Page 4
Chapter Two
Amira stretchedout her overused muscles, massaging her hands to release the cramping. After a busy weekend of sketching and sewing, she was grateful to have an evening out of the house.
Three years ago, she would never have imagined she would be plotting how to start her own freelance business, and certainly not tango dresses of all things.
But when she had worn one of her tango skirts to class that sunny spring day, she wouldn’t have believed it could change her life. The design had been one born out of her own curiosity and her research of famous tango dancers. The end result had been a skirt that was playful and daring, and one her dance teacher, Tilda, had noticed the moment she stepped foot in the studio.
What had become a small passion project had turned into a freelance job, designing tango clothes for Tilda’s performances. Work that would make moving out an actual reality.
Her heart danced. Now her dresses would be on show at the Mundial de Tango for all the world to see. Her designs. Her ideas. It was Tilda’s enthusiasm that gave her the confidence to try out new patterns and prints, which led to interest from other dancers wanting custom made designs. She would have to carve out some time over the next few months to create a website showcasing her work. If she wanted to progress in this career, she had to take those chances, calculate the risks.
Afraid she would jinx it if she thought too much about her future, Amira gave a quick tap on the wooden railing, and emerged from the underground train station into the heavy rain. Her sequined, pastel skirt fanned out as she raced across the busy intersection. The slit at the thigh wasn’t very revealing, but for a woman who dressed modestly most of the time, she felt wonderfully on display. It had been a daring, bold choice, but she made it with one aim in mind: to shine.
Tonight’s milonga at Bentleigh Place gave her the perfect excuse to wear it. The monthly gathering attracted great dancers from across the city. The international guest teachers always drew a crowd, and Amira was lucky to have booked a spot. It was a workshop about connections after all. She hadn’t been able to resist.
Stepping out of the wet, she entered the old brick building. The narrow entrance was already lined with people. Worming through the crowd, Amira squeezed into a spot at the back of the room, leaning on the exposed brick wall to buckle the strap of her shoes.
There was a steady, sensual pulse to Bentleigh Place. It reverberated through her body, heightening her anticipation.
Before taking lessons in tango, she had never had a man’s hands on her waist. Before taking lessons, she had never appreciated the male form; the confines of their embrace, some playful, others powerful, marked a quality specific to the dancer. It was this difference that teased out new elements of her own dancing. It was what made tango a dance of surprises.
She tucked a damp wisp of hair behind her ear, ignoring the shiver that tickled her spine.
Tonight’s lesson was about maintaining the connection between the lead and follower. It was the most basic aspect of tango, but the most crucial. The connection, the trust shared between two people in an embrace was as tender as a kiss. It was through this that all communication occurred. Was it any wonder she was hooked?
When the Argentinian teachers began the lesson, a hush settled across the room.
They started with a series of warm-up drills, splitting the floor in two groups. Even with the cool night, Amira’s body was on fire. Too many people, not enough air.
“Connection with your partner is key,” the Argentinian stated, pacing the floor. “Without it, you are hollow and your movement meaningless. Maintaining the connection is a basic and fundamental component when engaging with your partner. Gentlemen, I want you to form a circle around the room and raise your arms as if you were embracing an imaginary person. Bueno. Excellent.
“Now close your eyes.”
A low murmur ensued, some men coughing in nervous anticipation, others laughing. Every man was exposed, vulnerable.
“Ladies, it’s your turn. Find a man. Position yourself in the empty space of your partner’s arms. It is not simply our job as leaders to initiate that bond. Remember that as a follower you are just as responsible. You are both leaders and followers in that sense. As a couple, you must create and maintain that connection until I ask you to rotate.”
Beyond the brick walls of Bentleigh Place, she heard the rain lashing against the cars and buildings, marking its own rhythm. Amira smoothed down her skirt and turned. A man her age whom she had danced with before shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for a partner. His eye lids fluttered; his arms were half raised. She recalled that he worked in IT and had once revealed that he took lessons to improve his confidence with women. But his name escaped her.
When she moved into his open arms, he stiffened. Oftentimes he had requested to dance in an open embrace, chests apart. It seemed he had yet to grow out of his discomfort. She inwardly applauded his gumption, even if she didn’t agree.
She yearned for that moment of connection with a partner, looked forward to it with every dance. Sharing that space was a vital part of tango. Bodily contact was essential.
As the minutes shifted by, his regimented stance began to crumble. His touch, where once stiff, was now soft. His breathing easy. She smiled at his satisfied sigh. He had found it. Accepted it. A new milestone.
After a series of drills, the women swapped circles. Unable to find a partner, Amira stepped to the side only to have the Argentine teacher direct her to a lone figure at the far end of the room.
A shot of adrenaline pumped through her. She tried to regulate her breathing, shocked that he was here. At the nudge on her shoulder, she stepped forward. All the men still had their eyes closed, waiting for their partners to step into their embrace. Including him.
Her heart galloped, the expectation of dancing with him coursing through her veins. For months she had wondered whether they would be compatible as dancers. Lovers. Now she would find out.
Taking a deep breath, Amira slipped in between the gap of his raised arms and studied his face. She had the luxury of admiring the line of his jaw, the sweep of dark lashes before gently leaning forward, keeping her back straight as she pressed her chest against his. She was immediately surrounded by his scent. Cinnamon and leather and something more. An elemental fragrance, compelling, intoxicating.
His arm circled around her, adjusted and settled. She was overcome by the hard muscle against her breasts, by the firm hold across her waist.
Her body vibrated like a plucked violin string.
She placed her right hand in his raised left and rested her right temple to his cheek, completing the embrace. His breath caressed the base of her neck, fanning the fire, scorching her skin. What she would give to be out of this room, out of her clothes. With him.
