Dancing with Dalton
Laura Marie Altom
It takes two to tango, but Rose Vasquez hasn't felt like dancing since her husband died. For her little girl's sake, she's determined to make a new life in warm, friendly Hot Pepper, Louisiana.But something strange and wonderful is happening in the dance studio she just bought, where her latest student is– literally!– sweeping her off her feet. Being groomed to someday take over his family's banking business is one thing, but performing the tango at this year's Miss Hot Pepper Pageant could be Dalton Montgomery's greatest challenge. Especially when his alluring teacher and her irresistible daughter show him what's been missing in his bachelor world.Now he'd like to return the favor by filling Rose's dance card and becoming her partner– for keeps. But is Rose ready to let another man into her life? Dalton hopes so, because he's not willing to sit this one out!
Dancing with Dalton
Laura Marie Altom
For the newest member of our family, Russell Shook.
I love you, sweetie!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
“Next on the agenda,” Alice Craigmoore said in her raspy, Southern drawl, “is this year’s Miss Hot Pepper pageant. Mona, as our reigning pageant chair, do you have a report?”
Dalton Montgomery took this as his cue to commence with a nap.
The private back room of Duffy’s Barbecue was famous for not only its fishing-themed decor, but also its oak and leather chairs roomy enough to allow a guy to enjoy a man-size meal without feeling sliced in half. In other words, it was easy to tune out of the bimonthly meeting’s most mind-numbing portions.
As president-elect of Hot Pepper, Louisiana’s chamber of commerce, Dalton had no problem tackling ordinary business matters. But whenever his fellow members started in with one of their half-dozen festivals they’d planned, or God forbid this pageant, he felt completely out of his league. But then these days, was there anywhere he did feel comfortable and in control?
As the only son of the president of the First National Bank of Hot Pepper, Dalton had been expected since birth to one day step into his father’s shoes. The one time he’d deviated from the plan, he’d failed miserably both personally and professionally, leading him to believe maybe fate was smarter than he was.
Fifteen years later, here he was, resigned to living the rest of his days in a twelve-by-twelve office with an alley view.
Rubbing his forehead, he stifled a groan.
He wasn’t usually so cranky about his lot in life. He had a large group of family and friends. A great house. Pool. Shiny new red Escalade. In the grand scheme of things, he didn’t have much to complain about.
So why was it that when he’d shaved this morning, the guy gazing back at him in the mirror had looked damn near dead?
“Dalton?” Mona asked. “Haven’t you heard a word of what I’ve just said?”
“Huh?” He glanced up.
All ten chamber of commerce members present stared his way.
“The outgoing Miss Hot Pepper. It’s your responsibility to tango with her during the lag time when the judges tally their scores.”
Nope. Not going to happen. “I thought it was the president’s responsibility to do the whole cheesy dance thing?”
“Cheesy?” Alice and Mona said in equally outraged tones.
“I’ll have you know,” Mona said, “that the end-of-pageant dance is a tradition that’s been alive longer than you.”
“And as incoming president,” Alice piped in, “seeing how you’re a man, you’ll have to perform. After all, you wouldn’t want to see me up there dancing with the beauty queen, would you?”
Hell, no. But that didn’t mean he wanted to do it, either. “Why does it have to be me? There are twenty other guys I’m sure would be thrilled for the opportunity. For that matter, doesn’t the outgoing Miss Hot Pepper have a boyfriend? Why can’t you use him?”
“It’s not that bad,” Frank Loveaux said, loosening his brown striped tie. The man had a triple chin, so Dalton could see where the business noose would hinder his breathing. “I did it three years ago and had a ball. That was back when Mindy Sue Jacobs was Miss Hot Pepper.” He whistled, then grinned. “That little lady was a pistol. To this day, I still dream about the kiss she gave me at the end of our dance.”
“That’s all well and good,” Dalton said, “but everyone knows I can’t dance. Just ask my prom date—over a decade later, and she’s still crippled from my stepping on her toes.”
“My daughter’s toes work just fine,” Catherine Bennett—mother of his prom date, Josie—said. “Why are you being so obstinate? If it weren’t for your arguing, we could’ve been three more items down the agenda.”
Ouch. He and Josie hadn’t lasted much beyond prom. Her eagle-eyed, blunt-talking mother had been a huge part of the problem. That, and the fact that Josie had been pretty and sweet and all, but she hadn’t lit any fires in his belly. His mama had always told him that if a girl didn’t keep him awake at night, craving their next kiss, it was time to move on.
Well, here he was, thirty-five years old, and aside from his ex, Carly, sleeping like a rock. Not that he lacked for female companionship. Just that to date, no woman except Carly had come anywhere near making him feel alive. Complete. But she had changed all that by slashing his heart in a zillion pieces. Now he vastly preferred the single life. He might occasionally be lonely, but the alternative of being emotionally annihilated sucked.
Alice slammed her gavel against the speaker’s podium. “I’d like to make a motion that Dalton perform the end-of-pageant tango. All in favor?”
Nine arms shot up. “Aye.”
“Opposed?”
“Nay,” Dalton alone said.
With another slam of her gavel, his fate was sealed. “The ayes have it. Next on the agenda—the Hot Pepper Festival’s food concessions. Frank, are you ready with your report?”
WHOA.
Dalton’s first glimpse of the hottie greeting him in the dance studio’s pale pink reception area had him doing a double take. “Um, you’re not blue-haired Miss Gertrude.”
Flashing a professional smile that didn’t reach her eyes, the vision said, “Miss Gertrude retired. I’m the studio’s new owner, Rose Vasquez. Are you the Dalton Montgomery I have down for a tango lesson?”
“That’d be me,” he said. For the first time since that week’s chamber meeting, he stopped cursing his fellow committee members. Maybe the whole dance gig wouldn’t be half-bad.
“Welcome.” She held out her slim hand for him to shake.
When their palms met, he felt a twinge in his gut. Her grip was firm, yet somehow fragile, as if the merest hint of a wind might blow her away. Aside from a trickling lobby fountain and humming drink machine, the studio was quiet—save for his racing pulse. He hadn’t expected them to be alone. Not that it was a problem. Just that, being in a small-town dance studio, he’d pictured himself surrounded by eight-year-old gigglers in pink tutus.
Clasping her hands over her gently curved belly, she said, “The woman who made your reservation—”
“My secretary—Joan.”
“Yes, well, Joan, mentioned you just need a crash course.”
“Yep. That’ll do it. The basics are all I need to get me through one heinous night.”
“That’s all well and good,” the woman said, her once lovely expression now sober, “but when you say you want to know just the basics about the tango, you’ve insulted not only me, but a tradition that has lasted more than a hundred years. Tango isn’t just a dance, and I hope that once we’re finished with our lessons, you’ll see that. I also hope you’ll treat this venture we’re embarking upon with the dignity and respect it deserves—even loyalty.”
