“Every dance?” he groaned.
“Well, maybe not every dance.” He thought she’d truly relented until he caught an echo of something in her voice, part mischief, but another element not so easily identified. “You can skip some of the fast ones. But you have to dance all the slow ones with me.”
“All . . . all the slow ones with you?”
“I thought, uh, I thought that would be a way to prove for sure that we were—are back to, uh, normal.”
Color streaked into her cheeks and her eyes slid away from him. He wanted to kick himself, hard. His awkward reaction had made her think he’d rejected her—how was that for irony?
Even if she hadn’t seen them together just now, Tris had probably picked up the vibes between Grady and Melody. That was why she’d asked him to dance with her. Dancing with him would prevent her having to sit and watch Grady.
He felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. Disappointment, he understood. He was disappointed for Tris’s sake, that Grady still hadn’t woken up to what—or who—was right in front of him. And maybe, yes, just a little disappointed for himself now that he realized why she had asked him to dance. But why relief? Quickly, he pushed the question aside as he turned to her.
“You’re right. We should dance every dance, Tris. We have a lot of years to make up for, right?” He put a hand to her hair, stopping somewhere between the fond ruffling he’d intended and the soft caress he wanted.
She gave him a look with a question in it, but answered firmly, “Right.”
* * * *
He was going to die. Right here on the dance floor, from the unadulterated pain of not allowing himself to take too much pleasure in the much too pleasurable sensation of holding Tris in his arms.
Remember what this is all about, Dickinson . A friend needed a partner, that’s all. A friend who might feel a little fragile emotionally right now because the guy she’d adored for years had another woman snuggled up to him as the band played another song about falling in love forever.
Almost as if she’d read the word snuggled in his thoughts, Tris slid closer to him. Another inch and a half and there’d be no air between them at all, just his suit and her dress. That dress with its one button.
He backed away a safer inch. He had enough trouble convincing his body not to make its demands all too clear. Not that an inch would do much good. Maybe a plunge into Lake Michigan. His willpower was just out of practice, wasn’t that what he’d said to himself? Out of practice, hell. More like dead and buried.
The band slid effortlessly from one ballad to another. Damn! How much more of this could he take? Involuntarily, he tightened his hold on Tris’s hand. She looked up, her expression half smile and half question.
“It’s another slow dance,” she said.
“So it is.”
“There’ve been a lot.”
Lord, what got into him, reading satisfaction into her voice? “Yeah.”
“Can somebody cut in, or is this a private party?”
Michael turned around to meet Judi’s glinting look of mischief and an identical expression on the face of her dance partner, Paul.
“How about a partner swap, you guys? I haven’t gotten to dance with my cousin all night. Seems somebody’s been monopolizing her.”
Fighting a perverse instinct to tell Paul to go to hell, Michael swung Tris into Paul’s arms as Paul twirled Judi into his. He’d just been wondering how much more he could take, so why did he feel bereft? His eyes followed the progress of Tris’s peach dress, and he watched her laugh up at Paul. Part of his mind knew that Judi had said something to him, but the words didn’t register.
“What?”
Judi’s dramatically gusty sigh finally pierced his fog. “I said,” she stated with pained emphasis, “that it’s pretty rotten of you to make me feel like a wallflower even when I’m actually on the dance floor dancing with you.”
He cocked an apologetic grin at her. “Sorry. I guess my mind was wandering.”
“Yeah, I could see that.” She shot a sideways glance to her cousin and brother. “Guess I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to hone my flirting skills.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve danced with my father, Mr. Wharton, Bette’s married brother, my two uncles and my brother. That’s a pretty boring lineup, you know. If you take away the guys who are married or a relative of mine or both, the only ones left here tonight are you and Grady. And you both seem thoroughly preoccupied elsewhere.”
She gave another gusty sigh as Michael considered for the first time how onlookers might interpret his dancing so much with Tris. He’d been too busy quashing his own reactions to consider anybody else’s. He hoped nobody said anything to her. If she became self-conscious about what people might be thinking she’d stop dancing with him. That would be better, of course, but all he could think of at this moment were the ways it would be worse.
But he also felt a small stab of guilt for ignoring Judi.
“Maybe the reason I’ve been preoccupied is because Grady’s so preoccupied.”
“Huh? That doesn’t make . . .” Her words trailed off as she looked from him to Tris to Grady, at the moment slipping out the terrace door with an arm around Melody. She raised one speculative brow as her gaze lingered on the door that closed behind them, then swung to Tris and finally back to him.
“You mean, you think Tris is hung up on Grady, so she’s consoling herself with you?”
Damn, she didn’t have to be that blunt about it. He used the movement of the dance as an excuse to duck her searching look. Evasion, however, didn’t do any good.
“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “I don’t think that’s the reason.”
To his everlasting gratitude, the band wrapped up the song with a flourish. He stepped away from Judi— and her probing look—to applaud. That was how he caught sight of Paul passing the keyboard player a bill, just before he escorted Tris back to where Michael and Judi stood.
“Here’s your partner back, Michael. Boy, I sure hope I didn’t take up the last of the slow dances.”
