by Mindy Klasky
Gramps had long ago perfected the amount of pressure to apply in a handshake, the precise touch that indicated he held each particular person in the highest esteem. The old man’s accent shifted over the course of the evening, depending on the person he addressed. At times, his speech deepened into a slow Tidewater drawl; other times, he quickened his words until they became the efficient patter of a time-pressed businessman.
Gramps rarely asked for money directly. Anna had yet to hear him name a specific sum he expected any guest to give to the cause. But she heard several promises of checks, and three different people said they’d speak to their lawyers in the following week. Lawyers—that could only mean sizable donations, perhaps even the redrafting of a will.
Throughout the evening, Anna kept a smile on her face. She repeated the names of RADD’s powerful patrons as her grandfather introduced her, and she threw herself headlong into cocktail-party chatter. She did her best to keep anyone from knowing that her feet throbbed in the high heels she’d borrowed from Emily. She only forgot once that her hair was swept into a graceful up-do—and even then she stopped herself before she raked her fingers completely through her best friend’s hard work.
“Enough,” Gramps said when the pastor of his church had walked away. He leaned back in his chair and gestured for Anna to lean down so he could whisper in her ear. “Call Phil, and tell him I’m ready to go home.”
“You can’t leave yet!” Anna said. “The ball will last till midnight!”
“And I intend to be tucked into my bed well before then,” the old man said tartly. “You can represent the Benson name. Unless you’re afraid your carriage will turn into a pumpkin?”
Anna frowned. Her carriage was going to be a taxi. She’d decided it was foolish to keep a driver waiting all night to take her home from the ball. In fact, if this had been any other party, she would have just walked home. It would do her good to get some fresh air. But she wasn’t about to subject her feet to that torture, not when she’d let Emily bully her into three-inch heels.
“Let me call Phil,” she said exasperatedly, plucking her phone out of the tiny bag Emily had approved for the night.
In the end, it took nearly half an hour for Gramps to leave. Dozens of people needed to deliver their best wishes, and RADD’s president had to reiterate her gratitude for the generous donation from the Benson Family Trust. Anna leaned down to kiss her grandfather on his forehead after he was settled in the back seat of his town car. Only when she saw the tight lines of his pale lips did she realize how much the event had taken out of him.
“I’ll come home with you,” she said. “Just make sure you get settled in for the night.”
“That would be a fu—, a full-time waste of your charms, dear. Get back in there, Anna-cakes. Enjoy the rest of the night—and see if you can’t pin down Gwendolyn Chalmers for the donation she promised last spring.”
Anna decided that protesting would only stress her grandfather more. Instead, she pasted a smile on her face and stepped back so Phil could close the car door. “Take it easy with him,” she said to the trusted driver. “He’s exhausted, even though he’ll never admit it.”
“Of course,” Phil said, with a firm nod. Anna had the distinct impression he would have touched his finger to the bill of his cap, if he’d been dressed in a traditional chauffeur’s garb. As it was, the man wore a dark suit that bunched over his linebacker muscles. He’d get Gramps home without a problem.
Anna sighed and turned back to the hotel ballroom. The theme of this year’s event was The Age of Innocence. The tables had been festooned with flowers worthy of an Edith Wharton novel, and the usual rock band had been replaced with a chamber orchestra. A dozen couples spun about the dance floor, demonstrating their skill at the waltz.
Anna snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and she stepped to the side of the room. Gwendolyn Chalmers… The woman should be sitting with friends from the Garden Society; she was famous for the formal plantings that guaranteed her house was on the home tour every spring.
There was the Garden Society; Anna would recognize those matrons anywhere. But Gwendolyn was nowhere in sight. Frowning, Anna turned to her right, ready to scrutinize every face in the room.
And she pulled up short as she found herself gazing directly into Zach Ormond’s eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. He wore a tuxedo, with a starched shirt so white she almost blinked. His bow tie was perfectly knotted, and ruby studs glinted on the path to his cummerbund. The light mellowed the grey at his temples, softening his curls into smooth chocolate.
“Getting ready to ask the most attractive woman in the room if she wants to dance,” he said.
Anna suddenly lost all interest in tracking down Gwendolyn Chalmers. “I’d like that,” she said. “Very much.”
Zach smoothly handed off her glass to one of the attentive waiters, and then he took her hand. She told her suddenly surging heart that it was being ridiculous. Of course he took her hand. He was helping her through the crowd. He was guiding her to the center of the hardwood dance floor.
Nevertheless, she was absolutely certain she didn’t want to shift her fingers away from his. Not yet. Not when the music was just starting to swell around them in the stirring strains of a Strauss waltz.
He moved with the grace of an experienced dancer. His right hand curved over her hip and his broad palm splayed across her back. She could just feel his thumb against her spine, caressing her bare flesh above the top of her crimson bodice. The sensation made her catch her breath, a reaction she could not hide as he smiled.
She let her own lips curve as she settled her left hand on his shoulder. She felt solid muscle beneath her palm, the body of a man who had earned his living on the baseball diamond for years. There was power there. Promise.