Dignity and respect? Loyalty? Dalton figured he deserved an Academy Award—at least an Emmy—for the acting job he was doing in holding back a snort. They were talking about dance moves. This woman might be attractive, but she had a lot to learn about what in life deserved such sentiments. If anyone was an expert on what loyalty made a man do, it was him.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she said, tapping a purple pencil against the top of a yellow laminate reception desk. The girlie colors brought on indigestion, or was it the fact that he was for all practical purposes being lectured by a stranger that had his stomach in an uproar?
He reached into the chest pocket of his suit for a chewable antacid, but he was fresh out. Damn.
When he spotted her eyeing him funny, he withdrew his hand from his pocket. “I’m assuming from the tone of our one-sided conversation that either I play this dancing game all your way or hit the highway?”
She smiled, and the force of it nearly knocked him off his feet. She wasn’t merely hot, as he’d previously thought. She was beautiful. In fact, she could’ve launched an entire new category of beauty. Rich, olive-toned skin served as the perfect backdrop for soulful brown eyes and silky, raven-black hair that his fingertips itched to touch.
Snap out of it! his conscience cried.
She was a looker, but considering the tone of the speech she’d just delivered, she was also a few cupcakes shy of a dozen.
Smile not reaching her eyes, she said, “I can’t say anyone has ever paraphrased my wishes so eloquently, but yes, you’re right. If I agree to give you a crash course in tango, you must give me as close to one hundred percent of yourself as possible.”
When he opened his mouth to object, she shocked him by placing the pad of her index finger against his lips.
“No,” she said, “don’t speak. I can read your mind. You’re thinking how can you devote all your energy to learning this dance when work is what you live for, am I right?”
He nodded.
“As you’ll soon see, I’m not asking for much. Just your undivided attention.”
Right. From where he stood, sounded more like his soul.
“Do we have a deal, Mr. Montgomery?”
Telling himself he felt the same jolt of awareness every time he shook a female colleague’s hand, Dalton once again grasped the lovely Ms. Vasquez’s fingers in his. “Deal. Ready to start?”
“You mean now?”
“My secretary did make a reservation.”
“No,” she said with a faint shake of her head. “I—I’m sorry, but something has come up. I have lessons from noon until six tomorrow evening. You and I shall tango at seven.”
AFTER MR. MONTGOMERY left, Rose had trouble locking the door. Her fingers trembled as she remembered the spark of interest in Dalton Montgomery’s striking blue eyes. Her stomach clenched when she considered how close she’d come to reaching out to straighten a wayward lock of his unruly short, dark hair. At just over six feet, with a square jaw, high brow and Roman nose, Dalton exuded strength and undeniable sex appeal.
Why had she lectured him like that? Why had she turned away the good money she could’ve earned from tonight’s session?
The truth?
Not because she was eager to check on Anna as she’d told herself, but because for the first time since John’s death well over a year earlier, she’d found a man attractive, and the notion shook her to the core.
The thought of spending an hour in Dalton Montgomery’s arms while performing the dance she’d so loved with her husband, well…It was inconceivable. Which was why she’d bought herself a little extra time. To adjust to the idea that it was okay to find another man physically attractive.
Find him attractive yes, but feel warmth spreading through her limbs when he looked at her? What had that been about? How could she begin to process her mixed-up feelings in the all-too-brief time until they met again?
Somehow, some way, she’d found the strength to tackle each day since the motorcycle accident that’d stolen John from her and Anna. Rose forced a deep breath, knowing she’d capably handle this development, as well.
In the brief time they’d shared as man and wife, she and her husband had enjoyed a wholly fulfilling physical relationship. She’d always been a passionate woman. It was common sense that as a healthy female in her prime she would have certain needs. Logically, the attraction she’d felt for Mr. Montgomery had been purely biological—nothing at all to be concerned about.
Oh yeah? Then how come your pulse is racing at the mere thought of seeing him again?
She didn’t have an answer—at least one she was willing to admit, even to herself. Rose flicked off the studio’s lights then resolutely marched up the stairs to her and Anna’s airy loft.
In coming to terms with John’s death, Anna had been her rock. Tonight, whether the six-year-old knew it or not, she would again be her mom’s strength.
As for Dalton Montgomery, all Rose had to do to deal with him was convince herself that he was just another student and the tango was just another dance.
EARLY THURSDAY evening, an hour before her lesson with Mr. Montgomery, Rose trudged up the stairs.
Since crawling out of bed that morning, dread had settled low in her stomach. Now, entering the high-ceilinged kitchen she thought of as her private sanctuary, she didn’t bother masking full-on panic. Luckily, Anna was out for dinner and a movie with a friend.
Though Rose wasn’t hungry, it’d been noon since she’d last eaten, so she slipped off her heels, then prepared a light meal of tomato soup.
While waiting for the creamy liquid to boil, she gazed about the massive space, loving the slant of late-spring sun through the towering bank of west windows.
She adored plants and the brightness of the place—not to mention the high ceilings and lack of interior walls—allowed her to house a collection of trees. Palms, miniature oranges and even a red maple she’d been given as a housewarming gift but hadn’t quite gotten around to planting in the historic brick building’s postage stamp of a backyard. Her know-it-all brothers had assured her that the tree would die after being inside over a week, but months later, it still thrived.
Giving the soup a stir, she mused that a lot of people—especially her overprotective father and two big brothers—had thought her business would die. But it’d been ninety days since she’d opened her doors and while she wouldn’t say her business was thriving, it was holding its own. Just like her and Anna.
Together, they were learning to weather grief, life’s toughest storm.
What about the storm you’re about to face in partnering with Dalton Montgomery?
A burning, sweet scent filled her nostrils a second before the telltale sizzle of liquid hit the gas burner’s flame.
Rats. In all her daydreaming, she’d forgotten her soup. She twisted off the heat and cleaned the oozing red mess. So much for supper.
Grabbing saltines from the pantry, she plopped into her favorite overstuffed armchair. She knew it’d sound silly to anyone else, but the chair had been John’s, and sitting in it was akin to getting a hug. At times, she’d have sworn she still smelled his citrus aftershave on the brown leather.
She switched on the local news, but when the bulk of the broadcast consisted of an extended sports segment, she turned it off, and her eyes drifted shut….
“Ahem. Ms. Vasquez?”
Rose jerked to attention only to find Dalton Montgomery standing less than twelve inches away!
“Sorry,” Mr. Montgomery said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Rose scooted to an upright position and tried to quickly pull herself together. Her hair was probably a mess and she did her best to shove it back into a metal clip.
“Don’t,” her uninvited guest said, eyeing her in his annoyingly direct way.
“Don’t what?”
