Waltz This Way (Ex-Trophy Wives Book 3) Read online

  Waltz This Way

  Dakota Cassidy

  Copyright

  Waltz This Way

  Copyright © 2020 by Dakota Cassidy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement by the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and story‐ lines in this book are inspired only by the author’s imagination. The characters are based solely in fiction and are in no relation inspired by anyone bearing the same name or names. Any similarities to real persons, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Imprint: Independently published

  Important Author Note

  ***Dear readers,

  Please note, the Ex-Trophy Wife series was originally published by Berkley Publishing Group in 2010-2012. In this newest incarnation, I’ve changed very little but a few stray words and the covers. Essentially, all remains the same. Please take note, as you may have already purchased.***

  Acknowledgments

  First, a quick thank-you to Myriam Hernandez, who was the inspiration for the hero’s Aunt Myriam. You rock, sister!

  I’m an insane fan of Dancing with the Stars and So You Think You Can Dance, which inspired this particular book. But it wasn’t just the latest crop of TV shows that made me decide to create a heroine who’s a dancer.

  I loved to spin in circles as a kid, and— much to my parent’s amazement— I got so good at it I stopped getting dizzy. It was my dad who found a way to put all that twirling to good use. It was also my dad who showed me the ways of Lawrence Welk and ballroom dancing.

  There really was— in my young world, anyway— nothing like some Lawrence on PBS, and the sound of the words “And a one, and a two, and a three!” I loved ballroom dancing long before it was hip, and I followed that passion, along with my deep love of ballet, contemporary, and jazz for nearly thirteen years of my childhood and well into my late teen years.

  And I danced because my dad introduced me to the quiet, gentle beauty of a waltz; the sizzling excitement of a smoldering paso doble; the torrid passion of Swan Lake; and okay, the lure of floaty, swirly dresses with lots of dramatic makeup and hair that flowed down my back. He took me to endless dance classes when he was tired, and he never missed a performance. Not since I was four.

  Oh, to fouetté and relevé in a pink tutu again without pulling a hip muscle. You know, that spinny thing you do while you’re in fourth position? I hope I’ve used that correctly in a sentence. My addiction to spinning didn’t necessarily require me to spell the spin.

  So this is for my dad— miss you much all the way down here.

  Dakota XXOO

  Also note, I’ve obviously taken artistic license with the various titles of ballroom championships for fictional purposes. Just so all you die-hard ballroom fans and those who’ve practiced the sport don’t take offense.

  Riverbend, New Jersey, is a fictional town made up in my pea brain.

  Acknowledgments to www.e-cookbooks.net/aprons/funny1.htm

  Chapter 1

  The first rule of the ex-princess club? Suck. It. Up.

  “Cornflake?”

  Melina Cherkasov smiled distractedly at the sound of her father’s voice, tucking her cell phone beneath her chin while she tried her key in the lock of her small dance studio for the second time that morning. If one more thing had to be replaced, her husband, Stan, would blow a nut.

  “Hi, Daddy. How are you feeling?”

  His grunt, gruff and short, made her smile. “I’m fine. Jake’s fine. Still shits big, my Jake, the damn mutt. Everything’s fine here in Jersey. I wanna know how you’re feelin’, spaghetti and meatballs?”

  For as long as she could remember, whenever her father referred to her, his pride and joy, he always used endearments that involved food. It had become a game that had made her giggle as a child, and still filled her heart with warmth as an adult. Joe Hodge was big, loud, and without censor or, as some might say, class, but he loved his little girl like no other.

  Mel’s stiff fingers jammed the key into the lock again and twisted hard. “What do you mean how do I feel, Dad? I feel fine.”

  She gave a perplexed glance at the door and fought a curse word, catching a glimpse of herself in her studio’s glass window. She blew out a disgusted breath.

  Her brown-black hair pulled back so severely in a tight ponytail made her need for a touch-up painfully evident in the early morning sunlight. And she noted her olive complexion was looking a little wan today sans makeup. Maybe that was because she hadn’t heard from her husband in three solid days, and she’d spent half the night trying to reach him.

  “Where’s that sissy-pants husband of yours?” her father barked.

  Mel winced, giving up on the door to lean against the brick front of the old building with a huff. There was no love lost between her husband, Stan, and her father. Stan was older than Mel by twenty-two years. Something her father had made no bones about disliking from the moment he’d been introduced to Stanislov Cherkasov when Mel was just nineteen. That he was an infamous Russian ballet choreographer slash ballroom aficionado and now a national celebrity as a judge on Dude, You Can Dance meant squat to Joe.

  Joe had often grumbled about paying for all those expensive ballroom lessons that had led Mel to three junior championships, two U.S. titles, and the opportunity to pursue her dreams in the big city only for her to end up married to a man who was as unsightly as a wart on his ass.

  A geriatric wart, at that.

  Joe called Stan Twinkle Toes or, while he twirled around with a finger over his head and cackled, the Ballerina.

  Often.

  Mostly directly in Stan’s face over some holiday dinner until Stan had refused to even consider getting on a plane to the East Coast to endure, in her husband’s words, “the stoopid American’s free turkey dinner.”

