by Dancing
"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 imper-
sonal 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. Intri-
guing, as if he held the power to kiss a woman sense-
less. 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 acquir-
ing 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 helpless-
ness 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 re-
spectable 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 wors-
ened 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 back-
ward 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. Pirouet-
ted 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 emer-
gency, 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 selec-
tion, 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 re-
minded 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 profes-
sional. "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 un-
pretentious 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