“Fix your hair. It looks…fine. Like that.” He swallowed hard. “Down.” Wild. While he hadn’t voiced that last part, she sensed that was what he’d meant. Which was why she went ahead with the task of smoothing her hair back and purposefully snapping the clip.
His tone made her do a quick check to ensure her nap hadn’t resulted in a wardrobe malfunction. Nope, all was well with her formfitting black dress. It was her mind that seemed in trouble. What was it about him that left her off balance?
“Why are you here?” she asked, adopting the coldly professional tone she used with unruly junior-high students forced to take waltz classes by their parents.
“I have a lesson. Remember?” He tapped his watch. “It’s already seven-fifteen. I smelled something burning and worried there was a problem, especially seeing how all the doors were unlocked but no one was there.”
“So you barged into my home?”
“Whoa. Look, lady, I don’t know what you’re so defensive about all of a sudden, but I was only trying to be a Good Samaritan. Your door was wide open. I thought your place might be on fire. I came in to make sure you were okay. End of story. Now, are we going to dance, or what?”
Or what? Good question.
As was the matter of why she was so snippy.
She rarely slept through the night, which left her napping during the day. Usually to be poked awake by her assistant, Rachel—currently on maternity leave. Which was why she’d left the door open out of habit. Mr. Montgomery’s explanation had been plausible. Even admirable. His small-town brand of ingrained, instantaneous caring was a large part of the reason she’d packed up Anna and made the move from their impersonal Dallas high-rise to the town of Hot Pepper. She’d moved because she wanted to raise her daughter in a place populated with friendly folks. Double-checking her barrette, Rose stood. “I’m the one who should be sorry. With prom season right around the corner, I’ve been giving more private lessons than usual. All the overtime has me not quite myself.”
“It’s okay. When under pressure, I tend to go all grizzly on folks, too.” A quirky bear growl escaped his lips as he held up his fingers, feigning ferocious claws.
“Do you?” she asked, for whatever strange reason needing to know that he did truly understand.
He answered with a sad laugh as his lips fell into an unmistakable frown. They were firm lips. Yet soft. Intriguing, as if he held the power to kiss a woman senseless…Assuming she wanted to be kissed. Which she didn’t. Just that—
“Yes, Ms. Vasquez, I understand more than you could possibly know on the subject of how too much work affects people.” With a light sigh, he gestured to the floral-print sofa. “Mind if I have a seat?”
“Of course not. Please…” She gestured for him to make himself comfortable.
Dressed as he was in loose-fitting faded jeans and a chest-hugging orange-and-black Princeton T-shirt, he was a different man from the suit she’d met the previous night.
“Whew,” he said. “It feels good taking a load off. Down at the bank I’ve been pacing my office floor. A company my investment group is interested in acquiring tanked big-time. I can’t understand it. One minute, it was up by two, the next, down by ten. My guess is that it’s a soured subprime loan issue, but it could just be a poor review of stock option grants. It’s frustrating, you know. That feeling that there’s nothing you can do to resolve a situation.”
Rose flashed a wishy-washy grin. Dance was—had always been—her life. Aside from his sense of helplessness with which she was intimately acquainted, he might as well have been speaking Chinese.
“You didn’t understand a bit of what I just said, did you?”
“Nope,” she said with a surprisingly easy grin. “I didn’t get a single word.”
“That’s okay. No one understands what I do. Half the time, even I’m confused. Hey—” he pointed to the blackened saucepan still on the stove “—I know we’re supposed to be working on my dance moves, but how about grabbing a quick bite to eat first?”
Warning bells rang.
Yes, she should be professionally courteous with the man. But sharing a meal sounded suspiciously like a date.
It wasn’t, though, not really.
Besides, which sounded more ominous to her already thudding heart? Being held tightly in the man’s arms as he swept her across a dance floor, or sitting across a booth from him at downtown Hot Pepper’s usually crowded sandwich shop?
Seeing the situation in that light put a whole new slant on the matter. By all means, she should put off dancing for as long as possible.
“Let’s eat,” she said, already scrambling from her chair to find her purse.
“You seem hurried. Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Great. Let’s go.” Holding out his hand, he hinted for her to lead the way out the loft’s still-open door.
“Wait,” she said, glancing at her dress. “I should change. Shoes would be a great idea, too.”
“You look fine as is, but shoes are a good call.”
“You think?” She couldn’t help but grin on her way toward the open space designated as her bedroom. Digging through her dresser for a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, she could’ve sworn she’d felt the heat of his stare. She glanced his way, only to find him engrossed in one of her glossy coffee-table books on Argentina.
Good.
Again, it was understandable that she’d feel urges. John had always told her if anything ever happened to him he didn’t want her spending the rest of her life alone. But it somehow felt too soon to even think of being with another man.
Clutching her clothing, she made a beeline for the bathroom—the only real room in the space aside from Anna’s.
Shushing the battle raging in her head, she slipped off her dance dress, puddling the black chiffon on the tile floor. It took but a second to pull on perfectly respectable jean cutoffs that felt too short and tight and a pink, scoop-necked T-shirt that wasn’t much better. Why was she feeling overexposed? She’d worn this very outfit tons of times to the grocery store and to pick up Anna from soccer practice or games.
She was being silly.
Spying her favorite leather sandals beside the hamper, she slipped her feet in, wriggled her red-tipped toes, then gave herself a quick pep talk on surviving the night.
Back in the living area, she found Mr. Montgomery still immersed in her book. When she said, “Let’s go,” he didn’t even look at her on his way to the door. Not that she’d wanted him to!
“More comfortable?” he asked on the shadowy landing.
“Yes.” See? She hadn’t a thing to worry about.
Especially since her awareness of him seemed mainly one-sided. A good thing, seeing how now that she knew he couldn’t care less about her, she could get on with the business of ignoring him.
Chapter Two
Hot damn, what a woman.
Outside, Dalton tried being nonchalant about sucking in the blessedly cool air. Never had there been a better time for Mother Nature to turn down the temperature. Rose had looked beautiful in her dancing dress, but the outfit she’d changed into gave him the craziest urge to grab her hand and run wild through the streets.
As hard as he’d tried focusing on that coffee-table book he’d picked up back in her apartment, his mind was stuck on one undeniable fact. Rose Vasquez was on fire. Her every move oozed slow, fiery heat that balled in his stomach, threatening to cut off his breath if he didn’t put some major space between them.
“Big Daddy’s Deli, okay?” he asked. “I could really go for a turkey on rye.”
“Perfect,” she said, shifting her thick black ponytail from the nape of her neck, exposing tantalizing, sweat-moistened curves. “Only I’m thinking I’ll probably have a pastrami and Swiss.”
“Yeah. Um, sure. Sounds delicious. Lead the way.”
After a flashed smile, she took off.
