Laura Marie Altom Read online

  they juicy?"

  He snorted. "More like boring as hell."

  "Not to pry, but—"

  "Yoo-hoo! Dalton! Rose!"

  Groaning, he said, "Don't look now, but we've got

  trouble looming just over that hill."

  Alice Craigmoore, decked out in a navy suit and hot-

  pink jogging shoes, waved again. "Hey, you two! Don't

  even think of pretending you don't see me." Hands on her

  hips, the middle-aged woman breathed hard, but not hard

  enough to shut her up. "Well? Dalton, does your father

  know you're out here picnicking instead of in your office?"

  Laughing, Rose ignored his scowl, stood and

  extended her hand to Alice. The two women acted like

  long-lost friends.

  Dalton used the time to reassemble himself—both in

  spirit and attire. Before Alice had stuck her snoopy nose

  into his business, he'd contemplated telling Rose every-

  thing. About the mess with Carly and the secret dreams

  he'd harbored before he'd met her. He would have told

  Rose what his father had done to ensure Dalton toed the

  family line, and how even now that he was older, his sense

  of honor prevented him following his own path. He had

  planned on telling her all of that, but now that he'd had a

  second to think about it, it was probably for the best that

  he kept it to himself. After all, as soon as this dancing gig

  was over, he'd probably only run into Rose around town.

  "Dalton," Alice said, "it's good to see Rose has kept

  you on top of your dance lessons. I'd hate to see the

  entire town shamed by your lack of interest."

  "He'll do an amazing job," Rose assured. "He has an

  inborn sense of grace that can't be taught."

  "Really?" Alice's eyebrows shot up. "Our Dalton? A

  natural dancer? Judging by his father's two left feet, I

  never would've guessed."

  "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Dalton's dad,

  but surely he's also been graced with the dancing gene?"

  "No," Alice said with a firm shake of her head.

  "Make no mistake, the man thinks he's Fred Astaire, but

  his past performances have been more along the lines

  of Sesame Street's Big Bird."

  "Hey," Dalton warned, under a family obligation to

  ensure his father was given adequate credit for his

  moves, "Dad's got skills."

  "Right," Alice said with a good-natured cackle. "He's

  quite adept at making his partners cry."

  "Oh, now," Rose said, "I don't believe that for a

  second."

  "Believe what you will," Alice said, "but I'll rest a

  lot easier knowing Dalton's dance instruction's in good

  hands. Have fun!" With a backhanded wave, the woman

  was thankfully on her way.

  "I should've remembered she goes for a jog in the

  park most every afternoon," Dalton moaned.

  "The few times I've met her around town, she's

  always seemed nice," Rose said.

  "If you like chatting up bulls. I hate how she's placed

  herself in charge of the proverbial playground. Espe-

  cially mine."

  "Oh," she said, gathering up the remains of their

  meal, "I think she was just making conversation. I

  wouldn't make too big a deal of it."

  "Why are you always doing that?"

  "What?" She froze while putting away a stack of

  orange napkins.

  "Looking on the bright side. Especially after the crappy

  hand life dealt you. Don't you ever just want to rail?"

  "What point would that serve? Being angry at the

  world isn't going to change anything. Why not just

  make the best of what you've been given?"

  Sounded simple enough in theory, but seeing how

  Dalton had been doing just that for the past decade,

  he'd grown tired of pretending everything was okay.

  Never more so than now, when a few brief meetings

  with Rose Vasquez had shown him just how much his

  life had been missing. He wanted boisterous family

  dinners and playing with his own sweet little girl. He

  wanted more picnics and laughter and afternoons at the

  park. He wanted all of that, but being an only child, he'd

  inherited a legacy it was his duty to fulfill.

  Ha. That's a good line, but now, how about the

  truth? That for all of Rose's attributes, she was funda-

  mentally different from him. She was an artist. He

  was an artist-wannabe.

  "It's back," Rose said, tracing his furrow. "Are you

  ever going to tell me what's going on in that thick

  head of yours?"

  "Wait, the other night, I said you have a pretty head,

  and now, instead of telling me I have a handsome mug,

  all you can say is that it's thick?"

  She smoothed his hair. "It's an adorably thick head.

  Does that make you happy?"

  Not especially. What would make him happy? Dis-

  tracting Rose with a lingering kiss.

  "Hmm..." Drawing her lower lip into her mouth,

  she said, "since you're back to scowling, I guess that

  compliment doesn't especially thrill you."

  She was wrong about that.

  The morning sun seemed to slice Dalton's office in two.

  Darkness and light. It was fitting, considering his mood.

  Tossing his briefcase on one of a matching set of

  burgundy wingback guest chairs, he then flopped into

  his own seat. On autopilot, he reached for the jug of

  antacid in his top-right desk drawer.

