Laura Marie Altom

by Dancing

  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 cham-

  ber of commerce, Dalton had no problem tackling

  ordinary business matters. But whenever his fellow

  members started in with one of their half-dozen festi-

  vals 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 respon-

  sibility to tango with her during the lag time when the

  judges tally their scores."

  Nope. Not going to happen. "I thought it was the pres-

  ident's responsibility to do the whole cheesy dance thing?"

  "Cheesy?" Alice and Mona said in equally out-

  raged 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 opportu-

  nity. 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 every-

  one 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 alter-

  native 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 trick-

  ling 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 finger-

  tips 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 attrac-

  tive, and the notion shook her to the core.

  The thought of spending an hour in Dalton Mont-

  gomery'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 sanctu-

  ary, 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 i
nside

  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 part-

  nering 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 Mont-

  gomery 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 swal-

  lowed 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.