Too bad for him, facing her backside hardly worsened the view. The sight of her perfectly rounded derriere encased in denim short shorts almost did him in. Worse yet, as if her cutoffs weren’t sexy enough, her top was scant, too. Scant enough that her every step caused it to ride up, exposing a strip of tanned, firm back that he could only imagine—
No. This had to stop. He was with this woman for one reason. To learn a simple dance. Simple, simple, simple.
After Carly, he no longer associated with artsy women.
“Oh,” she said, lyrically spinning, walking backward as she talked. “I’ve got to have raspberry tea, too. Big Daddy’s makes the best in town. Perfect on a hot day or night.”
Hot? Did someone say hot? Picturing his instructor running a frosted glass across her glowing collarbone scorched him. And no way was tea going to be enough to cool him down.
“You okay?” she asked. “You look—” she cocked her head, causing that ponytail of hers to tumble in a glorious wave across her left shoulder “—kind of flushed.”
“I’m fine,” he said, quickening the pace. “Just a little out of shape.” Right. He worked out five days a week. He’d never been in better shape. Problem was, he’d also never been in better-shaped company.
Business. Think business.
No other topic held the power to so quickly bring him down.
“Mr. Montgomery?” Rose abruptly stopped. Pirouetted to face him.
As deep in thought as he was, Dalton crashed into her. Only this wasn’t the kind of collision one called the police about. More like paramedics. Sounded corny, but from the moment his body bumped into hers, he needed CPR.
Her breasts…Sweet warmth mounded against his chest. Her smell…Musky, mysterious, exotic. Damp tropical earth after an afternoon rain. Had there ever been a woman more worthy of poetic verses?
The fact that he’d even thought such a thing had him breathing unsteadily. He wasn’t supposed to like poetry. How many times during his formative years had his father told him poetry—any art, for that matter—was for wimps not future executives?
“Sorry,” he said, lurching back.
“That’s okay. It was my fault for stopping. You just had this determined stride, like you were going to keep walking.”
“Right. So, see? The crash was my fault for not keeping my eyes on the road.” Instead of your behind.
“Hey,” she said, holding open the restaurant’s door, “don’t sweat it. Once we get started on our lessons, we’ll get a lot closer than that.”
Dalton gulped.
Thank the good Lord for the air-conditioned breeze streaming from the restaurant. The rich smell of mingled cold cuts and cheeses further revived him.
His companion asked, “How’s that table?”
He glanced in the direction she’d pointed.
An intimate table for two. The windowed alcove would’ve been ideal if this were a date, but since it wasn’t, and he didn’t want to risk another medical emergency, he stammered, “I’m, a…touch claustrophobic. How about that one?” He gestured toward a well-lit booth large enough to seat eight and sandwiched between a rowdy family of five and the beeping cash register.
After they sat across from each other, a waitress stopped by and they both ordered raspberry tea.
Once the pretty teen had returned with their drinks, then left them to study menus, Ms. Vasquez said, “I never can decide whether to get the pastrami and Swiss or try something new. It’s a toss-up, you know. One way’s safe, comfortable. The other’s a risk. Calculated, but a risk all the same.”
Dalton took a hasty sip of tea. Could the woman read minds? Only he hadn’t been pondering his food selection, but his life choices. What was it about the woman that’d made him itchy? Discontent?
“I’ll have the pastrami,” she said. “I just can’t help it. It’s so good.” She slid her menu to the end of the table. “How about you? Made a decision?”
“My usual turkey on rye.” I’m not in the mood for experimentation. Though the night had started out on the fun side—kind of a wild departure from his usual staid evenings of Seinfeld reruns and frozen dinners—Rose’s offhand comment about risk taking had reminded him that after being badly burned nearly a decade ago, he’d taken few chances in his own life.
So what? Did that make him less a man for choosing the path of least resistance? Because from where he was sitting, that’s how he suddenly felt. He sighed.
After ordering, Rose asked, “Everything all right?”
“Sure,” he said. Peachy. At least it would be once this dance thing was over.
“You seem tense. Did I say something to offend you?”
“No. Just a rough day at work dogging me.”
“Want to talk about it? I mean, not to be nosy, but our dancing will go easier if we’re at least friends.”
Considering how a few minutes earlier he’d wanted to take their acquaintance beyond friendship, Dalton had a tough time meeting her gaze. The woman was only trying to be professionally courteous, yet from the moment they’d met, his thoughts had been anything but professional. “You know how I mentioned I work at the bank?”
“Mmm…Fun.” The sparkle in her eyes told him she was teasing.
He flashed her a wry grin. “It can be. When the money’s flowing…”
“Why do I get the impression there’s a but on the end of that statement?” She still smiled, but her eyes now looked sad. “Mr. Montgomery, as much as you may like to have folks believe otherwise, I don’t think you’re all about the Benjamins.”
Her statement hit him hard. How could she know something like that? Something he’d never admitted to anyone, yet a fact that’d troubled him for years. What kind of banker could he be when he didn’t live and breathe money?
“Sorry,” she said after the waitress left homemade chips and fat dill pickles. “My friend Rachel and I are always playing games like that. You know, trying to figure out deep, dark secrets about people just by looking at them. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Dalton knew he should be relieved by her statement, but how could he be when this stranger’s guess had been right on the mark? Taking a chip, he asked, “What about me—my appearance—led you to this conclusion?”
“Really wanna know?”
To deflect the fact that he didn’t just want to know, but had to, he chuckled. “Just curious.”
Reaching across the table for his wrist, she tapped his clear plastic watch face. “This is a dead giveaway.”
“What?”
“Your Fossil.” On a business trip to New York City, he’d picked it up at the gift shop in the Met. For college graduation, he’d been presented with a gold-and-diamond Rolex, but something about the sand and mini fossils inside this cheap black model made him smile. “Just my opinion, here, but no man obsessed with money would be caught dead wearing such a fun yet unpretentious timepiece.”
He snatched a pickle, bit off a big chunk and chewed.
“Ah…” She eased back against the red vinyl booth and grinned. “I’ll take that as a sign I’m right.”
“You can take it as a sign to mind your own business.”
“Sorry,” she said, and her earnest expression told him she meant it. “For the record, I like your watch. And I’m sure you’re a fine banker—regardless of your lack of gold or a silk tie.”
The waitress brought their sandwiches.
“Well?” Rose urged, pastrami held to her mouth. “Say something.”
“I’m not sure what to say. You apparently know everything.” He dug into his sandwich, glad he’d gone with the safe old standby.
“Oh, now, don’t be like that. I said sorry. It’s just a game. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Did I say you did?”
“You’re sure acting like I did. Like I touched a nerve. If so, really, I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. Just eat, so we can get on with our lesson.”
“Wait…” Her big brown eyes widened. “Was I right? Do you secretly hate your job and feel guilty about it?”
“Is it any of your business if you were right?”
