suddenly in her seat and stared at him expectantly. He realized then that she was not alone, that conversation throughout the room had died to allow one of the senior partners to give the annual morale-boosting spiel. This year, it was his turn.
Wrenching his mind back to business, he stood up and acknowledged the applause. “Thanks,” he said, “and a belated welcome to Poinciana. We’ve already wrapped up two days of seminars and before the week is over I’m confident we’ll have resolved some of the problems we’ve faced over the last year. But we don’t fly our brightest and best to the Caribbean to spend all their time indoors.”
Her eyes, dark gray and almond-shaped, fixed on him earnestly. Returning her gaze, he lost the thread of what he’d been saying, recalling instead the image of her lying beneath him that afternoon. His body responded accordingly.
In danger of finding himself seriously embarrassed in public, he looked away and scanned the room at large. “Classic Collections,” he said, falling back on lines he’d repeated so often he could recite them in his sleep, “bought Poinciana five years ago but although it’s the company name on the land title, the island really belongs to all of you. Your effort, your support, made its purchase possible. There are no bosses here and no employees, just people with a common interest and a common goal—to meet the challenges ahead with energy and a united effort to keep Classic Collections at the top where it belongs.”
He indicated Gavin, his one-time mentor and for the last five years, his partner. “We hope,” he said, and despite himself, found he was focusing on her again, speaking directly to her, “that you’ll take advantage of the beaches, the trails, the weather and the excellent food, to recharge your batteries. Except for when you’re in seminar, you’re on island time. Make the most of it and enjoy.”
Right on cue the steel band on the terrace started its nightly gig, the rhythm pulsing through the applause in the dining room.
“Wonderful,” Newbury murmured obsequiously in his ear. “You always say exactly the right thing, Dante.”
“I try,” he replied, stifling the inclination to tell the man to can it. Instead, he turned to Gavin’s wife who sat on his other side. “Shall we start things rolling, Rita?”
“Might as well,” she said, smiling up at him. “There are a lot of ladies who’ve waited all year to dance with you, Dante, and I wouldn’t like to get trampled in the rush.”
Across the table, her husband laughed and held out his hand to Maureen Vickers, the fifty-six-year-old head of personnel who, like every other employee present, had gone the distance and then some in her devotion to the company over the last twelve months. “Let’s give them a run for their money, Maureen.”
The small dance floor filled quickly, forcing couples to spill out to the terrace. Above the coconut palms fringing the beach, the moon rose bright and full. The sea rolled ashore, seeming to be drawn as much by the hypnotic rhythm of the steel band as the pull of the tide.
A summer paradise beside which February in Vancouver sank into cold damp oblivion, it was Poinciana as he’d never seen it before, its beauty made all the more memorable because of Leila Connors-Lee. Automatically, his gaze swung over the crowd, seeking out her ivory-clad body swaying in the arms of a junior accountant whom Dante decided he’d never much liked. There was something about the man’s soft white hands and the way they moved up and down that straight elegant spine....
“You’re very quiet, Dante,” Rita Black said. “Something on your mind?”
“No,” he lied, spinning her around with more energy than style so that he could keep an eye on the accountant with the roving hands. ‘“Suffering from jet lag, that’s all. I got back from Italy only a couple of days before flying down here and seem to be caught in some sort of mid-Atlantic time warp.”
“You work too hard, dear.” Rita patted his arm sympathetically. “I sometimes wonder how you manage to stay abreast of things in the office, given the amount of time you spend on the road.”
“It’s as much a part of the job as making a point of dancing at least once with every woman in the room tonight.” He steered her back to their table. “You’ll forgive me, Rita, if I hand you over to Gavin now?”
“Of course.” She smiled and waved him away. “Do your duty by the rest of the ladies waiting to take a spin around the floor with you, then sneak away. You deserve a little quiet time away from the spotlight once in a while.”
And he intended to take it—although not alone.
Conscientiously, he danced with Meg, his superefficient P.A., with the head warehouseman’s pregnant wife, with a junior payroll clerk who was so nervous at finding herself boogying with the top brass that he thought she might wet herself.
Finally, as the moon slid down toward the horizon, he’d danced with every woman in the room except the one he most wanted to hold in his arms. Straightening his bow tie, he scanned the room, hunting her out.
Just as she’d known from the moment the music had begun that eventually he’d ask her to dance, so she knew to the moment when he decided the time had come. A sharp stab of expectation struck, puckering the skin of her bare shoulders mere seconds before he came up behind her, rested his hand lightly at her back and murmured with amused formality, “Would you care to dance, Ms. Connors-Lee?”
She inclined her head. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Rossi.”
He led the way, threading between the tables to a spot where the polished wooden floor gave way to the tiled surface of the terrace beyond. She followed, aware as she had been all evening, of Carl Newbury’s unremitting observation. How happy he must be that, at last, he had something worth watching!
Turning a deaf ear to the voice of caution that warned there’d be a price for the self-indulgence, she slipped into Dante’s arms and let him draw her closer than was strictly proper.
“It’s about time I had you back where you belong,” he murmured.
But before they’d taken more than a step or two, the music stopped. Other dancers drifted apart, wandered back to their tables or chatted quietly with each other, and she knew she and Dante ought to do the same. Vice president Newbury wasn’t alone in his scrutiny; they were all watching, those people who were his cronies and who thought she had no business being there, and she was fueling their resentment by remaining within the circle of Dante’s arm, her gaze locked with his.
“I think we’ve left it too late,” she said, reluctantly dropping her hand from his shoulder. “The band’s packed it in for the night.”
Refusing to let her go, he shook his head. “No. They’ll play ‘til dawn if we ask them to.”
Then please let them start soon, she prayed, unable to slow her racing heart. Please distract me from losing myself in his eyes, from leaning into his strength and finding heaven in his arms here, in full view of such a judgmental audience.
The gods heard and responded kindly. The first bars of “Begin the Beguine” filled the night. Couples came together and picked up the rhythm. But Dante remained still, the message in his glance luring her ever deeper under his spell.
“Have you changed your mind about dancing?” she practically stammered, desperation threading her voice. Didn’t he see the attention they were attracting? Couldn’t he feel the curiosity,
