Читать книгу Dancing with Dalton - Laura Altom Marie - Страница 6

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 worsened 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 backward 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. Pirouetted 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 emergency, 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 selection, 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 reminded 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 professional. “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 unpretentious 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 hours earlier guiltily looked forward to dancing with this man? The same man who’d been a grump at dinner and had already broken half her toes and was now working on the other five?

With dramatic flair, he raised his hands in the air, then smacked them against his thighs. “I don’t know what you want from me. First, you’re telling me to walk, then pivot. Go in a straight line, then a box. Honestly, woman, the only place I feel like going is straight out the door!”

“Fine! Just do that!”

“Okay, I will!”

By this time, they stood toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, and while Rose’s fingertips itched to shake the attitude out of him, at the same time, their heated arguing had raised her blood pressure to an all-out boil that felt closer to passion than fury.

Exertion had them both breathing hard, and as their gazes locked, the sight of this powerfully built man getting worked up over an easy giro turn sequence was all she needed to spark a giggle.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You. Us.” She flopped her hands at her sides, then glanced at the studio wall clock. “It’s past nine. No wonder we’re both on edge.” Most evenings, she’d long since tucked Anna into bed and was well on her way herself. At least until her racing mind stole any chance for a decent night’s rest.

Eyes closed, he arched his head back and sighed. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“Me, too.” And she was. Mostly about the fact that if she were truthful, a big part of Dalton Montgomery’s dancing troubles weren’t caused by him, but her. She needed to loosen up. “We seem to spend an awful lot of time apologizing.”

“I’ve noticed.” He dry-washed his face with his hands.

“We don’t have to learn everything in one night. What’s your hurry?”

“Heard of Miss Hot Pepper?”

“Sure,” she said with a nod on her way to a compact fridge. Grabbing a bottled water, she asked, “That’s the queen crowned at the pageant held in conjunction with the Hot Pepper Festival, right?”

He eyed her drink. “Got another one of those?”

She handed him a bottle. “Well?”

“What?”

“Your hurry?”

“I have to dance at the pageant. During that awkward downtime while the judges tally their scores. It’s really stupid, and—”

“Why do you say that?”

“What?”

“That it’s stupid? The tango. There you go again, insulting a beautiful art form out of ignorance, or—”

“I’m not insulting it. I just don’t want to know it. I resent like hell being told I have to waste Lord only knows how many nights in this studio when I could be home—”

“What?” she challenged, hands on her hips. “What sounds more fun than dancing?”

“Digging ditches.”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “You haven’t even given tango a chance.” Why do I even care? The smart choice would be to let him walk. But if he chose to make a buffoon of himself in front of the entire town, so be it. “For that matter, there are things I’d rather be doing than standing around here arguing with a guy who’d rather be waist deep in muck.”

“Who are we kidding?” He set his water against the baseboard, then massaged his temples. “I don’t have a dancing bone in my body. Not even a dancing cell. Do you really think it’s even possible for me to learn to tango?”

His admission of vulnerability not only surprised her, but warmed her. She knew all too well what it was like to feel incapable of learning something. Only in her case, it’d been basic life skills. After John’s death, she’d handled things like paying bills and scheduling car maintenance. Being able to sleep alone in her and John’s king-size bed—that she hadn’t yet tackled.

“I not only think it’s possible for you to tango,” she said, warring with her stinging eyes to keep tears at bay, “I know.”

Sashaying to the stereo, she selected a favorite Latin CD, then cranked the volume. When the walls pulsed with the music’s life, she held out her arms. “It is customary for the man to ask the woman to dance, but since you seem to be feeling a bit shy, how about it? Care to escort me on a trip around the dance floor?”

She didn’t give him a chance to answer.

In the time span of two beats, she placed one hand on his bicep and held her other up, palm out for him to meet. Her palm kissing his, Rose willed her pulse to slow. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, she listened for the beat. Remembered what it used to be like onstage with John in the moment before the curtain rose…

Earlier, admitting she found her new student attractive had been easy. Being held in his unexpectedly capable arms while the beat she and her husband had so loved pulsed all around them was proving impossible.

Stopping, hands to her forehead, Rose said, “That’s enough for tonight.”

“But—”

She marched to the stereo, turning it off. The resulting silence was deafening.

“Everything okay?”

“Of course.” Turning her back to him, Rose swiped a few sentimental tears. Though she’d danced the tango with other men since John’s death, something about this man’s provocative hold made the dance different. Special.

“Then why are you crying?”

He’d crept up behind her. He stood close enough that his radiated heat scorched her, but he didn’t touch her. For that she was vastly relieved. It’d been so long since she’d shared another human’s—a man’s—touch. Oh sure, she hugged Rachel and Anna all the time, but somehow it wasn’t the same. In her new student, she sensed a hidden gentle quality she suspected he preferred to hide. But that was dance’s magic. It stripped a man—or woman—to the soul, baring innermost secrets for even a casual partner to see. Dalton’s touch had been tentative. Soft. Respectful. All of which was good, but at the same time bad. For those qualities were the very things urging her to spin around for a hug.

“Rose?” It was the first time he’d called her by her first name. He made the word lovely. Delicate. “I know my dancing’s bad. But surely not bad enough to reduce you to tears.”

His stab at humor made her smile, then cry all the harder. She ran to the hall for privacy, but to her horror, Dalton followed.

Hand on her left shoulder, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, needing to be away from this man, from the overwhelming physical confusion being near him evoked. “I’m sorry, but our lesson is over.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, more for her own benefit than his. “I just can’t.”

“Do you still want me to come tomorrow night?”

She shook her head, then nodded before dashing off to the stairs leading to her loft.