Dancing with Dalton. Laura Altom Marie
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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.
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 performance. 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. Especially 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 different 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 absorb. 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