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 respectable 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 worsened 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 backward 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. Pirouetted 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 emergency, 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