Michael looked from Paul to the band. “Somehow I don’t think you have anything to worry about on that score.” As if on cue, the first strains of a slow, dreamy number started.
Paul’s eyes glinted with suppressed laughter. “It looks like all your slow dances are taken, Tris, but next time there’s a fast one you really ought to dance with my dad. I bet if anybody could convince him to try something more than a waltz, it would be you. C’mon, Judi, I’m going to deliver you back to Dad and track down my bride for a little prewedding slow dancing.” Paul’s tone was airy, but Michael noticed his friend didn’t risk meeting his look.
Michael could feel Tris’s eyes on him, and now he was the one avoiding eye contact.
“They are playing an awful lot of slow dances. And Paul’s probably right that I should dance with Uncle James, and . . . and maybe some of the others. Like Mr. Wharton and my dad. So if you don’t want—”
“Guess it’s the wedding atmosphere.”
He took her into his arms nearly as abruptly as he’d interrupted her. She’d been about to give him an out, an excuse to stop this acutely painful pleasure. But, dammit, he couldn’t let her, not when she sounded so hesitant, so vulnerable.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
He shrugged, the resulting movement of her hand on his shoulder almost feeling like a caress.
“Everybody’s thinking about Paul and Bette, and getting married, so it’s natural to come up with songs about love.” Just as it was natural to think about the way she fit into his arms, the way her hair tickled his cheek, the way her dress swung just wide enough to flirt with his legs.
“Like subliminal advertising?”
“That’s right.”
Silently, they danced. He altered their path to avoid another couple and their bodies momentarily brushed along their lengths. Immediately, he restored the distance between them, b
ut he knew it was too late. He felt the curve of her breast and hip as if it had been imprinted on his skin, and his body tightened in response. Staring over Tris’s head he mentally repeated every lecture he’d given himself earlier.
Sure she’d paid attention to him at dinner and sure she’d danced with him. But he understood. He’d seen the way Grady had been turning the blaze of his charm on Melody. Nobody in the room could miss it. It had to hurt Tris.
A wave of protectiveness swept into him. That was nothing new. What bothered him was the undertow of possessiveness.
For a moment of intensified pain and pleasure, he strengthened his hand on her back, pulling her to him so her breasts pressed against his chest and her hips nestled near where he most needed them. With the song winding down, she moved deeper into his arms as if she belonged there, and for a heartbeat he accepted the feeling of having her body against his, tight and warm.
The band’s last note echoed into conversations around them.
“Michael?”
He looked into her uplifted face and he knew he’d kiss her if this went on any longer. He wouldn’t be stopped by the people around them, or even by the shock he’d feel on her lips.
“Maybe we should get some fresh air,” she said.
“Air?” He knew he should be able to figure out what she’d said, but suddenly breathing had become a complex maneuver. Thinking was out of the question.
“Michael, do you want to go out on the terrace for a little while?”
“The terrace?” The terrace? Some instinct for self-preservation kicked in and his mind started operating again. Alone, in the balmy dark of a summer evening with the sensation of holding her in his arms like this too new even to be called a memory—that would be suicide. He’d take his chances on the dance floor.
He dropped his arms from around her and backed away.
“No. No, I think we should stay inside. Or we might miss one of our dances.”
* * * *
What was going on?
Tris stood in the darkened kitchen, drinking a glass of water and trying to figure it out.
She’d told herself over and over in the twenty-four hours since her talk with Paul that he’d gone crazy to think Michael had the kind of feelings for her that had nothing to do with buddies. He’s seen enough reasons in his lifetime not to believe in love, don’t give him any more. Love? Crazy. Obviously, crazy.
After all, look at the way Michael had reacted this afternoon when she’d simply brushed her fingers against his chest. Absently, she rubbed the tip of those fingers against the texture of her dress as if that would ease the remembered tingling in them. For just a moment, she’d thought she’d seen that, that look on Michael’s face. But she must have been mistaken because if it had been there, he wouldn’t have told her to stop. Would he?
It didn’t make sense.
But neither did she. She had decided, absolutely, that Paul was crazy and she was nuts, and that look on Michael’s face had been anything but desire. Absolutely, positively decided it . . . and then she’d heard herself suggesting they dance every slow dance together. No, not suggesting—finagling him into it. Granted she hadn’t expected there to be quite so many slow dances. Or for it to feel quite so right to be in Michael’s arms.
She gave her head a small shake and took a drink of water, as if to cool the direction of her thoughts. Be honest about this, Tris. At least with yourself.
She had felt something in Michael’s arms. Attraction. There, she’d said it—at least mentally. She was attracted to Michael Dickinson. Not as a friend is attracted to a friend, but as a woman is attracted to a man. Very attracted to a man.
And she’d thought now and again during the evening, during those long series of intoxicatingly slow dances, that maybe Paul wasn’t quite so crazy. That maybe Michael did want her. She’d sensed him reacting to her, physically anyway.
