Introduction

Everything in Bill Shaw's life changed the moment he met the beautiful actress Nora Reyes. But as a writer, he feared their love story would have a tragic ending.

Fifteen years after that fateful encounter, Bill is in the DA s crosshairs: his research for a novel has eerie parallels to the circumstances surrounding Nora s death. In a harrowing progression of events, a murder trial ensues. What exactly did happen between Bill and Nora the day she died? And what constitutes truth? Fiction and fact coalesce, as the lines between fantasy and reality, guilt and innocence are blurred. The Lovers Tango, a story of deeply abiding love, culminates in a shattering conclusion addressing devotion, commitment, and the meanings of truth and justice.

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Excerpt

Chapter 1

I realized everything would change the moment I saw her. But I could never have known the life I lived and loved would come to so disastrous an end.

It began fifteen years ago at a West Village party, when the sound system stopped John Coltrane’s saxophone from crooning “You Don’t Know What Love Is.”

The sudden silence was odd for this maxed-out throng, gathered in an old brownstone, because this crowd—artists, actors, musicians, and writers—was always clamorous. Plenty of booze, coke, and weed made for stratospherically high spirits.

But when Coltrane’s saxophone stopped midnote—leaving a wake of silence—the lights began dimming.

That was the moment my life changed.

Because that’s when I saw her.

I didn’t know her name. I simply saw a raven-haired, olive-skinned woman take to the dance floor. Her hair was drawn back in a bun, accentuating her strikingly high cheekbones. She had dark eyes, a sloping nose with flared nostrils, and luscious lips. Her crimson-red pencil skirt was slit high on one thigh, and she was so very Latin-looking, so sensuous.

The crowd edged to the periphery. I sensed many people knew her. A low-level voltage pervaded the room. This incredible-looking woman—Nora, I later learned—stood theatrically poised as a svelte Latin-looking guy slipped an arm around her waist.

She held this conquistador’s eyes hungrily, yet there was remoteness, too. I felt my pulse quicken. My knees weakened. She reminded me of Carmen in Bizet’s opera.

Suddenly, voluptuous tango music swelled through the sound system.

The dance began.

She moved with intense feline grace. I was riveted by the arch of her back, by its lithe muscularity, by her toned, bare arms, exquisite legs, and the sheen of her bronzed skin. As they tangoed, her head-snaps were at one with the music, as she turned, swirled, and dipped.

I was consumed by the power of the dance. It was a dialogue of passion, a promise of something to come—the prologue of a love story.

Heat rose in my face, and my scalp prickled deliciously. I could have been watching a habanera at a lantern-lit café in Buenos Aires. My writer’s imagination was working overtime.

Applause rocked the room when the lighting returned. As the woman disappeared into the crowd, I stood in a state of stunned silence, certain she was unattainable.

“Unbelievable, isn’t she?”

A woman about my age—thirty, or so—looked up at me. She, too, had that Latin look—sensuous, pulsing with life. Yet, she looked partly Eastern European, too, maybe Polish or Russian. Her features were less delicate, more Slavic than Nora’s. But there was that same black hair and dark, laughing eyes.

“What do you think?” she asked with a nod toward the dance floor.

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And . . . expressive . . .”

“She’s my sister, Nora.”

“Yes, there’s a resemblance.”

“That’s the best compliment I’ve heard in years,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Lee. Lee Walsh.”

“Bill Shaw.”

“Would you like to meet her?”

Was this a hallucination? A surge of excitement ramped through me.

“Of course. But I . . .”

“The only but is that she’ll eat you alive.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I said, wondering if perhaps I was dreaming. Yes, I’d had luck with women, but this seemed beyond possibility.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and melted into the throng.

It occurred to me, despite all the women I’d known, I felt like a callow high school kid—uncertain, nervous. I belted down the rest of my scotch, feeling its warmth spread through my cheeks.

When the sisters approached, I was actually quivering with anticipation. I momentarily felt light-headed.

