Laura Marie Altom Read online

  "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."r />
  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