by Dancing
they juicy?"
He snorted. "More like boring as hell."
"Not to pry, but—"
"Yoo-hoo! Dalton! Rose!"
Groaning, he said, "Don't look now, but we've got
trouble looming just over that hill."
Alice Craigmoore, decked out in a navy suit and hot-
pink jogging shoes, waved again. "Hey, you two! Don't
even think of pretending you don't see me." Hands on her
hips, the middle-aged woman breathed hard, but not hard
enough to shut her up. "Well? Dalton, does your father
know you're out here picnicking instead of in your office?"
Laughing, Rose ignored his scowl, stood and
extended her hand to Alice. The two women acted like
long-lost friends.
Dalton used the time to reassemble himself—both in
spirit and attire. Before Alice had stuck her snoopy nose
into his business, he'd contemplated telling Rose every-
thing. About the mess with Carly and the secret dreams
he'd harbored before he'd met her. He would have told
Rose what his father had done to ensure Dalton toed the
family line, and how even now that he was older, his sense
of honor prevented him following his own path. He had
planned on telling her all of that, but now that he'd had a
second to think about it, it was probably for the best that
he kept it to himself. After all, as soon as this dancing gig
was over, he'd probably only run into Rose around town.
"Dalton," Alice said, "it's good to see Rose has kept
you on top of your dance lessons. I'd hate to see the
entire town shamed by your lack of interest."
"He'll do an amazing job," Rose assured. "He has an
inborn sense of grace that can't be taught."
"Really?" Alice's eyebrows shot up. "Our Dalton? A
natural dancer? Judging by his father's two left feet, I
never would've guessed."
"I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Dalton's dad,
but surely he's also been graced with the dancing gene?"
"No," Alice said with a firm shake of her head.
"Make no mistake, the man thinks he's Fred Astaire, but
his past performances have been more along the lines
of Sesame Street's Big Bird."
"Hey," Dalton warned, under a family obligation to
ensure his father was given adequate credit for his
moves, "Dad's got skills."
"Right," Alice said with a good-natured cackle. "He's
quite adept at making his partners cry."
"Oh, now," Rose said, "I don't believe that for a
second."
"Believe what you will," Alice said, "but I'll rest a
lot easier knowing Dalton's dance instruction's in good
hands. Have fun!" With a backhanded wave, the woman
was thankfully on her way.
"I should've remembered she goes for a jog in the
park most every afternoon," Dalton moaned.
"The few times I've met her around town, she's
always seemed nice," Rose said.
"If you like chatting up bulls. I hate how she's placed
herself in charge of the proverbial playground. Espe-
cially mine."
"Oh," she said, gathering up the remains of their
meal, "I think she was just making conversation. I
wouldn't make too big a deal of it."
"Why are you always doing that?"
"What?" She froze while putting away a stack of
orange napkins.
"Looking on the bright side. Especially after the crappy
hand life dealt you. Don't you ever just want to rail?"
"What point would that serve? Being angry at the
world isn't going to change anything. Why not just
make the best of what you've been given?"
Sounded simple enough in theory, but seeing how
Dalton had been doing just that for the past decade,
he'd grown tired of pretending everything was okay.
Never more so than now, when a few brief meetings
with Rose Vasquez had shown him just how much his
life had been missing. He wanted boisterous family
dinners and playing with his own sweet little girl. He
wanted more picnics and laughter and afternoons at the
park. He wanted all of that, but being an only child, he'd
inherited a legacy it was his duty to fulfill.
Ha. That's a good line, but now, how about the
truth? That for all of Rose's attributes, she was funda-
mentally different from him. She was an artist. He
was an artist-wannabe.
"It's back," Rose said, tracing his furrow. "Are you
ever going to tell me what's going on in that thick
head of yours?"
"Wait, the other night, I said you have a pretty head,
and now, instead of telling me I have a handsome mug,
all you can say is that it's thick?"
She smoothed his hair. "It's an adorably thick head.
Does that make you happy?"
Not especially. What would make him happy? Dis-
tracting Rose with a lingering kiss.
"Hmm..." Drawing her lower lip into her mouth,
she said, "since you're back to scowling, I guess that
compliment doesn't especially thrill you."
She was wrong about that.
The morning sun seemed to slice Dalton's office in two.
Darkness and light. It was fitting, considering his mood.
Tossing his briefcase on one of a matching set of
burgundy wingback guest chairs, he then flopped into
his own seat. On autopilot, he reached for the jug of
antacid in his top-right desk drawer.