He guided them into the timeless steps of a waltz, gliding across the dance floor the way he moved on the playing field—with absolute confidence and control. His arms tightened around her, and she yielded to the commanding pressure of his hips as he led them through the graceful pattern: One, two, three. One, two, three…
The last time she’d waltzed, she’d been at a cousin’s wedding. Her date had been her junior-year boyfriend, a gawky chemistry major who had danced as if he were reciting the Periodic Table. She’d been afraid to talk to him, for fear she’d knock him off his count.
Zach, though, was an entirely different type of partner. With him leading, she felt as if she were floating, as if she did not need to think at all. He pulled her closer and whispered so that only she could hear. “I think I owe a thank you to whoever chose the theme for this year’s gala.”
“Oh?” She shivered at the suggestiveness of his tone.
“I’ve always wondered. What is the age of innocence?” The glint in his eyes was wicked, and it melted something deep inside her.
At the same time, though, she heard something beyond the simple flirtation of his question. He was reminding her that he was fifteen years older than she was. He was pulling them both back to the way they had met—when she had been indisputably a child, when he had been a man. He was warning her off.
“I’m not sure,” she answered seriously. “But I know I’m past it.” And to prove her point, she shifted her hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck. She let the edge of one crimson-painted fingernail trail against his flesh, awakening a slow shudder that she felt through the entire line of the body that pressed against her. Widening her eyes in mock innocence, she asked, “Where did you learn to dance so well?”
“When you have four younger sisters and the world’s strictest parents, you get dragged out on a lot of dance floors.” He pulled her closer as another couple swirled nearby. “I have to say, though. You surprise me.”
“That I know how to waltz?”
“That you don’t try to lead.”
* * *
Even as he said the words, he shifted his arms, pulling her closer to his body. He felt her s
tiffen, knew she was considering resistance. But he’d been careful to time his comment. If she pushed back now, she’d essentially be confirming that she did lead on the dance floor. And something told him Anna Benson was just traditional enough to want him to guide them through the next few steps.
Sure enough, she relaxed again, her body more gracefully pliant than ever. As his hips met hers, he had to consciously resist the temptation to tear those diamond-tipped pins out of her hair, to grab hold of those waves of shiny black and tilt her head back, exposing the pulse point in her throat…
His cock twitched violently, and he braced himself for her inevitable response. He couldn’t tell if she was somehow blessedly unaware of his arousal or if she was being coy when she asked, “What brings you to the RADD gala? I haven’t seen you here before.”
“The last three years, I was on the road.”
Of course, she understood that immediately. “But your suspension freed you up to attend this year.” Her voice turned arch. “Foolish me. I should have understood right from the start. You dropped your appeal so we could waltz together. It had nothing to do with the team going to New York. With the team facing the division leader.”
“I’m not afraid of playing in New York.” He responded to her taunt automatically.
“As near as I can tell,” she said evenly, “you’re not afraid of anything.”
Damn. She had to feel the effect her words had on him. Her words, and the soft heat of her flesh beneath his hands, the sweet apple scent he barely caught on her hair. If he had any doubt, it evaporated when she leaned back against the spread fingers of his right hand. The motion ground her hips against his, simultaneously treating him to a glimpse of the tight buds that stood out against the scarlet bodice of her dress.
There were about a hundred things he wanted to do with Anna Benson, right then, right there, in the middle of that dance floor. And Raleigh’s society matrons would be one hundred percent appalled by every single one of them. It was time to ground this conversation. Time to remind both of them they’d be goddamn fools to take things further. Goddamn fools to follow up on even one of the thoughts that tightened his balls even as he led her smoothly across the floor.
“I wanted to get the suspension behind me,” he said as lightly as he could. “Get back to work without it hanging over my head. Over the team’s head.”
“You wanted the team to know exactly how much we need you behind the plate.”
I’ll see you and raise you. That’s what she meant. He shrugged and lowered his voice to a deliberately provocative growl. “I wanted to see you in something other than blue jeans and a team T-shirt. I’d have made the effort sooner, if I’d known what I was missing.”
That caught her by surprise. Her eyes widened, and she almost missed a step. He did the only gentlemanly thing he could, pulling her closer to make sure she didn’t lose her balance. She shuddered a little, and it seemed to take a conscious effort for her to meet his eyes. Good.
“But why RADD?” she persevered, just a little breathlessly. “Isn’t it a little much to come to a gala for some charity you’d never heard of? What if my dance card had been full?”
It was his turn to reply with something flirtatious, something about taking her outside, where her dance card wouldn’t matter. But he had to be truthful. He had to be honest—for himself. For Anna. For a man who could never be honest again. “My brother-in-law was killed by a drunk driver five years ago. Supporting RADD is the least I can do to help my sister, Rachel.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. The words were automatic. He’d heard them from hundreds of people over the years; he’d even said them himself, knowing they could never make a difference. He watched her wince at the platitude as soon as the words were out of her mouth, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth.
The orchestra conspired to stop then, prohibiting him from distracting her, from smoothing over the awkward moment, from making it all okay. He barely resisted the urge to swear, supplanting a few choice curse words with the long-practiced politeness of gliding to a stop, of releasing his dance partner, of turning toward the conductor and applauding like he was standing in a goddamn golf gallery.