“No, but…” She nibbled her sandwich. “Again, sorry. But if I was right, then you couldn’t be in a better place. Not the deli, but starting dance class. Dancing is a wonderful way to release tension, and beyond that, to discover yourself. You know, really and truly—”
“Look, I hate to rain on your dance parade, but can we just eat and get on with it?”
“NO, MR. MONTGOMERY, I said walk, not romp.” Rose rolled her eyes and sighed. Had she really only a few hours earlier guiltily looked forward to dancing with this man? The same man who’d been a grump at dinner and had already broken half her toes and was now working on the other five?
With dramatic flair, he raised his hands in the air, then smacked them against his thighs. “I don’t know what you want from me. First, you’re telling me to walk, then pivot. Go in a straight line, then a box. Honestly, woman, the only place I feel like going is straight out the door!”
“Fine! Just do that!”
“Okay, I will!”
By this time, they stood toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, and while Rose’s fingertips itched to shake the attitude out of him, at the same time, their heated arguing had raised her blood pressure to an all-out boil that felt closer to passion than fury.
Exertion had them both breathing hard, and as their gazes locked, the sight of this powerfully built man getting worked up over an easy giro turn sequence was all she needed to spark a giggle.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“You. Us.” She flopped her hands at her sides, then glanced at the studio wall clock. “It’s past nine. No wonder we’re both on edge.” Most evenings, she’d long since tucked Anna into bed and was well on her way herself. At least until her racing mind stole any chance for a decent night’s rest.
Eyes closed, he arched his head back and sighed. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“Me, too.” And she was. Mostly about the fact that if she were truthful, a big part of Dalton Montgomery’s dancing troubles weren’t caused by him, but her. She needed to loosen up. “We seem to spend an awful lot of time apologizing.”
“I’ve noticed.” He dry-washed his face with his hands.
“We don’t have to learn everything in one night. What’s your hurry?”
“Heard of Miss Hot Pepper?”
“Sure,” she said with a nod on her way to a compact fridge. Grabbing a bottled water, she asked, “That’s the queen crowned at the pageant held in conjunction with the Hot Pepper Festival, right?”
He eyed her drink. “Got another one of those?”
She handed him a bottle. “Well?”
“What?”
“Your hurry?”
“I have to dance at the pageant. During that awkward downtime while the judges tally their scores. It’s really stupid, and—”
“Why do you say that?”
“What?”
“That it’s stupid? The tango. There you go again, insulting a beautiful art form out of ignorance, or—”
“I’m not insulting it. I just don’t want to know it. I resent like hell being told I have to waste Lord only knows how many nights in this studio when I could be home—”
“What?” she challenged, hands on her hips. “What sounds more fun than dancing?”
“Digging ditches.”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “You haven’t even given tango a chance.” Why do I even care? The smart choice would be to let him walk. But if he chose to make a buffoon of himself in front of the entire town, so be it. “For that matter, there are things I’d rather be doing than standing around here arguing with a guy who’d rather be waist deep in muck.”
“Who are we kidding?” He set his water against the baseboard, then massaged his temples. “I don’t have a dancing bone in my body. Not even a dancing cell. Do you really think it’s even possible for me to learn to tango?”
His admission of vulnerability not only surprised her, but warmed her. She knew all too well what it was like to feel incapable of learning something. Only in her case, it’d been basic life skills. After John’s death, she’d handled things like paying bills and scheduling car maintenance. Being able to sleep alone in her and John’s king-size bed—that she hadn’t yet tackled.
“I not only think it’s possible for you to tango,” she said, warring with her stinging eyes to keep tears at bay, “I know.”
Sashaying to the stereo, she selected a favorite Latin CD, then cranked the volume. When the walls pulsed with the music’s life, she held out her arms. “It is customary for the man to ask the woman to dance, but since you seem to be feeling a bit shy, how about it? Care to escort me on a trip around the dance floor?”
She didn’t give him a chance to answer.
In the time span of two beats, she placed one hand on his bicep and held her other up, palm out for him to meet. Her palm kissing his, Rose willed her pulse to slow. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, she listened for the beat. Remembered what it used to be like onstage with John in the moment before the curtain rose…
Earlier, admitting she found her new student attractive had been easy. Being held in his unexpectedly capable arms while the beat she and her husband had so loved pulsed all around them was proving impossible.
Stopping, hands to her forehead, Rose said, “That’s enough for tonight.”
“But—”
She marched to the stereo, turning it off. The resulting silence was deafening.
“Everything okay?”
“Of course.” Turning her back to him, Rose swiped a few sentimental tears. Though she’d danced the tango with other men since John’s death, something about this man’s provocative hold made the dance different. Special.
“Then why are you crying?”
He’d crept up behind her. He stood close enough that his radiated heat scorched her, but he didn’t touch her. For that she was vastly relieved. It’d been so long since she’d shared another human’s—a man’s—touch. Oh sure, she hugged Rachel and Anna all the time, but somehow it wasn’t the same. In her new student, she sensed a hidden gentle quality she suspected he preferred to hide. But that was dance’s magic. It stripped a man—or woman—to the soul, baring innermost secrets for even a casual partner to see. Dalton’s touch had been tentative. Soft. Respectful. All of which was good, but at the same time bad. For those qualities were the very things urging her to spin around for a hug.
“Rose?” It was the first time he’d called her by her first name. He made the word lovely. Delicate. “I know my dancing’s bad. But surely not bad enough to reduce you to tears.”
His stab at humor made her smile, then cry all the harder. She ran to the hall for privacy, but to her horror, Dalton followed.
Hand on her left shoulder, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, needing to be away from this man, from the overwhelming physical confusion being near him evoked. “I’m sorry, but our lesson is over.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, more for her own benefit than his. “I just can’t.”
“Do you still want me to come tomorrow night?”
She shook her head, then nodded before dashing off to the stairs leading to her loft.
Chapter Three
“Tell me, son,” Dalton’s father asked over the phone the next morning. “How did your dance lesson go? Are you going to make the family proud?”
“My lesson?” Let’s see, considering the fact that his dancing had been so bad his teacher had run from the studio in tears, it couldn’t have gone better. Dalton held the phone in one hand, and a family-size jug of antacid in the other. “It was swell. I’m thinking one more session ought to be all I need to get the hang of it.”
“You’re joking, right? You can’t possibly expect me to believe you learned the tango in one night. The first year I performed at the pageant, it took me a good six weeks to get the hang of all those twists and turns.”
Could a guy OD on antacid? Dalton scanned the label before taking another swig. “I get the one, two, three walk thing. What else is there?”
“Everything. You have to feel the music. Absorb it into your body and soul. According to Miss Gertrude, you have to let the music take your heart where it wants you to go.”
It took everything in Dalton not to choke. “Have you been taking your medication? How is it that the man who once told me to shut off my heart is now telling me to listen to it?”