  Bottle clutched to his chest, he leaned back as far as

  he could go, closing his eyes. He wished washing away

  confusion was as easy as taking a dose of medicine.

  His whole adult life had been built around the

  concept that it was noble for him to put aside any

  personal dreams or goals for the sake of his family.

  He'd tried things his way and failed. Now, the smart

  thing to do was buckle down and accept his lot in life.

  Maybe even take a second look at Miranda—or a

  woman like her. But lately, everything he'd once thought

  set in stone had changed.

  He'd once harbored resentment toward his father, for

  having boxed him into this life. But now, after spending

  time with Rose and Anna, Dalton wondered if maybe part

  of the reason he and his father had never been all that

  close was that his dad had been so busy putting in

  fourteen-hour days, that he'd never had time for anything

  else. Never once had his father sat down with him to play

  the way Dalton had the other night with Anna. For that

  matter, did his dad even know how to play?

  Hands cupping his forehead, Dalton closed his eyes,

  releasing a deep sigh.

  What was wrong with him?

  Drudging up all this personal stuff?

  Was he really saying he was unhappy with his life

  because Daddy hadn't played Hot Wheels with him?

  That was ridiculous.

  Dalton was a grown man. If he wanted to walk away

  from the bank, from the cell housing him each day from

  seven to six, he could.

  But because he was a better man than that, because

  he'd been taught to honor his obligations, he wouldn't

&
nbsp; leave his family in the lurch. Anyway, he'd tried making

  a living from his art when he was with Carly, but never

  seemed to have made enough of an income to provide

  a decent life.

  Of course, now, he had plenty of savings to live com-

  fortably for quite a while without needing to work. What

  if that'd been the only thing missing from his previous

  attempt to lead an artist's life? Time. The chance to

  build up enough of an inventory to put on an amazing

  studio show.

  As for the woman who'd brought these rebellious

  thoughts swelling to the forefront of his mind? She was

  beautiful, bright, talented and funny. Sexy as hell. Yet

  from the way his emotions had been in constant turmoil

  since meeting her, it was also pretty obvious that she

  was trouble.

  Yeah.

  Trouble he couldn't wait to be with again.

  Chapter Six

  "You decided to give tango another whirl?"

  Dalton shrugged. Even if Rose Vasquez was bad for

  him, he didn't have the self-control to stay away.

  She ducked her gaze, her expression hidden by her

  sleek fall of dark hair. "Considering our last lesson, I

  didn't figure you'd come."

  "Me, neither. But after work, I climbed into my car,

  and the damn thing headed this way."

  "Hmm. You might want to see a mechanic about

  that."

  "Yeah," he said with a faint chuckle.

  "You okay?" Her voice was so soft, so tender and

  brimming with genuine concern. He was definitely not

  okay.

  "Sure. Great." The lobby fountain merrily tinkled, re-

  minding him that this was a dance lesson he faced, not

  a firing squad. Just because he'd wound up here yet

  again didn't mean he was quitting his job or running off

  to find himself. All it meant was that he wanted to make

  his family and friends proud.

  "I'm glad. Though you seem down. Rough day at

  the office?"

  He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets to

  stop his fingertips from tucking her hair behind her ears.

  He wanted to see her face. Her beautiful eyes. "I guess

  it was no worse than usual."

  "That much fun, huh?"

  After casting her a faint grin, he shook his head.

  "Okay, well." She tipped back her head, granting

  him full access to her lovely face, filling him not only with

  crazy urges to kiss her, but sculpt her, as well. He wanted

  to freeze her impossible beauty in time. The very notion

  was stupid. One Play-Doh horse did not a sculptor make.

  He'd never do her justice. "Honestly, I didn't think you

  were coming, so I didn't even work out a plan of attack."

  "That's okay," he said. "How about we just skip it?

  You could probably use the time with Anna."

  "I had a light afternoon. We went to the park and we

  made fajitas for an early supper. Her sitter, Kelly's, with

  her now, watching a movie. So if it's all right, I'd very

  much like to be with you—one of my more special

  students."

  She smiled, and the force of it took him back to when

  he'd been a kid, schlepping his way through college.

  Free to explore all of life's delicious flavors. Back then,

  as now, Rose would've been at the top of his most re-

  quested list of forbidden fruits.

  "Special, huh?" She'd headed for the door of studio

  three, and he trailed after her, enjoying the view. Her

  low-cut, black leotard clung to her and showed off all

  her curves. "I like the sound of that much better than

  dance challenged."

  "Hey," Rose said, "don't sell yourself short. You did

  a great job at our last session." Almost as good as the

  job I'm doing of pretending I'm not thrilled you're here.

  The knowledge that Dalton stood only a few feet behind

  her made it difficult to breathe.

