Dancing With Dalton (Fatherhood)

by Laura Marie Altom

  She pressed her fingers to his lips, her body to his. “What you’ve got,” she said, her voice a throaty whisper, “is a woman who wants to spend the day with you.” Fisting his starched shirt, she pulled him excruciatingly close before planting a warm, juicy, delectably sweet kiss to his lips.

  Through a groan, he said, “I can’t do this….”

  “Try,” she said, deepening the kiss, deepening his internal struggle. He wanted this—her—so damn bad, but he was due in Alice’s office in two minutes. “You’ve got too many clothes on,” she said, sliding nimble fingers between the buttons on his shirt, only to encounter a T-shirt.

  “And I mean to keep them on.”

  “Not if I can help it.” She flashed her sexiest grin, telling him loud and clear that he was lost. She’d somehow, some way, taken him hostage.

  “Why are you doing this? What about everything we talked about last night?” Sliding his fingers under the fall of her hair, he demanded, “Taking things slow?”

  “Just for today,” she said, kissing him senseless, “make me forget the heartache. Anna’s at school, then going straight to soccer. The dance academy’s closed till later. Come with me to the loft. We’ll be all alone. Just you and me and your clay.”

  Eyes closed, he drew her close. “You don’t know how tempting that sounds.”

  The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Dalton?”

  “Yes?”

  The object of his every desire slowly backed toward the door, temptingly crooking her index finger, beckoning him to take a walk on the wild side.

  Joan, his secretary, said, “Mr. Rossdale from Fontaine Industries is on line one. He doesn’t sound happy about the rating you gave their stock.”

  “Come with me,” Rose whispered. “Make me happy. Make you happy.”

  “I can’t,” Dalton whispered back.

  “Excuse me?” Joan said. “Shall I tell him you’re in a meeting?”

  “No—yes.” Dear God, what was he doing? “Tell everyone I’m out for the day.”

  “Um, okay. Shall I tell folks why?”

  “I’m sick.” Lovesick. Heartsick. Crazed in the head. It didn’t matter what the malaise was. All that truly mattered was that the cure stood smiling before him.

  “HOW’S THIS?” Rose asked, striking a pose before floor-to-ceiling windows. Late-afternoon sun warmed her face and throat and she instinctively let her white robe fall lower on her shoulders.

  Dalton’s happy grunt told her all she needed to know. Her plan to lure him from his office and into his passion was working, as was her attempt to, for just one afternoon, forget she was a widow and single mom and focus on being a woman.

  Dalton had only been at the loft a couple hours, but already, his sculpture of her was taking shape. The brick-size chunks of clay she’d gifted him with at his office had only been for play. Back at her loft, she’d called in a favor from her friend Hector, who ran an art-supply store in a neighboring town to deliver two twenty-five-pound bags of moist, red clay that Dalton was now molding and shaping around a wire frame.

  “I’ve never seen you look so relaxed,” she said, arching her head into a more comfortable position.

  He chuckled, misting the clay with water. “I can’t remember ever feeling more relaxed. I’d forgotten how much fun this is.”

  “So why don’t you do it more often?”

  “I was taught that art—unless it’s the classical kind sold for millions at auction—is for wusses.” Dalton went on to tell her about his father hurling his clay likeness into their living room hearth on the Christmas Dalton told him he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life working at the bank.

  He left out the part where instead, right out of college, he’d married Carly and started a garage art studio with the proceeds he’d made from selling his new Mustang—a graduation gift from his folks. He’d thought sharing the story—or, at least part of it—would leave him sad, but if anything, retelling it felt cleansing. In a sense, he was exorcising part of his rocky past.

  Would it dispel his fear of committing to another creative woman? Who knew? For the moment, all that mattered was Rose’s sweet, supportive smile.

  Before he could stop her, Rose left her sunny perch to slide between him and his cherished bag of clay. She twined her arms around his neck and gave him the best hug he’d ever had.

  “Watch it,” he said, holding up his reddish-brown hands. “I’m going to get you all dirty.”

  “So?” She flashed that mischievous grin he found ever more irresistible. “Maybe I like being dirty.”

  Reaching behind her, she dredged her index finger through the bag, then drew two red lines across Dalton’s cheeks.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, looking puzzled.

  “Giving you courage.” Hmm…Maybe I need a few lines, too.

  “By drawing on my face?”

  “Many Native American tribes believed painting on war faces gave extra strength in battle.” She tugged free of his hold, then drew additional lines on his cheeks and chin. “Isn’t that what you’re engaged in with your father? A battle over how you want to live the rest of your life?”

  “I don’t know that I’d put it in such dramatic terms.” Especially when the real battle was being waged within him.

  “Then how would you put it?” Cradling his face in her hands, she nudged herself farther between his legs. “Here we are, both dying to get to know each other, but something’s holding you back. If it isn’t your father and his dream of you taking over his bank, then what?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “It’s not as simple as any one thing.”

  “Then make me understand.”