“Yes, well…” His old man cleared his throat. “That was before all this mess that’s landed me on my keister. I’m currently of the opinion that it’s all right to feel a little something—at least if the touchy-feely stuff lands you that much closer to achieving your business goals.”
Dalton rolled his eyes.
A certain raven-haired instructor had put it a bit more meaningfully than that, and look where that speech had left him. Not merely listening to his heart, but looking deep into Rose’s sultry brown eyes, then watching her burst into tears. Logic told him there had to be more to the waterworks than him, but what?
“Dalton? You still there, son?”
Unfortunately. “Yeah, Dad. I’m here.”
“Good. Listen up. Not to put any added pressure on you, but my ticker’s not getting better, and watching the festival I founded go off without a hitch means a lot. Your mother and I both are looking forward to your performance. Miranda, too. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
After pressing the phone’s off button, Dalton reached for a pencil, then snapped it in half.
Do I make myself clear?
God, he was so sick of hearing that phrase.
Especially in regard to the not-so-subtle hints that he settle down with Miranda Browning—a woman he’d known since they’d both been kids. Their parents thrust them together at every possible moment, and while Dalton enjoyed her company as a friend, that was it. More than a few times, his mom had suggested Dalton marry Miranda.
At first, the notion had been ludicrous, but lately, he’d begun wondering if maybe his parents were right. Especially considering what a disastrous choice he’d made when following his own heart.
FRIDAY NIGHT, Dalton arrived at the dance studio, stomach churning. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Would his teacher be the teary-eyed wreck he’d last seen, or the fireball with whom he’d shared dinner?
He entered Hot Pepper Dance Academy not sure he even wanted to be there. He had enough of his own troubles. Did he really want the added burden of someone else’s?
The lobby was deserted.
From the studios came the muted beats of tangos and sambas. Or were those mambos and salsas? Before he had the chance to decide, a rowdy bunch of women stampeded through the glass door of studio three. Sweaty women. Women with messy nests for hair and lifeless sweatsuits for costumes. They looked fresh from gym class.
Rose emerged looking as if she’d spent a night dancing between the sheets. Her skin wasn’t blotchy from exertion, but glowing. Her hair didn’t look tangled, but tousled. Her formfitting, fire-orange dress was every male’s fantasy. As for her endless legs? He forced a deep breath. Don’t even get started.
“Mr. Montgomery,” she said, her voice raspy. “I’m so glad you decided to give tango another try.”
To hell with the tango. I’m here to see you. To solve the mystery behind your tears.
“Sure. I’m, ah, looking forward to getting back on the proverbial horse.”
“Wonderful.” Red-tipped fingers singeing his forearm, she graced him with her smile. So, she’d reverted to fireball status. “Let me reschedule these ladies for next week, then I’ll be right with you.”
Her touch had been casual. After she flitted from him, she used the same friendly gesture on five different people, but somehow, that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but that his arm still hummed with her heat.
Forcing a deep breath, reminding himself he wasn’t here for a date, but to fulfill a business obligation, Dalton aimed for the studio the women had just left. He groaned when the space still smelled of Rose’s tropical perfume. The rich scent brought to mind orchids. Ocean. Hot sand. Even hotter bodies glistening with coconut-scented oil.
He swallowed hard.
“There you are.” The teacher, in all her raven-haired, full-lipped glory strolled through the door. “I’d hoped you hadn’t escaped.”
“Not for lack of wanting,” he managed to say with a wry smile.
“Tsk, tsk. What kind of attitude is that for our second lesson?”
Why did you run from our first lesson crying? he longed to ask. Instead, he shrugged.
“Well?” She clapped her hands, rubbing them together as if she was looking forward to the coming hour. “Should we jump right in, or would you like to spend a few minutes reviewing what you’ve already learned?”
“Let’s dive,” he said, trying not to feel hurt about her apparently having no wish to tell him what had been wrong the previous night.
“Excellent.” Thrilled to be done with the small talk that had her heart racing, Rose escaped to the stereo. She was careful to play a more lively tune than the one that’d reduced her to tears. True, all tangos followed the same basic beat, but the moods changed.
When “La ultima cita” began, she said, “All right, Mr. Montgomery, now I’m going to really challenge you.”
He sighed.
“This isn’t the time to cop an attitude. All I’m asking you to do is dance backward.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” She stopped in front of him, adopting the classic pose with her hand on his upper arm. “Imagine we’re in a vast ballroom filled with dancers. There will be young men impressing the girls with their fancy footwork, still-in-love grandparents following rhythms it’s taken them a lifetime to absorb. And then, there’s us…” She took a deep breath, offered what she hoped was an encouraging grin. “Feel like giving it a try?”
He grudgingly gave in and half an hour and a lot of laughter later, Rose and Dalton were moving about the floor like pros. Well, not quite, but at least they hadn’t tripped over each other in the past few minutes.
Rose closed her eyes and let the music and feel of his arms transport her not to her familiar grief, but to a smoky club in the heart of old-town Buenos Aires. What fun she would have showing this uptight banker how to loosen up.
Their chemistry was intoxicating. But as badly as she longed to be held in a man’s arms, she was afraid of opening her heart again only to potentially lose it.
Despite the warning, the part of her that longed to laugh and play and dance, not because it was her job, but for the sheer joy of it, urged her to spend more time with Dalton.
When they were both out of breath, Rose pulled away with a gleeful clap. “That was so much better!”
“It was?”
“Absolutely.” Even as she laughed and playfully swatted him, Rose wished her breathing would return to normal. Though Dalton had still made plenty of mistakes, something about his style was intrinsically rhythmic. Like her, though he might not know it, he’d been born with an artist’s soul. Once he’d lost his fierce scowl of determination and allowed his mind and heart to go where the music took him, he’d easily fallen into the spirit of the dance. “Ready to go again?”
“I think so.”
“You think?” She shook her head. “No, no. You should say, of course,” she said with a grin.
For the first time in she couldn’t remember when, she was having fun and didn’t want the night to end.
She ignored her earlier misgivings, choosing to enjoy herself. Soon enough, she’d be back upstairs with Anna, fighting to sleep through the night. Maybe if she exerted herself rest would come more easily.
That in mind, she inserted a new CD, putting herself and her student through rigorous moves.
“Whew.” Twenty minutes later, again out of breath, Rose pulled away, reaching for a towel she’d hung from the ballet bar. “I’d say you’ve gone as far as you can with la caminita.”
“And that would be?”
“All that means, is the walk, which is the most basic of all tango steps. Now that you’re walking, we can start to run.”
“Great,” he said with a chuckle. “And I suppose we’re going to start that running right now, Miss Energizer Bunny?”
“Ha-ha.” With her towel, she swatted him. “Actually, you and I are done for today. I have a date.”
“A date, huh? Is he the cause of last night’s tears?”
For a second after Dalton asked the question, Rose felt like a deer in the headlights. What was she supposed to say? Was now the time to tell him about her husband?
