Laura Marie Altom Read online

  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 cus-

  tomary 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 attrac-

  tive 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 result-

  ing 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 pre-

  ferred 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

&n
bsp; to the stairs leading to her loft.

  Chapter Three

  "Tell me, son," Dalton's father asked over the phone the

  next morning. "How did your dance lesson go? Are you

  going to make the family proud?"

  "My lesson?" Let's see, considering the fact that his

  dancing had been so bad his teacher had run from the

  studio in tears, it couldn't have gone better. Dalton held

  the phone in one hand, and a family-size jug of antacid

  in the other. "It was swell. I'm thinking one more

  session ought to be all I need to get the hang of it."

  "You're joking, right? You can't possibly expect

  me to believe you learned the tango in one night. The

  first year I performed at the pageant, it took me a good

  six weeks to get the hang of all those twists and

  turns."

  Could a guy OD on antacid? Dalton scanned the

  label before taking another swig. "I get the one, two,

  three walk thing. What else is there?"

  "Everything. You have to feel the music. Absorb it

  into your body and soul. According to Miss Gertrude,

  you have to let the music take your heart where it wants

  you to go."

  It took everything in Dalton not to choke. "Have you

  been taking your medication? How is it that the man

  who once told me to shut off my heart is now telling me

  to listen to it?"

  "Yes, well..." His old man cleared his throat. "That

  was before all this mess that's landed me on my keister.

  I'm currently of the opinion that it's all right to feel a

  little something—at least if the touchy-feely stuff lands

  you that much closer to achieving your business goals."

  Dalton rolled his eyes.

  A certain raven-haired instructor had put it a bit more

  meaningfully than that, and look where that speech had

  left him. Not merely listening to his heart, but looking

  deep into Rose's sultry brown eyes, then watching her

  burst into tears. Logic told him there had to be more to

  the waterworks than him, but what?

  "Dalton? You still there, son?"

  Unfortunately. "Yeah, Dad. I'm here."

  "Good. Listen up. Not to put any added pressure on

  you, but my ticker's not getting better, and watching the

  festival I founded go off without a hitch means a lot.

  Your mother and I both are looking forward to your per-

  formance. Miranda, too. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Crystal."

  After pressing the phone's off button, Dalton reached

  for a pencil, then snapped it in half.

  Do I make myself clear?

  God, he was so sick of hearing that phrase.

  Especially in regard to the not-so-subtle hints that he

  settle down with Miranda Browning—a woman he'd

  known since they'd both been kids. Their parents thrust

  them together at every possible moment, and while

  Dalton enjoyed her company as a friend, that was it.

  More than a few times, his mom had suggested Dalton

  marry Miranda.

  At first, the notion had been ludicrous, but lately, he'd

  begun wondering if maybe his parents were right. Espe-

  cially considering what a disastrous choice he'd made

  when following his own heart.

  FRIDAY NIGHT, Dalton arrived at the dance studio,

  stomach churning. He wasn't sure what to expect.

  Would his teacher be the teary-eyed wreck he'd last

  seen, or the fireball with whom he'd shared dinner?

  He entered Hot Pepper Dance Academy not sure he

  even wanted to be there. He had enough of his own

  troubles. Did he really want the added burden of

  someone else's?

  The lobby was deserted.

  From the studios came the muted beats of tangos and

  sambas. Or were those mambos and salsas? Before he had

  the chance to decide, a rowdy bunch of women stampeded

  through the glass door of studio three. Sweaty women.

  Women with messy nests for hair and lifeless sweatsuits

  for costumes. They looked fresh from gym class.

  Rose emerged looking as if she'd spent a night

  dancing between the sheets. Her skin wasn't blotchy

  from exertion, but glowing. Her hair didn't look tangled,

  but tousled. Her formfitting, fire-orange dress was every

  male's fantasy. As for her endless legs? He forced a

  deep breath. Don't even get started.

  "Mr. Montgomery," she said, her voice raspy. "I'm

  so glad you decided to give tango another try."

  To hell with the tango. I'm here to see you. To solve

  the mystery behind your tears.

  "Sure. I'm, ah, looking forward to getting back on the

  proverbial horse."

  "Wonderful." Red-tipped fingers singeing his

  forearm, she graced him with her smile. So, she'd

  reverted to fireball status. "Let me reschedule these

  ladies for next week, then I'll be right with you."