  Pushing open the studio door, she welcomed the

  room's air-conditioned chill washing over her flushed

  chest and cheeks. Only when she stood in the center of

  the brightly lit space, when the cool air had cleared her

  mind and heart and she once again felt like a highly

  qualified dance instructor instead of a giddy teen, did

  she say, "Here's what I think we ought to do."

  Her thoughts had been clear, but then he removed his

  jacket, flooding her with the rich scents of leather and

  him. He wore black jeans and a formfitting black T-shirt

  that hugged powerful biceps she knew from their last

  lesson were rock hard to the touch.

  She licked her lips and tucked her hair behind her ears.

  Think, Rose. You've taught dozens of students how to

  tango. Dalton's just a man. The sooner you teach him

  this dance, the sooner he'll be out of your life.

  But then maybe that was her biggest problem. She

  didn't want him out of her life, but ever deeper in it.

  "Rose?" he asked. "Everything okay?"

  "Of course." In fact, on the verge of stepping into his

  arms, her once-brittle life felt alarmingly okay. Which,

  judging by her thundering pulse, could be a problem.

  Enough. She had to focus. "Music would probably be

  a good place for us to start," she said, already on her way

  to the stereo. "Then I want to try something new. At your

  previous lessons, I'm afraid I put too much emphasis on

  learning the rules rather than absorbing the true essence

  of the dance. If you don't feel it, it will be impossible

  for you to learn the embellishments that will make your

  version of the tango truly stand out among the rest.

  Make no mistake, you've come a long way since our

  first session, but I want to be certain you've internalized

  the beat." Slipping one of her favorite CDs, Yo soy el

  Tango, into the stereo, she pressed Play. "Does that

  make sense?"

  "Of course." Liar. Dalton dragged in air. Right about

  now, the only thing that would make sense was to not

  walk but run from this situation as fast as his legs would

  carry him. "You're making perfect sense."

  "Wonderful. Let's start off by having you take the lead,

  walking backward to the music." She stepped toward him.

  "Remember, you place your fingers here." Encircling

  his wrist, she slipped his hand behind her, settling it on

  the small of her back. "Then I'm going to put my hand

  here. On your upper arm. Remember this position?"

  Lord, yes. He nodded.

  "Good. Now, let's join hands, remembering to balance

  each other. Imagine that I'm pushing against you, and

  you're pulling me. Be gentle but firm." When she settled

  her warm palm against his, he fought the urge to close

  his eyes. Never had such a seemingly benign thing as

  simply touching a woman hit with a more erotic jolt.

  Music throbbed all around them, inside him, and

  when she urged her hips forward, indicating that it was

  time for them to begin, the feeling was tantamount to

  him laying her on a sofa and drawing her into a kiss.

  Each step brought her breasts against his chest.

  She was so
tempting.

  He was so damn hungry.

  Since meeting her, he had done nothing but replay

  their hours together. He would be in the middle of an

  important meeting and swear he'd heard her laugh or

  caught a whiff of her exotic perfume. Had she cast a

  spell on him? Bankers weren't supposed to long for

  passionate, artistic women.

  "You're doing much better," Rose said, her breath

  hot against the base of his throat. "I'm glad you haven't

  forgotten."

  Forgotten, hell. Round about last Tuesday, he'd

  started a secret collection of tango's greatest hits. He

  listened to them in the car, in the shower, even at his

  office when there was no one else around. If he was

  dancing better tonight, then it was because he'd done as

  she'd initially asked and let the music inside of him.

  When the song ended, Rose pulled away. "Wonderful.

  That was great." The next song began, but she walked to

  the stereo to press Pause. "Someone did his homework."

  "It shows?"

  "Definitely. I told you absorbing the music would help

  you get a better feel for the dance and look, already, your

  inborn sense of rhythm has improved, which means."

  We're finished? I no longer have to pretend I don't

  want to pull you into my arms and kiss you like there's

  no tomorrow?

  ".we can start learning individual steps."

  "Swell."

  And so Dalton spent the better part of two hours pre-

  tending he was at the Hot Pepper Dance Academy solely

  to dance. He pretended not to be mesmerized by Rose's

  perfume or the way she laughed at his pathetic jokes or

  lifted her hair and fanned the nape of her neck when

  she'd grown too warm. If there was one thing all his

  years in business had taught him, it was how to keep a

  poker face.

  A few minutes past nine, she said, "That'll do for

  tonight."

  "Good. I felt like I was beginning to get sloppy." The

  effort of keeping up the charade that this is just a dance

  and you're just a woman is getting old.

  "No," she reassured. "You're only tired. Which is

  understandable. I'm amazed by how much you've

  improved. Not just your footwork, but your concentra-

  tion." Washing her fingertips over his forehead and

  cheeks caused a wave of emotion to swell in his belly.

  "You seemed so focused."

  "That a bad thing?"

  Knowing if she touched him even a fraction of a

  second longer, he'd lose the few remnants of his control,

  he backed away.