The Last Dance

by Nan Ryan

  A barbershop quartet garbed in matching brightly striped jackets, white trousers, and fashionable straw boaters followed the comical juggler on the evening’s program. Their first number was a rousing rendition of Hello My Baby. The crowd had quieted and calmed by the time the quartet went smoothly into their second offering, the slower paced romantic ballad, When You Were Sweet Sixteen.

  Listening to the rich male voices harmonize on the beautiful love song, Lucy was suddenly overwhelmed with the burning desire to steal a secret, admiring glance at Blackie’s handsome face. The need was incredibly strong to get at least a fleeting glimpse of the clear, olive skin, the fine cut features, the sensual lips.

  Lucy cautiously turned to look at Blackie, only to meet his wickedly laughing, black eyes. She quickly looked away as if she’d been caught in some deviant act. Face warm, she stared straight at the stage, her heart beating fast.

  It beat faster still when the smiling Blackie captured her left hand, drew it down, and held it tightly imprisoned between his trousered thigh and her full skirts.

  If anyone had told Lucy that the simple act of holding hands could be so thrilling, so unsettling, she would never have believed it.

  Blackie’s hand was much larger than her own and there was firm masculine strength in the lean fingers that were closed around her palm. Lucy was vaguely aware that the back of her hand rested against Blackie’s thigh. But she thought nothing of it, until he deftly turned her hand over so that her soft palm was pressed against the hard muscle straining the flannel of his white trousers.

  Lucy was well aware that she shouldn’t be sitting in a public place—or a private one for that matter—intimately touching a man’s thigh. She should immediately snatch her hand away and shoot a threatening look at Blackie. She should do more than that. She should inform him in no uncertain terms that she would not tolerate such familiarity.

  Lucy turned to tell him.

  But she didn’t follow through. His hauntingly beautiful, night-black eyes were on her again. Or still. She wasn’t sure which. At the sight of him gazing fixedly at her, her heart skipped a beat. Several beats. Partly because she was afraid of him, and partly because he so fascinated her.

  Blackie LaDuke was the sensual symbol of all the wickedness, passion, and libertine living of which she knew nothing about. He was everything she was not. Maybe that’s why she felt an excitement in his presence like no other in her life.

  His dark smoldering gaze holding hers, Blackie coolly guided Lucy’s captured hand up and down the outside of his long thigh, forcing her soft palm to press flush against the fine flannel fabric of his trousers.

  And the hot, hard muscle and bone beneath.

  Lucy’s fingers tingled at the intimacy. She felt half dizzy. She could hear her heart beating. Could feel it throbbing beneath her left breast. She couldn’t believe that she, Miss Lucy Hart, old maid postmistress of Colonias, New York, was actually sitting in a dimly lit auditorium in Atlantic City, New Jersey, touching a darkly handsome stranger in the intimate manner a devoted wife might touch her beloved husband.

  And then only in the privacy of their bedroom.

  Snatches from a long forgotten newspaper article flashed into Lucy’s mind, unnerving her, accusing her. The column had warned that ‘women, who in their home towns are wholly decorous and would never go to anything more exciting than an ice cream sociable, would, in Atlantic City become absolutely careless about minor mores.’

  Lucy realized with sudden alarm and nagging shame that she had become one of those women.

  Forcefully she tugged free of Blackie’s grasp and clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. She heard Blackie’s teasing chuckle and wanted to smack him a good one.

  But not for long.

  Her attention was drawn to a troop of flamenco dancers who took the stage, castanets popping, booted feet stamping. When the last flashing-eyed, colorful skirted señorita had swirled away through the exit, the curtain was lowered.

  When it rose again, a company of talented New York actors performed a lively one-act play. A clever, fast paced comedy, which had the audience laughing again.

  It was a full evening of splendid entertainment. When the final curtain rang down and the house lights again came up, everyone went away happy.

  Back out on the Boardwalk Blackie, again holding Lucy’s hand, said, “I know the perfect way to top off the evening.”