  Her father didn’t have a single issue with men dancing until Stan. In short, her dad despised him. When someone in the press had called Stan Twinkle Toes and when he’d found out it bothered Stan, the game was on, and he hadn’t let go since.

  On the phone with him now, she chose to ignore the possibility that her father would go off on one of his tangents about men in tights and sought a cheery approach to her husband’s whereabouts instead.

  “Stan’s in—” She paused a moment. Where was Stan, and why couldn’t she get into her dance studio? “Oh! He’s in Wisconsin, Dad, auditioning contestants for the show.”

  There was a low growl, and then, “The hell he is.”

  “What?” Her question vague while she dug through her purse to see if possibly she had the wrong set of keys.

  “You watched the TV today?”

  She chuckled indulgently. He always forgot the time difference between L. A. and Jersey. “No, Dad. It’s only nine in the morning here. I just got to the studio. Besides, you know I don’t do the news.”

  Too much death. Too much sadness. Too much gossip. Gossip that, as of late, since the show’s popularity had risen to stratospheric proportions, marked her handsome husband’s every move.

  There was a rustle and she supposed her father was repositioning himself in front of his TV. “Well, maybe you oughta find ya one. You got one in your studio, don’t cha?”

  “It’s just an old black and white with crappy reception.” There wasn�
�t much in her studio that wasn’t old.

  “Bet Fred Astaire has a big flat-screen the size of my ass in his office.”

  Mel sighed and closed her eyes, a slight throb beginning above her right one. “It doesn’t matter what Fred Astaire has, Dad. I have a dance studio where you’re supposed to learn to dance— not watch TV.”

  “Don’t matter, Mel— you need to go turn it on and watch what I’m watchin’. That Hollywood Scoop. You know, the twenty-four-hour access to the stars show?”

  “Daddy?”

  “Sweet potato?”

  “First, I can’t get into my studio. The key won’t work for some crazy reason. Second, since when have we watched TV together—long distance—”

  “Since I can’t get to where you are in Lala Land before you get the news. So I wanna be sure I’m at least nearby— even if it’s only on the phone.”

  Still not giving her father her full attention, she paused again, lifting a hand to wave at a neighboring yogurt-store owner who gave her an odd look, before quickly turning away and jamming his key into the door of his store.

  At least someone’s key still worked. “Third, Daddy, what have I told you about watching tabloid television?”

  His sigh was long. She could picture him tipped back in his La-Z-Boy in his retirement village, his wide face wrinkling in impatience at being called to task. “You said half of it wasn’t true and the other half was only mostly true,” he offered, his tone that of a petulant child who’d been reminded the hundredth time in a day to stop running in the house.

  “Right. So why would I want to watch Hollywood Scoop with you? I love you, Dad, but I won’t indulge those gossipmongers. They speculate far more than they ever hit the mark. Besides, I don’t have cable here at the studio. A studio I can’t get into right now anyway.”

  There was a pause on her father’s end before he asked, “Don’t Twinkle Toes own that run-down, piece-of-crap building that just barely passes code you got your studio in?”

  Once more, Mel hesitated. If she fed her father even a morsel of a reason to beat Stan down, he’d open wide and gnaw off her arm.

  Yes. Stan owned the building. Yes. It was run-down and badly maintained, and yes, it was the lowest on her husband’s list of priorities.

  Lower still because Stan didn’t love that she allowed children who couldn’t afford ballroom lessons to come to her classes whether he liked it or not. “Dad, that’s not the point, and I really have to go. I have to call a locksmith.”

  “Honey, don’t go. You need to listen to me.”

  His somber words caught her attention, but it was brief. She was too busy trying to figure out if the lock had rusted. Mel sank to the ground to eye the door’s keyhole, accidentally tipping her purse on the pavement in the process.

  She rolled her eyes at the scatter of makeup, antibacterial hand soap, and receipts galore. Tucking the phone under her chin, she began to sift through the mess, searching for her other set of keys.

  “Melina Eunice Hodge!”

  The use of her middle name was meant to bring her back into focus and force her to pay attention. All it really did, or had ever done, was make her cringe. God, she hated her middle name, even if it was because her mother’s mother was a Eunice— and someone Melina had really loved. It still sucked.

  The use of her middle name also sent a shiver along her spine.

  Something wasn’t right. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m distracted. It’s been a crazy week, and Stan’s been gone a long time. So I’ve been a little cranky.”

  “Looks like he’s gonna be gone a whole lot longer.”

  “Say again?”

  “Girl, would you please sit still and just listen to me. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, Mel! You were always a fidgeter. I need to talk to you. Now be still and quit fussin’.”

  Her fingers stopped moving upon command, her stomach jolted.

  “Stopping. Because now you have me worried. Are you sick, Dad?”

  Her worst fear since her mother had died five years ago was losing her father, too.

  “Good, and no, I’m not sick. Not unless you count my God damn acid reflux and bursitis. Oh, and my knees. They drive me to drink.”