In her stiletto heels, Nora was my height. Close up, her eyes— large, dark, and liquid—roamed over me. I felt I could lose myself in the depth of her gaze.

“Nora Reyes, this is Bill Shaw,” Lee said.

As I grasped Nora’s hand, tingling coursed through me. Her hair glistened in the overhead light. Her nose swept down to those flaring nostrils. And her chin was full, with a plump underbelly— soft and inviting. Her skin appeared moist; I inhaled deeply, her essence filling my nostrils.

Her eyes moved brazenly over me. I felt exposed, vulnerable. Yes, Lee was right: I was being devoured by this gorgeous woman.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Lee said, and was gone.

Coltrane’s sax sang “All or Nothing at All.” A delicious yearning seeped through me, and I knew I’d always remember that night.

“Tell me, Bill,” Nora said. “Have I made a mistake all these years, avoiding these West Village get-togethers?”

“You’ve done the right thing.”

“And, tonight? Coming here?”

“The right thing, again.”

She laughed. “I suspect so.”

“Hopefully, your suspicions will be realized.”

She laughed with an open mouth. Her teeth were perfect. Her lips were sensuous, bow-shaped, pliant, and moist-looking. I felt an insane urge to press my lips to hers, to taste the wetness of her tongue, to feel her flesh against mine. It was a craving so intense, I thought for a moment I would clutch her in my arms, press her to me, and feel her heat.

“That was a beautiful tango. Argentine, right?” I said.

“Yes. There are different types.”

“Just a guess,” I offered, staring into her bottomless eyes.

“A very good one,” she said, as her finger brushed my cheek. My face burned.

“I could teach the tango to you.”

“I’d like that.” My body thrummed “Are you a professional dancer?”

“No, an actor.”

“Have I seen you in anything?”

“Not unless you watch the soaps. I’m in The Burning World. But tell me what you do, Bill.” She moved closer.

“I’m a writer,” I said, hoping not to sound like every fool at this gathering.

“Really? You look like a . . . a cop.”

I laughed self-consciously. I’d been told this so often, I felt I should have an honorary badge.

“Yes. You’re tall and well built. You have a strong face. And those eyes. Such a deep blue. You look very . . . rugged. I like that in a man. And a writer—brains and brawn,” she said, canting her head.

“You’re embarrassing me.” My face felt flushed.

“No, I’m not. You love it,” she replied, poking a finger into my chest. “Have I read anything you’ve written?”

“Only if you read crime fiction.” My God, did I sound like I was bragging? “I wrote Fire and Ice.”

“Fire and Ice? Isn’t that a movie?”

“Yes.”

“About a serial killer?”

“Yes. It was adapted from the novel.”

“Now I’ll have to read the book. I’m an avid reader. You wouldn’t be looking for an editor, would you?”

“I’ve never thought about it, but that could be arranged.”

“Bill, we can arrange anything we want,” she whispered in my ear.

“How about we arrange to go to dinner?” God, where did that come from? It had slipped out. My legs were turning to liquid.

“Where will we go?”

“There’s a lovely Spanish restaurant on Charles Street . . . El Charro,” I said, afraid she might think I was patronizing her.

“That sounds great. And then what?”

“Then . . .” I was at a loss for words. My throat tightened.

“I’ll bet you live near the restaurant,” she said with laughing eyes.

“I live on Charles Street, a garden apartment in a brownstone.”

“Right near the restaurant?”

I nodded.

“That would be wonderful,” she said, grabbing my arm.

That night was the beginning of the end of everything. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. What is the significance of the tango in the novel?
2. Do you agree with the jury's verdict in the trial of Bill Shaw? Why?
3. Was Killian Bill's alter-ego?
4. What inspired Bill to write Assassin's Lullaby?
5. Was Bill's trial a search for truth, or a war game between the attorneys?
6. To what extent do our wishes influence our perceptions of reality?

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