Bottle clutched to his chest, he leaned back as far as
he could go, closing his eyes. He wished washing away
confusion was as easy as taking a dose of medicine.
His whole adult life had been built around the
concept that it was noble for him to put aside any
personal dreams or goals for the sake of his family.
He'd tried things his way and failed. Now, the smart
thing to do was buckle down and accept his lot in life.
Maybe even take a second look at Miranda—or a
woman like her. But lately, everything he'd once thought
set in stone had changed.
He'd once harbored resentment toward his father, for
having boxed him into this life. But now, after spending
time with Rose and Anna, Dalton wondered if maybe part
of the reason he and his father had never been all that
close was that his dad had been so busy putting in
fourteen-hour days, that he'd never had time for anything
else. Never once had his father sat down with him to play
the way Dalton had the other night with Anna. For that
matter, did his dad even know how to play?
Hands cupping his forehead, Dalton closed his eyes,
releasing a deep sigh.
What was wrong with him?
Drudging up all this personal stuff?
Was he really saying he was unhappy with his life
because Daddy hadn't played Hot Wheels with him?
That was ridiculous.
Dalton was a grown man. If he wanted to walk away
from the bank, from the cell housing him each day from
seven to six, he could.
But because he was a better man than that, because
he'd been taught to honor his obligations, he wouldn't
&
nbsp; leave his family in the lurch. Anyway, he'd tried making
a living from his art when he was with Carly, but never
seemed to have made enough of an income to provide
a decent life.
Of course, now, he had plenty of savings to live com-
fortably for quite a while without needing to work. What
if that'd been the only thing missing from his previous
attempt to lead an artist's life? Time. The chance to
build up enough of an inventory to put on an amazing
studio show.
As for the woman who'd brought these rebellious
thoughts swelling to the forefront of his mind? She was
beautiful, bright, talented and funny. Sexy as hell. Yet
from the way his emotions had been in constant turmoil
since meeting her, it was also pretty obvious that she
was trouble.
Yeah.
Trouble he couldn't wait to be with again.
Chapter Six
"You decided to give tango another whirl?"
Dalton shrugged. Even if Rose Vasquez was bad for
him, he didn't have the self-control to stay away.
She ducked her gaze, her expression hidden by her
sleek fall of dark hair. "Considering our last lesson, I
didn't figure you'd come."
"Me, neither. But after work, I climbed into my car,
and the damn thing headed this way."
"Hmm. You might want to see a mechanic about
that."
"Yeah," he said with a faint chuckle.
"You okay?" Her voice was so soft, so tender and
brimming with genuine concern. He was definitely not
okay.
"Sure. Great." The lobby fountain merrily tinkled, re-
minding him that this was a dance lesson he faced, not
a firing squad. Just because he'd wound up here yet
again didn't mean he was quitting his job or running off
to find himself. All it meant was that he wanted to make
his family and friends proud.
"I'm glad. Though you seem down. Rough day at
the office?"
He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets to
stop his fingertips from tucking her hair behind her ears.
He wanted to see her face. Her beautiful eyes. "I guess
it was no worse than usual."
"That much fun, huh?"
After casting her a faint grin, he shook his head.
"Okay, well." She tipped back her head, granting
him full access to her lovely face, filling him not only with
crazy urges to kiss her, but sculpt her, as well. He wanted
to freeze her impossible beauty in time. The very notion
was stupid. One Play-Doh horse did not a sculptor make.
He'd never do her justice. "Honestly, I didn't think you
were coming, so I didn't even work out a plan of attack."
"That's okay," he said. "How about we just skip it?
You could probably use the time with Anna."
"I had a light afternoon. We went to the park and we
made fajitas for an early supper. Her sitter, Kelly's, with
her now, watching a movie. So if it's all right, I'd very
much like to be with you—one of my more special
students."
She smiled, and the force of it took him back to when
he'd been a kid, schlepping his way through college.
Free to explore all of life's delicious flavors. Back then,
as now, Rose would've been at the top of his most re-
quested list of forbidden fruits.
"Special, huh?" She'd headed for the door of studio
three, and he trailed after her, enjoying the view. Her
low-cut, black leotard clung to her and showed off all
her curves. "I like the sound of that much better than
dance challenged."
"Hey," Rose said, "don't sell yourself short. You did
a great job at our last session." Almost as good as the
job I'm doing of pretending I'm not thrilled you're here.
The knowledge that Dalton stood only a few feet behind
her made it difficult to breathe.
