More Than Words, Volume 2

Harlequin

"He's still out there."

Despite the singsong lightness of Marcy's announcement,Georgia Rae Evans bristled. Nothing annoyed her more than a man who didn't know the very basics of acceptable behavior. She stomped over to the window beside her protégé, pleased to be accompanied by the sharp, staccato beat of her tap shoes, and with one decisive yank, cleared away the blinds that Marcy had been using as cover to spy on their mystery man.

Marcy scrambled away. "Georgia, what are you doing?" she whispered desperately.

"I'm trying to open this window," she said. Her voice strained as she struggled with the latch."What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're going to yell at him, aren't you? Georgia, he could be dangerous! This isn't Cobb County, sweetheart. This is Spanish Harlem. He could be a Latin King from the looks of him."

With her thumb wedged beneath the latch, Georgia Rae gave it one last tug. She accomplished nothing except putting a wicked indentation in her skin. Dangerous gang member, she doubted. She'd already sent the neighborhood cop to check him out.Georgia had watched from the window while the guy showed ID and, she later found out, assured Officer Bill that he was simply waiting for someone. Still, his presence had disturbed her afternoon. He was too?darn,but she couldn't quite find the right word.Disruptive was the closest she could come up with. He captured her attention, even when common sense told her to ignore him.

But he wasn't an easy man to overlook. He wore his hair long, but in a shaggy way that made her think he'd just forgotten to show up for his regular haircut. And while he'd mostly kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes hidden behind reflective shades, he didn't exude that dangerous vibe she'd learned to detect, the one that had kept her safe during her past four years in New York City.

Recently and painfully, Georgia had learned not to ignore her instincts,especially when it came to men.Consequently,she wasn't backing down today just because of a sticky window. Bottom line was — he'd been watching the dance studio all day. And good or bad, his intentions would make the difference between her calling the police again or just running him off herself.

With a grunt, she gave up on the window and glanced over at the clock hanging above the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the dance studio. Most of the area middle schools had let out just minutes ago. The students for her first class would start trickling in very soon, and in order to get to the studio, they'd have to pass the loitering Hispanic man who'd parked his butt in front of the furniture store across the street. And while he seemed to be paying attention to the entire neighborhood around him, his gaze kept wandering back to the second-story dance studio where Marcy and Georgia had been working all day, picking out music and designing low-cost costumes for the girls' performance at a fundraiser three weeks from Saturday.

Waiting for someone, huh? The man possessed more patience than any New Yorker she'd ever met.

She'd noticed him on her way into the studio because, well, he was hard not to notice. His dark skin, dark eyes and swaggering smile at the women who dared walk by him reminded her of Antonio Banderas in The Mask of Zorro. Intense, menacing, and with a sense of self that warranted immediate notice.Georgia contained her sigh, not allowing her fantasies of being Catherine Zeta-Jones to interrupt her ire.Spanish Harlem could be a rough place,a scary place, even for the young girls who lived in the neighborhood and traveled to the studio several times a week for their dance lessons. The last thing her charges needed to deal with was some sicko who'd been watching the building since rush hour.

The decision to act was made for her when two of her girls, dressed in T-shirts and sweats with their tap shoes laced together and dangling over their shoulders, emerged from the deli across the street. The mystery man slid off his perch and approached them. The girls,fourteen and street smart,didn't so much as flinch, but Georgia felt her blood pressure rise to explosive levels.

"I don't give a rat's ass if he's recently been released from Attica, Marcy, I won't have him messing with my girls," Georgia insisted.

She grabbed her wrap sweater and dug her arms into it, twisting the tie around her waist.

Marcy's café-latte skin paled."Girl,you've lived in this city long enough to know you don't go out looking for trouble!"

Georgia jammed her legs into her black warm-up pants,but left her tap shoes on. She'd need the height of the two-inch heels, and the machine-gun-fire sound wouldn't hurt, either. When she marched over to tell that man to get the hell away from her students, a soundtrack would come in handy.

"I'm going to look for Officer Bill first," Georgia conceded.

"But if he's not anywhere to be found, then I'm going to stroll on over and see what Zorro's apprentice is doing on this fine, autumn New York day."

Her Southern accent thickened ever-so-slightly as she turned on the charm — not that the accent could congeal much further. Georgia Rae had been born and bred just outside of Atlanta, where cultivating a sugary Southern twang increased a girl's chance of bagging a wealthy husband. Not that Georgia Rae had gone on that particular spouse safari — much to her mother's chagrin — but even though she'd been surrounded by Yankees for quite some time and had completed her college studies in the heart of the Midwest, she could turn on her bred-from-birth charm when it suited her purpose.

Marcy shook her head and returned to her task,which was cueing the music for the first of Georgia's three afternoon classes. Georgia turned on her heel, determined to find out who the man was and why he thought it was perfectly all right for him to talk to her girls.

The street was crowded with people, many of whom she knew by name. The day was a little brisk, being October in New York City, but the weather was clear and breezy. This part of Harlem — heck, any part of Harlem — had a reputation for being chancy, but Georgia Rae had learned firsthand that despite the bad press, most of the people who lived in East Harlem did care about what happened here. Just like she cared what happened to her students.

The minute she walked out the door, she saw the mystery man's face snap up. His gaze traveled across the street and slammed her with keen intensity. The girls he'd been chatting with dashed away, hurrying to the street corner before they crossed. Georgia stood there, her stare locked with Mr. Leather Jacket's, until her students approached.

"Who's that man you were talking to?" she asked.

Lupe, popping on her ever-present bubble gum, shrugged her shoulders."Some papi chulo who asked us if we danced."

"Yeah," Lisette replied with a snort. "Like we carry tap shoes around for our health."

Georgia waved the girls inside. She should have known these two could handle themselves, but not all her students had sharp tongues and attitudes like Lupe and Lisette.

After double-checking the crisscross tie on her sweater to make sure her tight leotard was covered,Georgia gave the man,who was still watching her, a quick grin, then looked both up and down the block for any sign of Officer Bill.

Nothing.

He'd come around soon. He tried to make a pass down 124th and 3rd Avenue around the time the girls were heading toward the studio, but Georgia had called him earlier, thus disrupting his beat. But she was in no mood to wait around or play games. She had classes to teach and needed to ensure her students arrived at the studio safe, sound and without being accosted.

Continuing to grin, she stepped out quickly between a Buick and a pickup parked out front, looked both ways and, still brimming with righteous indignation, crossed the street.

By the time she reached him, his eyebrows were high on his forehead.

"Hi," she said saucily.

He slid off his sunglasses, revealing inky dark irises surrounded by thick lashes that were almost too pretty to belong to a man. Almost.

Excerpted from More Than Words, Volume 2by Macomber, Debbie/Sala, Sharon/Cresswell, Jasmine/Barton, Beverly/Leto, Julie Elizabeth Copyright © 2005 by Macomber, Debbie/Sala, Sharon/Cresswell, Jasmine/Barton, Beverly/Leto, Julie Elizabeth. Excerpted by permission.
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