  Her touch had been casual. After she flitted from

  him, she used the same friendly gesture on five differ-

  ent people, but somehow, that didn't matter. Nothing

  mattered but that his arm still hummed with her heat.

  Forcing a deep breath, reminding himself he wasn't

  here for a date, but to fulfill a business obligation, Dalton

  aimed for the studio the women had just left. He groaned

  when the space still smelled of Rose's tropical perfume.

  The rich scent brought to mind orchids. Ocean. Hot sand.

  Even hotter bodies glistening with coconut-scented oil.

  He swallowed hard.

  "There you are." The teacher, in all her raven-haired,

  full-lipped glory strolled through the door. "I'd hoped

  you hadn't escaped."

  "Not for lack of wanting," he managed to say with

  a wry smile.

  "Tsk, tsk. What kind of attitude is that for our

  second lesson?"

  Why did you run from our first lesson crying? he

  longed to ask. Instead, he shrugged.

  "Well?" She clapped her hands, rubbing them together

  as if she was looking forward to the coming hour.

  "Should we jump right in, or would you like to spend a

  few minutes reviewing what you've already learned?"

  "Let's dive," he said, trying not to feel hurt about her

  apparently having no wish to tell him what had been

  wrong the previous night.

  "Excellent." Thrilled to be done with the small talk

  that had her heart racing, Rose escaped to the stereo. She

  was careful to play a more lively tune than the one that'd

  reduced her to tears. True, all tangos followed the same

  basic beat, but the moods changed.

  When "La ultima cita" began, she said, "All right, Mr.

  Montgomery, now I'm going to really challenge you."

  He sighed.

  "This isn't the time to cop an attitude. All I'm asking

  you to do is dance backward."

  "What?"

  "You heard me." She stopped in front of him,

  adopting the classic pose with her hand on his upper

  arm. "Imagine we're in a vast ballroom filled with

  dancers. There will be young men impressing the girls

  with their fancy footwork, still-in-love grandparents

  following rhythms it's taken them a lifetime to abs
orb.

  And then, there's us..." She took a deep breath, offered

  what she hoped was an encouraging grin. "Feel like

  giving it a try?"

  He grudgingly gave in and half an hour and a lot of

  laughter later, Rose and Dalton were moving about the

  floor like pros. Well, not quite, but at least they hadn't

  tripped over each other in the past few minutes.

  Rose closed her eyes and let the music and feel of his

  arms transport her not to her familiar grief, but to a smoky

  club in the heart of old-town Buenos Aires. What fun she

  would have showing this uptight banker how to loosen up.

  Their chemistry was intoxicating. But as badly as she

  longed to be held in a man's arms, she was afraid of

  opening her heart again only to potentially lose it.

  Despite the warning, the part of her that longed to

  laugh and play and dance, not because it was her job,

  but for the sheer joy of it, urged her to spend more time

  with Dalton.

  When they were both out of breath, Rose pulled away

  with a gleeful clap. "That was so much better!"

  "It was?"

  "Absolutely." Even as she laughed and playfully

  swatted him, Rose wished her breathing would return

  to normal. Though Dalton had still made plenty of

  mistakes, something about his style was intrinsically

  rhythmic. Like her, though he might not know it, he'd

  been born with an artist's soul. Once he'd lost his fierce

  scowl of determination and allowed his mind and heart

  to go where the music took him, he'd easily fallen into

  the spirit of the dance. "Ready to go again?"

  "I think so."

  "You think?" She shook her head. "No, no. You

  should say, of course," she said with a grin.

  For the first time in she couldn't remember when, she

  was having fun and didn't want the night to end.

  She ignored her earlier misgivings, choosing to enjoy

  herself. Soon enough, she'd be back upstairs with Anna,

  fighting to sleep through the night. Maybe if she exerted

  herself rest would come more easily.

  That in mind, she inserted a new CD, putting herself

  and her student through rigorous moves.

  "Whew." Twenty minutes later, again out of breath,

  Rose pulled away, reaching for a towel she'd hung from

  the ballet bar. "I'd say you've gone as far as you can with

  la caminita."

  "And that would be?"

  "All that means, is the walk, which is the most basic

  of all tango steps. Now that you're walking, we can

  start to run."