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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.
