Laura Marie Altom

by Dancing

  "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 after-

  noon, 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 Dal-

  ton'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

  creature 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 deep-

  ened 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 under-

  stands 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 medi-

  tation 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 confi-

  dence is up. You've learned to improvise and be a

  strong enough leader to allow me freedom of move-

  ment. 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 un-

  earthed 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 vendra, 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 loveli-

  est flower of all was Rose. She'd changed into a siren's

  dress that plunged down her chest and back, showcas-

  ing 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 cham-

  pagne 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."

  "But I like this one."