Hurrah for the Pirate King

By Zander Jaruk

Harry is a professional computer troubleshooter and part time Savoyard whose duties take him all over the country. Meharani is a gorgeous Sikh dancer who has suffered emotional abuse at the hands of men. Instantly attracted to each other when they meet at a dance class, they have to deal not only with her trust issues, but Meharani's parental issues as well. It takes a personal threat to bring things to a head. Will the two of them be able to resolve their problems and become more than merely dance partners?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zander Jaruk
• Release date: Apr 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458125903

Zander Jaruk

Zander Jaruk has been writing for decades, mostly on medieval and heraldic subjects. He began writing erotica in 2001 and in 2004 won the Literotica Author Award for Best Interracial Love Story. It is his belief that erotica can be much more than pornography; that properly written, it can be entertainment and perhaps even literature. (And besides, it’s fun!) When he is not writing, he can be found questing for bargains at estate sales or target shooting at his local gun club. He lives in New York with his wife, son and four cats.

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Hurrah for the Pirate King

By Zander Jaruk

Copyright 2011 Zander Jaruk

Smashwords Edition

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Cover design by Valerie Thompson

Other Smashwords books by Zander Jaruk

My China Marker

Sorodna Dusa

Four Erotic Adventures

Chapter 1

You need to get more aerobic exercise, said Dr. Smith, studying the printout that integrated the stress test, lung capacity test and blood oxygen levels from the torture device on which I’d just spent 15 minutes. Your muscle tone and body fat percentages aren’t bad, and neither is your cholesterol level, but your oxygen delivery stinks. How much exercise do you get a week?

I do three hours a week in the gym instead of eating lunch, I said.

Lifting weights, I bet. Presses, clean-and-jerks, leg presses, curls?

And inclined sit-ups, twisters and crunches, I agreed. "What’s wrong with that?

What’s wrong with it is that it’s doing damn-all for your endurance. You need to add a good aerobic workout to your routine.

I snorted. Yeah, right. Step up and down off a little bench, clapping my hands while some skinny, spandexed woman with buns of steel urges me and fifty fat, fatuous females to ‘go for the burn?’ No thanks.

There are other forms of aerobic exercise. Doc scribbled on a prescription pad, tore the sheet off and handed it to me. I want you to start taking iron supplements and folic acid tablets to help build up your red blood cells, and I want you to follow this prescription for at least six months. Now stop cluttering up my office, I have sick people waiting. A smile took the sting out of his last words as I put my shirt and tie back on. Given a choice, Doc would much rather prescribe exercise and healthy eating than pills or shots.

On my way back to work, I took the prescription slip out of my pocket and read it. It was cryptic, to say the least:

Go to 114 East Dyer Street, 2nd floor and talk to Sandi. Tell her I sent you. Listen to what she has to say and follow the regimen for six months. Then visit me again. Dr. Smith.

I found it hard to keep my mind on the server I was debugging that afternoon. Granted that like most computer jocks I live mostly inside my head and do much of my socializing over the Web, I do know the value of regular exercise and getting out of the house. I also know that Dyer Street is in a mixed-use part of town. There are trendy boutiques, clubs, bars, a couple of decent restaurants, bookstores, and apartments mostly populated by college students and singles working in offices. What the devil would Doc be sending me there for?

When I finally got the server back up at 6:30 that night, I put on my hat (everyone from the receptionist to the CEO teases me about my fondness for wide brim fedoras right out of a film noir gumshoe’s wardrobe), hopped on a bus and got off at Dyer Street. 114 East Dyer turned out to be a clothing store catering to the college crowd, its windows decorated with Halloween pumpkins, witch’s hats, brooms and cornstalks. The stairway next to it led to the upper floors. The door on the second floor landing had Cappellini School of Dance neatly lettered on its glass window. I cautiously pushed it open and entered the lobby.

It wasn’t much of a lobby as such things went; just a couple of tired couches and chairs and a sliding window that looked into an empty office. Posters of ballet dancers, a belly dance troupe, ballroom dancers in evening wear, and a blowup of Donald O’Connor, Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds from Singin’ in the Rain decorated the walls. The inner door was open. I slowly walked down the corridor.

I passed more posters, these overwritten with competition information, and the men’s and women’s locker rooms before coming to two doors that would have done credit to a vault. The one on the right, marked Studio B, was closed. I could faintly hear Middle Eastern drumming through it. From the hallway, I peered into Studio A.

A dozen couples were scattered around the room. As I watched, the opening notes of the Blue Danube came out of hidden speakers and they began to gracefully waltz around the floor. At least to my eyes they looked graceful. To the instructor at the far end of the room in unitard and skirt they apparently looked like cows on ice.

"Left arm higher, Petie! Lead firmly, don’t hesitate! Elyse! Eyes on your partner, not on your feet! You ought to know your steps by now! Maria, what are you doing? Don’t hang on his neck! This isn’t a sock hop, you know! David, stop counting and take your cues from the music!" The commentary continued until the waltz ended. At a gesture from the instructor, the dancers gathered around her for the verdict.

You’ve been studying and practicing for six months now. Some of you might actually be mistaken for ballroom dancers if the hall is badly lit. You have made progress and I’m pleased.

‘She may very well pass for forty-three, in the dark with the light behind her,’ I sang to myself. I hadn’t reckoned on the acoustics. The black-haired teacher looked past her pupils with a laser glare that fixed me where I stood. She went on, I’ll be in touch to inform those of you who are ready to move up to intermediate classes. The rest will continue in the next novice class. That’s all. The students gathered up their sweatshirts, towels and water bottles and streamed past me into the corridor. Following them, their teacher stopped in front of me. Petite, small-busted and well muscled, hair cut to shoulder length and a clear olive complexion, there was no doubt she was in charge.

Comments from the peanut gallery aren’t appreciated. What do you want?

I was referred to you by my doctor, I said, handing her the prescription form. She read it, chuckled and extended a hand.

I’m Sandi Cappellini. You’re not the first patient Doc Smith has referred to me, she said, starting down the corridor and waving at me to follow. He believes in killing two birds with one stone, and he’s right that dancing is much more fun than aerobics. What sort of dance do you have in mind?

What are my choices? I asked, taking a seat opposite her in the office.

We teach ballroom, folk, tap, Middle Eastern, medieval and Renaissance, 20th Century Popular and, heaven help us, club dancing. Sandi eyed me speculatively. Have you any experience, any preference?

"Well, I can waltz a