Pushing open the studio door, she welcomed the
room's air-conditioned chill washing over her flushed
chest and cheeks. Only when she stood in the center of
the brightly lit space, when the cool air had cleared her
mind and heart and she once again felt like a highly
qualified dance instructor instead of a giddy teen, did
she say, "Here's what I think we ought to do."
Her thoughts had been clear, but then he removed his
jacket, flooding her with the rich scents of leather and
him. He wore black jeans and a formfitting black T-shirt
that hugged powerful biceps she knew from their last
lesson were rock hard to the touch.
She licked her lips and tucked her hair behind her ears.
Think, Rose. You've taught dozens of students how to
tango. Dalton's just a man. The sooner you teach him
this dance, the sooner he'll be out of your life.
But then maybe that was her biggest problem. She
didn't want him out of her life, but ever deeper in it.
"Rose?" he asked. "Everything okay?"
"Of course." In fact, on the verge of stepping into his
arms, her once-brittle life felt alarmingly okay. Which,
judging by her thundering pulse, could be a problem.
Enough. She had to focus. "Music would probably be
a good place for us to start," she said, already on her way
to the stereo. "Then I want to try something new. At your
previous lessons, I'm afraid I put too much emphasis on
learning the rules rather than absorbing the true essence
of the dance. If you don't feel it, it will be impossible
for you to learn the embellishments that will make your
version of the tango truly stand out among the rest.
Make no mistake, you've come a long way since our
first session, but I want to be certain you've internalized
the beat." Slipping one of her favorite CDs, Yo soy el
Tango, into the stereo, she pressed Play. "Does that
make sense?"
"Of course." Liar. Dalton dragged in air. Right about
now, the only thing that would make sense was to not
walk but run from this situation as fast as his legs would
carry him. "You're making perfect sense."
"Wonderful. Let's start off by having you take the lead,
walking backward to the music." She stepped toward him.
"Remember, you place your fingers here." Encircling
his wrist, she slipped his hand behind her, settling it on
the small of her back. "Then I'm going to put my hand
here. On your upper arm. Remember this position?"
Lord, yes. He nodded.
"Good. Now, let's join hands, remembering to balance
each other. Imagine that I'm pushing against you, and
you're pulling me. Be gentle but firm." When she settled
her warm palm against his, he fought the urge to close
his eyes. Never had such a seemingly benign thing as
simply touching a woman hit with a more erotic jolt.
Music throbbed all around them, inside him, and
when she urged her hips forward, indicating that it was
time for them to begin, the feeling was tantamount to
him laying her on a sofa and drawing her into a kiss.
Each step brought her breasts against his chest.
She was so
tempting.
He was so damn hungry.
Since meeting her, he had done nothing but replay
their hours together. He would be in the middle of an
important meeting and swear he'd heard her laugh or
caught a whiff of her exotic perfume. Had she cast a
spell on him? Bankers weren't supposed to long for
passionate, artistic women.
"You're doing much better," Rose said, her breath
hot against the base of his throat. "I'm glad you haven't
forgotten."
Forgotten, hell. Round about last Tuesday, he'd
started a secret collection of tango's greatest hits. He
listened to them in the car, in the shower, even at his
office when there was no one else around. If he was
dancing better tonight, then it was because he'd done as
she'd initially asked and let the music inside of him.
When the song ended, Rose pulled away. "Wonderful.
That was great." The next song began, but she walked to
the stereo to press Pause. "Someone did his homework."
"It shows?"
"Definitely. I told you absorbing the music would help
you get a better feel for the dance and look, already, your
inborn sense of rhythm has improved, which means."
We're finished? I no longer have to pretend I don't
want to pull you into my arms and kiss you like there's
no tomorrow?
".we can start learning individual steps."
"Swell."
And so Dalton spent the better part of two hours pre-
tending he was at the Hot Pepper Dance Academy solely
to dance. He pretended not to be mesmerized by Rose's
perfume or the way she laughed at his pathetic jokes or
lifted her hair and fanned the nape of her neck when
she'd grown too warm. If there was one thing all his
years in business had taught him, it was how to keep a
poker face.
A few minutes past nine, she said, "That'll do for
tonight."
"Good. I felt like I was beginning to get sloppy." The
effort of keeping up the charade that this is just a dance
and you're just a woman is getting old.
"No," she reassured. "You're only tired. Which is
understandable. I'm amazed by how much you've
improved. Not just your footwork, but your concentra-
tion." Washing her fingertips over his forehead and
cheeks caused a wave of emotion to swell in his belly.
"You seemed so focused."
"That a bad thing?"
Knowing if she touched him even a fraction of a
second longer, he'd lose the few remnants of his control,
he backed away.