At least she thought she’d sensed that. But maybe it had been wishful thinking, because he’d taken none of the openings she’d offered. Despite her subtle signs that she wouldn’t object to being held closer as they danced, he’d only tightened his arms that once, and then immediately backed off. He’d refused her not-so-subtle suggestion that they go out on the terrace as if it had been an invitation to streak the U.S. Senate.
She’d even tried one last time. When the party back at the house was breaking up and everyone heading home or to bed, she’d asked if he’d like to take a walk. Instead, he’d jumped on Aunt Nancy’s preparing to call a cab for a guest who needed a ride as if it were a lifeline, insisting on driving the man back to his hotel.
What if he knew what was on her mind and was trying to avoid having to tell her he wasn’t interested? She should have felt embarrassment at the notion, but her reaction was much darker and deeper than that.
But if he wasn’t interested, what had that look this afternoon been? And that expression on the library steps? And for that matter, the response she’d detected when their legs had touched under the table at the pizza restaurant?
Oh, hell. The whole thing probably existed only in her imagination, spurred on by Paul’s misguided desire to see everyone as in love as he was. Sure, that must be the answer. Just a bad case of wedding fever.
So why was she standing here in the dark waiting for Michael’s return?
A car came to a stop outside, then she heard the quiet replace the sound of the engine. A car door thunked closed. She set her glass on the counter and pushed away.
From the French doors between the kitchen and breakfast room she watched Michael’s moonlit shadow cross the lawn toward the room over the garage. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated. She saw him shrug out of his suit jacket and hook it over the railing, then follow that quickly with what must have been his tie. Without looking back at the house, he pivoted away and headed for the deck.
After a quick glance around to confirm no one else remained downstairs, she stepped out of her shoes and unhooked her stockings, sliding them down her legs one at a time and leaving them with her shoes on a chair seat. Quietly she slipped out the door.
Chapter Seven
Moist and cool, the grass curled around her feet as each silent step carried her closer to the water. The light seemed brighter here, away from the shadows of the house and intensified by the calm water’s reflection. Propped up by his right shoulder, Michael leaned against the supporting post of the deck’s arbor, staring out across the silver and black lake.
All in all, a most casual pose. But Tris didn’t believe he was as relaxed as he looked. She hoped not, anyhow.
She thought she’d reached him without making a sound, but when she softly said his name from just behind him, he didn’t start or show surprise. She thought the line of his shoulders did tense some before he shifted a little toward her, but she could have imagined that.
“Tris.” Something about the way he said the single syllable set her heart racing. “I thought you’d be asleep by now. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. You should get some rest.”
“You too.”
“I will. I thought I could do with some fresh air first.”
“Me too.”
Stalemate. He didn’t alter the posture that shut her out, and she wasn’t about to walk away as he seemed to hope.
“Michael.”
She took another step around him until his shoulder no longer formed a barrier between them, until she could see his face better. It told her nothing.
“Yes.”
She longed for daylight, floodlights, any light to let her see the secrets of his heart. What if Paul was wrong? What if she was wrong? What if . . .
“I . . .” I, what? I wonder if you feel the change in our relationship the way I do? I wonder if you want it as much as I do? I wonder if you wonder how my lips on yours would feel? “I enjoyed dancing with you tonight.”
His gaze met hers a beat longer, then flicked away, over her shoulder. “I enjoyed it, too.”
His voice was to
o impossibly flat. It couldn’t be that flat if he felt nothing; only if he were trying to suppress what he felt.
“Michael…”
She waited until he looked at her again. Her heart banged against her ribs with the deliberate, spaced reverberations of a bronze gong being sounded. She gently touched his cheek, finding the slight indentation of that high, wild dimple. Her throat suddenly felt dry and tight. Trying to swallow down the uncertainty, she slid her tongue across her lips, not aware of the movement until she saw his eyes follow it.
“Tris, this isn’t…”
She didn’t want to hear what it wasn’t. She wanted to discover what it was. She shaped her palm to his face as she stretched up to bring her mouth to his. Almost chastely, her lips touched his. Warm and firm. Not perfectly molded; she reveled in this imperfection, testing it with feathering contact along his lips. She’d always recognized that his asymmetrical mouth was part of the charm of his little-boy grin. Now she discovered it contributed to another charm, one that had nothing to do with being a little boy.
A ragged breath whispered through his parted lips. And she knew that her guesses hadn’t been wishful thinking.
He did feel the change in their relationship. He did want it. He did wonder how her lips would feel on his. Really feel on his.
“Michael.”
She tipped her head and brought their mouths fully together. For that moment she reached to him, the muscles of her calves bunched as she stood on tiptoe to keep sliding her lips along his, while he stood straight and stiff. This was right, she knew it. She wanted to laugh with the rightness of it. And cry.
Michael. All these years. Michael. Her friend, her confidant. Reliable, familiar, understanding. And now exotic, strange, unknown. She marveled at it all, at the same time a voice deep inside her, as old as woman, whispered, Of course . . . of course . . . This was how it was always meant to be, the voice seemed to say.
And then she no longer reached alone. His hands cradled her face. His lips met hers fully, with heat and demand. He bent to her until her heels could have come back to the ground., if she’d been satisfied to only accept. But she wasn’t.
Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) Page 30