  “He recently suffered a massive heart attack. Before, I might’ve told him how I really feel about carrying on the family tradition, but now…” As his words trailed off, Rose drew his head against her chest. Even though it was barely four, Dalton’s faint five o’clock shadow prickled the tops of her breasts, reminding her that however much she wept for the sad little boy inside him, on the outside he was all man.

  A man she wanted before she lost her nerve.

  Smoothing his hair back from his forehead, she said, “I’m sorry about your dad, Dalton. Truly, I am, but don’t you see? You’re trading your life for his, and that’s not fair to you. Do you think he’d even want you to do that for him?” Strong words from a woman desperately attempting to conquer her own ghost.

  Not giving him a chance to answer, she straddled his waist, loving his swift intake of breath when he realized she wore nothing beneath her robe. All that stood between the two of them taking the most intimate plunge a couple can was the thin poly/cotton blend of his slacks. He swelled beneath her, telling her with his body what he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say with his mouth.

  “Make me forget, Dalton. Please.” Tears closed up the back of her throat, but she’d be damned if she’d let them fall. She stopped them with a kiss to end all kisses. Just the crush of their lips was heady enough. But nothing could have prepared her for the stunning jolt of pleasure when she boldly slipped her tongue into his mouth.

  After that, nothing else mattered. Right now, here, all she cared about was being as close to Dalton as possible.

  Dalton raised his arms while Rose dragged his T-shirt over his head. The moment their lips were apart felt like an eternity, but then she was back, skimming her fingers through his chest hair. Tickling him. Loving him.

  He slid clay-slick hands inside her robe, relishing the feel of her silky hot skin. He skimmed his fingers up her rib cage, cupping her full breasts. He teased her nipples, bringing them to life with his tongue, then sucking hard when Rose dug her fingers into the back of his head.

  She pulled his hair.

  He sucked harder.

  She wrenched his belt free, yanking it through the loops before flinging it across the room. It landed with a clatter near her bed, reminding him that that’s where this should be happening. He should treat this exquisite cr
eature to the softest round of lovemaking he knew how to give, but his need was too great to stop and suggest a change of venue.

  “I want you so bad,” she said, working the button, then fly, of his slacks before slipping his boxers free.

  He slid his hands to her hips, lifting her, then setting her atop the center of his need.

  “Oh…” Rose exclaimed, initially caught off guard, then meeting him thrust for thrust. It’d been so long since she’d been with a man. Part of her wanted to cry out for Dalton to stop, that this was going too fast. She was still confused about so many things. But another part had to free her from the past in the purest way possible.

  By loving another.

  But did she really love Dalton? Or was she, in a sense, using him?

  No. Never. She wasn’t that kind of woman.

  At least she didn’t used to be.

  But then there was no more room for thinking, because the mounting pleasure was too intense. All that existed was this man and the unfathomable joy he brought her.

  When release finally came, nothing could have prepared her for the shock. She shivered and moaned, leaning backward, then forward, biting Dalton’s shoulder to contain her pleasure…

  And crushing pain.

  What have I done?

  She’d wanted so desperately to make love with Dalton to remind herself to live—and for a few mind-blowing minutes, the plan had worked. But now, safe in Dalton’s arms, her fears were back. How come as much as she craved being around him, she now wondered if she should run? Every day she was growing more attached to the man, as was her daughter. Love was a wonderful thing, but losing it was horrible. Might she be better off backing away from Dalton now? Before they grew even closer? Before she’d invested her heart, and her daughter’s, past the point of no return?

  “DALTON, dear,” his mother said over soft classical music, “would you please pass the rolls?”

  He snagged two more whole wheat crescent rolls for himself before passing the bowl to his mom. At the same dining room table where he’d eaten Sunday lunch for the vast majority of his life, he’d become an outsider. The white linen napkins, gleaming cherry table and crystal and silver felt foreign.

  He would’ve felt more at home using the chunky, brightly colored plates he’d eaten off of at Rose’s. He missed the vibrant Latin music and Anna’s incessant chatter. Most of all, he missed Rose. Her throaty laugh, her musky scent and the way she—

  “So, son,” his dad said, “I heard that on Thursday you went home sick. With your dance teacher. That true?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were supposed to preside over the Fontaine matter.”

  “I rescheduled for Monday.”

  “Now, son,” his dad said, scowl presumably deepened by his latest forkful of his heart-friendly, dry-as-a-bone baked potato. “I don’t mean to get in your business, but—”

  “Dad, I took one afternoon off. No one died. The bank’s walls didn’t shatter around me.”

  “Don’t you mock me,” his dad thundered.

  “William,” his mom warned, resting her pale hand on his father’s forearm, “you know what the doctor said about losing your temper.”

  “I’m not losing my temper. I’m merely ensuring the one person charged with carrying on my legacy understands the whole point of his having an office at the bank is so that he can actually be at the bank.”

  “I think Dalton knows that, dear.” His mom was back to patting. “You need to calm down. Practice your meditation techniques.”

  “I don’t need to meditate, dammit, I need to know the boy isn’t going to foul up the institution my father and his father spent their lifetimes building. And for that matter, when are you starting your own family? Miranda Browning’s not getting any younger.”