“Hey,” he murmured, tone soft, as if he sensed her distress. “Why you were crying is really none of my business.” He glanced down, then looked back up into her eyes. “Trouble is, I kind of took the whole our dancing will go easier if we’re friends speech seriously, and seeing how friends don’t let friends cry alone, I—”
“My date is with my daughter. She wants to bake sugar cookies with pink sprinkles.”
“You have a little girl? I mean, I assume she’s little, judging by your age.”
“My advanced age?” With a wink and grin, she swatted him with her towel again.
For a moment he stilled, as if he wanted to say something, but propriety kept him quiet. “That’s not at all what I meant, and you know it.”
“Yes, I do,” she said with a nod, matching his easy smile. “And in answer to your question…”
“I didn’t ask a question.”
“Your eyes did.” She turned her back on him while wrapping herself in a hug. The kindness in Dalton’s eyes told her it was safe to share her pain with him. “My girl is indeed little. She’s six. And in answer to your unspoken question, her father…died.”
“Sorry,” he said quietly. She imagined him cupping his warm, strong hands over her shoulders, infusing her with much needed courage to go on. Instead, he hovered, not taking the liberty of actually touching her, but letting her know he was there. “Is he the reason for those tears?”
She nodded. “The last time I seriously tangoed—you know, beyond teaching vacation-bound senior citizens or Girl Scout troops—was in his arms. So you can see where…”
“Dancing again—with a man—would be rough?” He did touch her shoulder then, and lightly turned her to face him. The warmth of his eyes and tender set of his mouth, his solid yet gentle grip, told her what words never could. That he cared. That she wasn’t alone. Sure, she had friends, but no one with whom she’d ever considered sharing the depth of her pain.
“Want to talk about him?” he invited.
“Yes. Someday. But not now.”
“Sure.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about him, just that it hurts to dredge up the past.”
“I get it. Only, the way you were crying, I’m thinking your husband’s death isn’t yet in the past—at least not where your heart’s concerned.”
“ANNA, HONEY, be careful or you’ll drop Barbie’s purse behind the display.”
“I’m being careful, Mommy. Look! She’s dancing!”
Dalton froze at the entry to Bell’s. He had been dreading the mission to get fitted for the gaudy red shoes he was required to wear with his equally hideous tux. But from his first sight of Rose and her cute, brown-eyed daughter, trying on black-patent Mary Janes, his outlook on the mission had miraculously brightened.
“Ladies’ day out?” he asked the pair, pausing in front of the battered, red-carpeted platform serving as seating for what Mona Bell had dubbed her kid zone.
“Hi,” Rose said, her wide grin making his pulse race. “My baby’s feet seem to get bigger every day.”
“I know the feeling,” he teased, wagging one of his size thirteens.
Her daughter giggled. “You’ve got the biggest feet I’ve ever seen.”
“Anna!” the girl’s mother scolded.
“It’s okay,” Dalton said with a chuckle. “Especially since it happens to be true.”
“There are bigger feet in this town,” Mona said, a hint of her Cajun heritage flavoring her words. In her arms were three shoe boxes. “Dalton, nice to see you finally showed up. If we don’t get your shoe order in pronto, you’ll be dancing barefoot.”
“Sounds like an improvement over the getup you all want me to wear.”
Snorting, Mona said, “Remind me to tell your momma what a misfit she raised.”
“She hears it all the time.”
Ignoring him, Mona turned to Rose’s daughter. “Stick out your feet, there, toots, and let me slip these on.”
“She’s a cutie,” Dalton said to Rose, seeing how Mona had pretty much taken over the operation.
“Thanks.”
“Anna’s a nice name. I’ve always liked it.”
“We named her after my grandmother, Anna Lucia Margarita Rodriguez. In her day, she was the darling of Buenos Aires.” Whispering behind her hand, she added, “She reportedly juggled up to ten suitors with ease.”
Mona grunted. “Shoot, what gal in her right mind would want that many men?”
“Barbie!” Anna squealed, pirouetting the doll in a dazzling move that sent tiny pink plastic shoes and a matching purse flying. They landed behind the seating platform. “Oops.”
“Oh, honey,” Rose said, hands on her hips. “I told you that was going to happen.”
Tears flooded the child’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“It’s okay.” Already on his knees, Dalton finagled himself into torturous contortion that with gritted teeth and a grunt netted one shoe. Then he used a nearby display rack’s metal prong to fish out the spiked pink heel’s mate and the purse. “Voila,” he said, winded from the ordeal.
“You got ’em!” Anna squealed happily, leaping from the platform to wrap her arms around him. The simple gesture warmed him to the core. He’d always loved kids, had planned on having a half dozen of his own by now, but time had a way of vanishing.
“Thank you,” Anna said, her brown eyes serious.
“You’re welcome,” he said, giving her a brief return hug.
Mona butted into his shining moment with, “You’ve got fuzz balls on top of your head.”
“They’re cute.” Rose tenderly picked them free, holding them in the palm that only last night she’d pressed against his. “Thanks again. You don’t know trauma till you’ve lost your favorite Barbie purse.”
“In that case, I’m glad tragedy could be averted.”
“How about these?” Mona asked, gesturing to Anna’s latest pair of shoes. “They seem like the best fit.”
“What do you think, sweetie? Can you walk around?”
Instead of walking, the girl ran, skipped and pranced.
“Wish I had half that energy…” Grinning, Mona crossed her arms.
“Amen,” Dalton and Rose said in unison, then laughed.
“Want those?” Mona asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Good choice. Cash, check or plastic?”
While Rose paid and Anna continued to dance around the store in her new shoes, Dalton tried, unsuccessfully, to focus on his own footwear crisis. Rose consumed him. Her laugh. Her smile. The way, when she’d stood close, fingering his hair, she’d smelled of an intriguing blend of crayons and faint, musky perfume.
“Want to join us?” she asked, suddenly by his side. “Anna’s on a temporary school reprieve for the dentist, but I thought since we were right here, I’d also grab her shoes before getting her back.”
“Join you for what?” he asked, mesmerized by the way her hair reflected the midday sun streaming through the windows.
What the hell was wrong with him? Here he was supposed to be heading back to work, yet all he really wanted to do was finger those inky strands. Could they be anywhere near as soft as they looked?
“There you go again,” she teased, “looking as if you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
“No,” he said. “You’ve got me all wrong. I’ve always adored shoe shopping.”
“Liar,” she said with a soft elbow to his ribs. “Join us for a quick sandwich at the deli?”
Yes. “Sounds great, but I’m due back at the office. The only reason I’m here is that according to my fellow pageant-committee members, my shoe fitting had to be done ASAP.”
“I get that, but can’t your office spare you for lunch?”
