. Her face was heart-shaped and doll-like, with inquisitive eyes and full, pink lips that I wanted to kiss immediately without even knowing her. Okay, who the hell was this creature to cast such a spell on me? She had perfect posture and looked out on the world with an air that was somehow simultaneously regal and humble. She wore a pink, silky sundress that hit a couple of inches above her knees, and high-heeled white sandals. She had a long strand of white pearls around her neck. She was the definition of grace and elegance.

  She wasn’t the type who came to these parties. She wasn’t really the type I’d often seen in Vegas, in general. She didn’t look like she was here to let loose and have fun; she looked serious and, actually, a bit sad. She was totally out of her element, but beautifully, intriguingly so.

  And she didn’t look the least bit interested in me or in meeting any of the cast.

  “Um, oh, originally New York,” I said to the woman running her finger down my chest as she cocked her head at me, making me realize I hadn’t answered her. “But I’ve lived here for a long time now. Several years,” I added, wanting to distance myself from New York and my father, and everything there that I didn’t want to be part of.

  Hard as I tried to focus on the woman in front of me, I couldn’t take my eyes off the beauty who’d just entered my world.

  “Ooh, Lucy!” Mandi squealed. To my immense delight, Mandi started waving madly at the girl who was standing next to my lady. The friend had dark brown shoulder-length hair and wore tight jeans, a low-cut V-neck shirt, and high-heeled ankle booties. Now this was more the typical Vegas girl. They were friends? And she knew Mandi?

  The brown-haired girl waved back madly, and Mandi ran over to
her. No, no, no, you come over here, I thought. Right then, the beatific blonde turned her eyes to me and our gazes connected. My heart pounded and shot a rush of blood downward to my groin. Geez, what was wrong with me? She literally gasped, and looked away immediately, focusing on Mandi. Did I do something wrong? Well, I’d just have to find out.

  “Please excuse me for a moment,” I said to the woman whose fingernail had now rested right above the top button of my jeans. “I see an old friend.” She shot me a look of disappointment but I didn’t have time to deal with it. I gave her a polite smile and pat on the shoulder and walked toward Mandi and the beauty.

  As I approached, the blonde’s gaze connected with mine again. She peered down at her drink, as if suddenly entranced by the bubbles at its surface. Though they stayed focused on the glass, I could see her eyes widening as I approached. Long, long lashes covered dreamy blue irises. She swallowed and looked off in the distance, as if searching for something. I couldn’t tell if she was shy or aloof. Or maybe she just didn’t notice me, and there really was something interesting out there. She shifted her weight as if she were uncomfortable in my presence, then blinked and focused on the brunette, who was chatting animatedly with a very excited Mandi.

  “Hey, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” I said to Mandi, after clearing my throat.

  “Oh, sorry. Yes, Jett, this is my big sister, Lucia. Lucia, Jett, my partner,” she said, her hands gesticulating wildly, in typical Mandi mode.

  “So awesome to meet you!” Lucia extended her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I echoed, taking her hand, with a nod and a smile while looking back and forth between her and the blonde. The blonde held her head slightly downward, but looked up at me over the tops of those long-lashed lids. Long as those lashes were, I noticed they didn’t seem to bear a lot of mascara, only a smidgeon. She didn’t wear a whole lot of makeup, another un-Vegas thing about her. She didn’t need to; she was naturally beautiful. “And who’s your friend here?” I asked.