  “First off,” Dalton said, tone deliberately low and in control, “I’m no longer a boy, but a man, and Miranda and I are just friends. Second, under my direction, your institution is doing fine. It’s posted record profits for the past two quarters. Customer satisfaction and loyalty are also at all-time highs. Fifteen new branches have been added in Polk and Hampstead Parishes, while—”

  “That’s all well and good,” his dad raged at full volume, “but you can’t rest on your laurels. You have to be there. Let your employees know who’s in control.”

  Looks like you’re in total control to me.

  Dalton held back a grin at the memory of Rose’s words that day in his office when she hadn’t had to work very hard to convince him to play hooky. “I think they know, Dad.”

  “They know, William,” his mother reassured.

  His dad’s only reaction was a grunt.

  “WHEW, that was perfect,” Rose said, crossing the studio to change CDs. She had expected being back in Dalton’s arms for the first time after they’d made love to feel strained, but to the contrary, it was exhilarating fun. A fine sheen of moisture coating her chest, she lingered at the stereo to pat herself with a towel.

  “You really think I’m improving?” Dalton asked.

  “Are you nuts? You can’t feel the change?”

  “I guess so, but I thought the difference had more to do with the way I feel about you than my dancing.”

  She wagged her index finger. “But that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. So much of tango is feeling. You know enough of the base steps that your confidence is up. You’ve learned to improvise and be a strong enough leader to allow me freedom of movement. Believe me, I’m highly impressed.” Not to mention, turned-on. Yes, after they’d been together, she’d feared the union had been a mistake, but a week’s distance had her wanting him more. While her brain told her she should back off, her heart told her to live. Laugh. Love. Which was why with Anna at a slumber party for the night, Rose had decided to teach Dalton a few subtleties of the dance.

  “So?” he asked, taking a bottled water from the fridge. “What’s next?”

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Wait here.” She dashed out of the studio, then turned off the lobby lights and locked the front door. She drew the shades, then went to the utility closet where she’d stashed candles, some of which she lit before floating them in the fountain. Others, she nested among the plants.

  “What’s taking so long?” Dalton called from the studio.

  “You’ll see. Just a few more minutes.” Next, she unearthed a sterling wine cooler that her grandmother had given her as a wedding gift. Inside, chilling on ice, was a bottle of pricey champagne. She popped the top and giggled while slurping the foam.

  “Will it be worth the wait?”

  “Depends. What do you consider worthy?”

  He made a strangling sound. “You’re kidding, right?”

  She dashed back into the studio to tease him with a deep, champagne-flavored kiss. “Did that feel like a joke?”

  “Damn,” he said with a slow, sexy smile. “What are you trying to do to me?”

  “Patience, and you’ll find out.”

  Back in the lobby, Rose plugged in a portable stereo, then switched the CD to Lo que vendrà, one of her favorite sultry tangos. John hadn’t liked it, which made it all the more perfect for tonight.

  All she had to do now was change into the red-hot, curve-hugging dress she had hanging in her office. Once that was accomplished, she raced back to the lobby and smoothed her hair before calling in what she hoped was an appropriately sultry tone, “Come and get me…if you dare.”

  Dalton, all smiles, clutched his chest. Was his heart strong enough to take whatever this siren had planned? Deciding to risk it, he stepped out of the brightly lit studio and into another world.

  Chapter Nine

  “Turn out the lights after you, please.”

  Dalton did as Rose had asked, transforming the room into a shadowy courtyard in old-town Buenos Aires. The candles she’d lit smelled of orchids, but the loveliest flower of all was Rose. She’d changed into a siren’s dress that plung
ed down her chest and back, showcasing her hourglass figure to such a degree that for the first time in his life, Dalton found himself speechless.

  “Thirsty?” she asked, sauntering his way with two champagne flutes. All he could do was grin and nod. “You okay?”

  “Give me a second. This whole setup is a shock.”

  “A second, but that’s all. I have a full evening planned for you.”

  Taking the glass she held out for him, he said, “Trust me, I’m all yours.”

  “Good. Now that that’s settled, let’s toast.” Glass raised, she said, “To moonlight, to lovers everywhere, and most of all, to tango.”

  “To tango.”

  They chinked crystal rims, then drank. The champagne was excellent, light and fruity, but far from taking Dalton’s mind off of his problems, it brought them more sharply into focus. Though she’d denied it, after they’d made love, he could’ve sworn he’d heard Rose crying in the bathroom.

  Then there were his own issues.

  “Hey,” his Rose said. And in that moment, she was. His. She touched his forehead. “No frowning allowed.”

  He cupped her cheek, trailing the pad of his thumb along her brow. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve never met anyone like you.” Which was true. For the few similarities between Rose and Carly, there were a hundred differences. Improvements. Did he dare trust they were enough to make all the difference in forging a relationship that would last?

  “I hope that’s a good thing.”

  “Very.” He took her glass and his, setting them on the reception desk.

  Though the soft music playing was a tango, he pulled her close, dancing American style, which meant hardly dancing at all, but swaying, savoring her warm curves.

  “As wonderful as dancing with you like this is,” she said at the song break, “I’m supposed to be teaching you more steps.”