  “It isn’t your knees that drive you to a Schlitz, Dad, and you know it.” Mel smiled, pulling her own knees up to her chin. Well, almost up to her chin. If she could just lose those last fifteen pounds, she’d be closer to her fighting weight.

  Okay. Maybe the real number for her fighting weight was twenty-five total pounds, but she was trying to remain realistic at forty. And twenty-five pounds wouldn’t allow for the occasional Choco-Bliss or ranch dressing on her salad instead of the fresh juice of a lemon.

  “Listen, breadstick, you got trouble comin’ your way.”

  Just as those words sank in, Mel heard someone yell, “It’s her!”

  Her head popped up at the thump of feet on the pavement, coming from across the street. A throng of cameramen and smartly dressed reporters headed her way like a pack of salivating dogs.

  The paparazzi. Here?

  Huh.

  She wrinkled her nose in total distaste. Shitty bastards. How had they found her? Stan kept her dance studio like some would a dirty little secret. She suspected he let her keep the studio open to keep her from complaining about his long stints away from home.

  Stan had little tolerance for what he called her wish to save deprived children with a silly waltz. He’d declared the caliber of dancers she was drawing beneath him in almost as many words.

  While Stan had been a well-respected, famous choreographer in the world of Russian ballet, he wasn’t a household name until Dude, You Can Dance. Now everyone wanted a piece of him, and anyone who was directly related to him. They especially wanted a piece of the woman who was married to him because Mel fought so hard to stay out of the limelight. She was an enigma and a constant source of speculation.

  Not that Stan was all that interested in having her share his limelight. He didn’t want to do that with anyone. He especially didn’t want to share it with Mel because he said lately she looked like she’d eaten too much borscht.

  Which had hurt. But then, even if she wanted Stan to love her for who she was on the inside, Mel had to admit, the outside was a little like a can of freshly opened dinner rolls— sort of oozy in some places.

  Lightbulbs were suddenly flashing, and microphones were shoved in her face as she attempted to slide to an upright position in the midst of the chaos. “Melina! What do you have to say about Stan and Yelena?”

  Her father’s squawking fell on deaf ears as her phone slid from beneath her chin. She shoved it into the pocket of her ankle-length sweater.

  “So what do you have to say about Yelena?” someone repeated.

  Yelena. Like the newest choreographer Yelena from Dude, You Can Dance who had a body so hard even a wrecking ball couldn’t crack it?

  Like the Yelena with no last name, Yelena?

  What could Mel possibly have to say about her, and what did she have to do with Stan? Other than the fact that he was her boss as executive producer and head judge of the show?

  Mel’s breath quickened when a male reporter she vaguely recognized from Hollywood Scoop turned to the crowd, froth but a bead of saliva away from forming in the corners of his mouth, and yelped, “Holy shit! She doesn’t know! Back off, you bunch of piranhas. I got her first!”

  Not to be out-frothed, a salivating blonde from another tabloid show with makeup too harsh for daylight hours gave the Hollywood Scoop guy an elbow to the ribs and jammed a microphone into Mel’s face.

  There was a flash of pity in her overly charcoal-lined eyes, and then she went all viper. “How does it feel to be left for a woman almost half your age? Have you seen this? It was taken by a fan of the show.”

  She shoved a picture of Stan and Yelena in Mel’s face—at some Wisconsin cheese festival. At least that was what the banner said. Holding hands while Stan swallowed Yelena’s lips whole.

  It was clear
they’d been caught off guard. Stan’s eyes were wide with surprise in the shot.

  The ground beneath Mel wobbled and shifted, her vision becoming blurry and distorted. Thankfully, her tongue neither wobbled, nor blurred.

  She forced her shoulders to lift in an indifferent shrug. Like it was no big deal Stan was sticking his tongue down Yelena’s throat while experiencing the splendor of aged sharp cheddar.

  “How does it feel to spend a good portion of your paycheck from Satan on all that peroxide?”

  The blonde’s eyes narrowed for only a second before she regained her composure. Just as she was gearing up to lob another question at Mel, another reporter shoved the blonde to the side while yet another crowded her up against the building until she almost couldn’t breathe from their close proximity.

  Fighting down a sob of rage, she stooped, hoping to gather the rest of her things and run as far away as she could, but they had her packed too tightly against the building.

  Screw her antibacterial soap. She grabbed at the important stuff, her wallet and her keys, her fingers scraping the concrete as she did.

  Mel rose, sucking in a harsh breath at the head rush that assaulted her, and in stoic silence, began to push against the cluster of hands holding microphones, her heart crashing out a painful rhythm in her ears.

  Some of the neighboring store owners had begun to gather along the sidewalk, their obvious curiosity stung just as good as any sharp slap across her face. Their whispers made her sad. No one made a move to help her fight her way out of the throng of cutthroats.

  And she’d once thought they were all sort of like neighbors. Like the kind that always had each other’s backs when vulture reporters were breathing down your neck? Nice neighbors, the lot of ’em.

  Definitely not Mr. Rogers approved.

  Biting her lip, while making a conscious choice not to let the scourge of humanity get one single word from her, Mel went at them headfirst, bulldozer style.