“Ordinarily they could, but seeing how it’s a lunch meeting I’m supposed to be at, they might frown on me switching to your team.”
“We’ll be more fun,” she said, hugging her daughter close.
“I don’t doubt that. Rain check?”
“Absolutely.”
“Come on, Mommy,” Anna said, tugging Rose’s hand. “Me and Barbie are hungry.”
“Sounds like you’d better get going,” Dalton said with a faint smile.
“She’s not the only one,” Mona said, butting in to his last few moments of fun. “Now, quit flirting and get on over here to try on some shoes.”
Dalton groaned.
Rose grinned.
“IN CLOSING,” Dalton said a week later in the bank’s suffocating, windowless boardroom, “it’s my recommendation that the bank dispose of all TWG assets in favor of taking a temporary shelter in bonds until such time as the market’s volatility subsides. Questions?”
“Excellent report,” Alice Craigmoore, the bank’s VP in charge of finance, said before clearing her throat.
“I concur.” The bank’s chief loan officer, Bud Weathers, eased back in his chair. “Now, seeing how that was the last item on the agenda, who’s up for Chinese?”
“Sounds good,” Dalton said, straightening his files.
His father sighed. “I’ve been ordered to steer clear of the fried stuff, but I suppose they have something on the menu that’s steamed.”
Alice again cleared her throat. “I, um, do have one more question.”
“Shoot,” Dalton said.
“Mona tells me you’re sweet on your tango teacher. Care to substantiate?”
Dalton closed his eyes and counted to ten.
“Son,” his father interjected, “your mother told me you were seeing the Browning girl.”
He cocked one eye open. “Occasionally,” Dalton admitted, “but it’s nowhere near as serious as Mom would like.”
“There’s no law that says a guy can’t be hot for his teacher. Especially if she’s your hot dance teacher,” Bud confided, and winked. Dalton fought the urge to smack the suggestive look right off his face. He couldn’t say why, but he felt protective toward Rose. She’d been through a seriously rough patch. Sure, she was sexy, but she was also fragile. She deserved to be treated with infinite care.
“Thank you all for your comments,” Dalton said, tone brusque, “but could we please get on with lunch?”
“What’s your hurry?” Bud asked with a snort. “Got an after-lunch dance lesson?”
Chapter Four
“No, no, no, Dalton!” Rose cried above the pulsing Latin beat. “I said to arch toward the door, not away from it.”
“What the hell do you think I am? Made of rubber?” The minute Dalton had said the words, he regretted them. He’d never been prone to shoot his mouth off in the heat of anger, but then, this was the first time he’d felt an emotion other than boredom or resignation since his last lesson.
Rose marched to the stereo to turn off the music. Then she returned, heels punching the wood floor in the sudden silence, to stop six inches in front of him, hands on her hips. “First of all, the rock step is the mere tip of the iceberg in terms of technicalities. Second…” Frosty expression thawing, she grinned. “How can I stay mad at you when you give me that look?”
“What look?”
“That one, right there,” she said, pointing to his grinning mouth. “The one where you look like an incorrigible child.”
“Yeah, but a good-looking one, right?” His grin broadened into a full-blown smile.
She rolled her eyes.
“What?”
“What am I going to do with you? You’re a dancing disaster.”
“At our last lesson, you told me I’d improved.”
“Yes, well—” turning her back to him, she aimed for the door “—I take it back. You are quite possibly the worst dancer I have ever encountered.”
“Then where are you going? Obviously, I need more instruction.”
“I’m going upstairs to make a salad to go along with the enchilada casserole already in the oven.”
“What about me? I mean, I paid for an hour lesson.”
“I’ll give you a refund.”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
“Oh?” With Dalton in the hall, she flicked off the studio’s lights.
“How about inviting me for dinner?”
“What?”
“You know—food, drink, conversation. Well, we don’t have to converse, but I am awfully hungry, which might explain my lack of concentration.”
“I don’t know…” She glanced toward the loft stairs.
“Rose. It’s food. What’s not to know? It’s not like I’m asking you on a date.” Although that’s exactly what I’d like to be doing.
“I know, but what’s Anna going to think?”
“Hmm…That you invited a friend for dinner?” He shot her another grin.
“There you go again, giving me that goofy look. How am I supposed to say no?”
“You’re not. At least, that’s the plan.”
“Oh, all right,” she said. “But behave. And Anna and I will expect help with the dishes.”
“You shall have it,” he teased her with a formal bow.
She returned the favor with a not-so-formal swat.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Dalton found himself seated in a kid-size chair at a kid-size table. In front of him was a blob of Play-Doh that he was guessing used to be three different shades—red, green and blue—but was now a purplish-gray.
“Mr. Dalton?” Rose’s wide-eyed daughter asked, hogging all the still-pure-yellow clay.
“Yes?”
“What’re you making? ’Cause there’s kids at my school who do way better than you—even Tommy Butler, and he eats his boogers.”
“Hey, Rose,” Dalton called across the loft to the kitchen where she hummed while making salad. Although he’d offered to help, she’d refused on the grounds that not only did she not want him messing up her kitchen, but it might be helpful to his dancing if he connected with his inner child. Right. The kid in him said he needed better Play-Doh colors. “Are you hearing this abuse?”
“What I’m hearing is a lot of whining. Come on, Dalton, play nice, or I’ll have to sit you in time-out.”
Anna whispered, “She means it, Mr. Dalton. You’d better be good, or you’ll miss Mommy’s cheesy supper. It’s the best.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll play nice, but you’ll have to show me what to make.”
“A horse,” she said. “I like My Little Pony. Tommy Butler says they’re too girlie, but I think he’s gross. And anyway, he eats his—”
“I know—” Dalton said, molding his lump of clay “—boogers.”
“How’d you know?”
With his right index finger, he tapped his temple. “Superhuman mind-reading skills.”
“Really?”
“No, not really,” Rose said, perching on her own pint-size seat to ruffle her daughter’s hair. “You already told him, sweetie.”
“Hey,” Dalton complained. “That’s cheating. Telling all my secrets like that.”
“What secret?” Rose teased. “If you’re going to claim to have superhuman skills, we need proof of something pretty amazing. Not just lame old mind reading.”
“Yeah,” Anna said. “Can you fly? Or laser beam stuff with your eyeballs? Toby Mitchell does that during math class to get out of doing addition.”
“Which?” Dalton asked. “Flying or the laser thing?”
“Sometimes both,” Anna said, eyes wide, expression solemn. “Ms. Marshal tells him to stop, but he won’t.”
“Uh-huh,” Rose said with a cluck of her tongue. “Sounds like it’s time for you to wash up for dinner, and quit telling fibs.”
“I’m not fibbing. Honest. And anyway, Mr. Dalton never showed us his trick.”
“I’m working on it,” he said, messing with his clay. “How about you do what your mom asked, then I’ll show you when you get back.”
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