What he really wanted to do was kiss that frown off her face. To let his tongue brush against the shallow marks left by her teeth. To tilt her head to a proper angle and pull her body against his in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the tortured formality of a waltz. To see what she really felt like beneath those folds of Rockets-red cloth.
Before he could move, he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder.
* * *
“May I?” Anna heard the question before she’d fully registered the intruder, before she remembered she was standing in the Grand Ballroom, in the very center of the dance floor, surrounded by everyone who was anyone in the Raleigh social scene.
Zach’s face darkened, and she thought he was going to deny the man the next dance. He was going to cause a most inappropriate commotion. She wanted him to say something, even when she realized the newcomer was Austin Pendleton, one of Raleigh’s greatest benefactors, and a man whom Gramps would surely demand she entertain civilly.
But Zach brought his heels together with the slightest hint of a bow. “Of course,” he said. But before he stepped away, he brought Anna’s hand to his lips.
Under any other circumstances, she would have rolled her eyes at the gesture. It was corny. Possessive. Old-fashioned, in the worst possible way.
But when he turned her hand to settle the lightest of kisses against the pulse point in her wrist, she knew Zach Ormond meant nothing traditional with the gesture. The touch of his lips was more suggestive than anything he could have said, more telling even than the fire that sparked behind his gaze.
“Many thanks for the dance, Miss Benson,” he said.
“My pleasure, Mr. Ormond,” she managed, striking the perfect tone of mockery and politeness. And then Zach disappeared in the pool of black tuxes, only the set of his shoulders setting him apart from every other man in the room. Those shoulders, and his mahogany curls, and the confident way he walked across the dance floor, never looking back. He somehow conveyed that he knew she was following him with her eyes, and she felt faint against the sudden rush of heat that swept from her kissed wrist to her belly, passing straight through her heart.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning back to Austin Pendleton, suddenly aware that she had missed his opening polite conversation. She forced herself to focus on inane gala chatter as the orchestra swept them into a new dance.
It wasn’t Pendleton’s fault that the violins sounded screechy throughout the next number. And his mechanical waltz was technically correct. Anyone’s hands might have been cold as ice after an evening in the over-air-conditioned hotel ballroom.
At least Anna kept a smile on her face as she listened to the elderly lawyer drone on and on about some major litigation matter his firm had recently won. They’d been paid on contingency, he emphasized, at least three times. Anna finally shook her mind back to the matter at hand and prompted, “With a windfall payment like that, you should be more than happy to write a check to RADD this year. You know my grandfather would truly adore listing you as one of the Angels for this year’s campaign.”
She extracted the attorney’s promise, and then she waited out the orchestra, pleading thirst the instant they played the last note of the waltz. She snatched up the first glass she could from a passing waiter, only to discover it was an overheated chardonnay.
Forcing herself to ignore the oaky taste at the back of her throat, she returned her concentration to the true business of the night—securing the last of the donors her grandfather had targeted. There was one, by the Viennese table, piling a tiny glass plate high with desserts. Anna pasted on a smile and went to confront the woman, already pulling together a compliment about the combination of feathers and sequins that sprouted across her ample bosom.
Submerging herself in business mode, she continue
d to work the room. Her feet were killing her and the stitching in the seams of her borrowed dress was starting to itch, but she was determined to cement every last commitment for RADD.
Her final prey was Gwendolyn Chalmers. She actually found the woman in the ladies’ lounge, carefully dabbing at her lipstick before she returned to one final battle on the dance floor. They exchanged air kisses, and Anna exclaimed over that enticing shade of…chartreuse. Where had Gwendolyn found that dress? Without mercy, Anna mentioned how happy Gramps had been to get the newsletter from the home for retired racehorses that was Gwendolyn’s pet cause. She secured a promise of a check with five zeros—one more, she knew, than even Gramps had hoped for.
As Gwendolyn navigated out of the lounge, Anna resisted the urge to slip into one of the upholstered chairs. If she sat down now, she’d never get home. Squaring her shoulders, she checked her teeth for lipstick, and then she dived back into the fray.
Returning to the ballroom, though, she found the party was finally over. The musicians were packing up their instruments, moving with the brisk efficiency of grocery store clerks bent over busy cash registers. The lights jolted up from “Seduction” level to “Service,” and Anna blinked as her pupils adjusted.
Women were collecting their purses. Men stood nearby, pulling out valet claim checks. A few guests clutched the flower arrangements that had graced each table.
A handful of people made a point of saying goodbye to Anna. There was Austin Pendleton again, this time with his helmet-haired wife standing guard. Gwendolyn Chalmers executed another air kiss and repeated her promise to send along a check. The actual officers of RADD—not the women who held the title of honorary anything—came over to shake Anna’s hand, to thank her for her hard work, to send their best wishes to her grandfather as if they’d had no chance to see the man before his early bedtime.
Anna finally eased her way out the doors. The hotel was quiet; it was well after midnight. She took an escalator down to the ground floor, and she walked past the solitary night clerk who was staring at his computer.