  Lucy shot him a warning look. “If it’s having a highball at one of the beer gardens you can just forget it. Take me back to the hotel at once. You know how I feel about you drinking alcoholic beverages.”

  “You’re a doubting Thomas, Lucy Hart,” Blackie said, smiling. “Not a single drop of hard liquor has touched my lips for the past seventy two hours and that’s the truth.”

  “My, my. That long?” she said, as if impressed. “That must surely be a record of sorts.”

  “For me it is,” Blackie admitted, nodding his dark head. “And it’s all thanks to you.”

  “Well, I’m glad I could be of help,” she said pertly, her smile now playful.

  Blackie abruptly stopped walking, drew her back, smiled down at her. “We can get high without liquor.”

  “Oh?”

  “Know how?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “A ride on the Ferris wheel.”

  Lucy’s smile fled immediately. Her nervous glance left Blackie’s face, shifted to the two mammoth, lighted wheels looming high above the Boardwalk. A mixture of terror and temptation flashed for a brief second in her expressive green eyes.

  “No. No I won’t…I can’t.” She shook her head violently, looked back at Blackie. “It’s dangerous.”

  “Everything’s dangerous,” said Blackie. “My old aunt broke her leg at the cake walk.”

  Lucy’s quick, responsive laughter was as much a product of anxiety as amusement and Blackie knew it. He also knew she would enjoy the exhilarating ride immensely if he could get her on it. He slid a possessive arm around Lucy’s slim waist and propelled her along the crowded walkway directly toward the pair of turning, lighted wheels, assuring her as they went that it would be fun.

  “Blackie, I don’t know,” Lucy weakly protested, reluctant to get on one of the frightening wheels.

  “Do it this one time for me,” Blackie coaxed. “If you don’t like it, I’ll have the operator stop the wheel immediately and let us off.”

  Lucy swallowed with difficulty. “What if I scream and embarrass you?”

  His black eyes twinkling merrily, Blackie gave her trim waist an affectionate squeeze. “You embarrass me? Now that would be switch.”

  Lucy laughed, despite her mounting dread. “Alright then, what if I scream and embarrass myself?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “It won’t? How can you be so sure?”

  Blackie’s heavy eyebrows arched, giving him a demonic look. He said, “I know how to keep you from screaming.” His penetrating gaze traveled slowly over her upturned face, deliberately settling on her lips. “Want to hear what it is?”

  “No, thanks,” Lucy replied as the two of them joined the long queue of eager patrons waiting for a spin on the giant, lighted Ferris wheel.

  There were dozens, perhaps a hundred people in line ahead of them. They would have to wait at least a half hour, maybe more. The wait began, and the longer they waited, the more apprehensive Lucy became.

  Slow minutes passed.

  Squeals of fear and pleasure resounded from the twin turning wheels. The line moved steadily forward, sweeping the jittery Lucy along with it. At last she and Blackie reached the front of the line. They were next.

  The wheel was stopping. The operator stepped forward, swung the safety bar aside, and a glowing, laughing couple leapt up out of the wooden seat and rushed away.

  “Our turn,” Blackie said above Lucy’s ear and handed her into the wooden seat. Her eyes were wide, and her pulse pounded in her ears, as he sat down beside her. The wheel’s
leathery-faced operator swung the heavy bar down across their knees, snapped it into place, stepped back, and signaled to his helper.

  The chair began to slowly lift away from the platform.

  Lucy felt her stomach falling away along with the ground and wondered why she had ever agreed to this foolish feat of derring-do. When the wooden seat she shared with Blackie was eight or ten feet off the ground, the wheel again stopped, discharged a chattering trio of young girls, picked up a pair of teenage boys.

  And went into motion again.

  When all seats were vacated and filled once more, the big revolving wheel swiftly picked up speed. Lucy’s eyes were closed, had been closed from the beginning. She was too terrified to look.

  Eyes squenched tightly shut, hands gripping the safety bar, she hastily offered up a silent prayer for their safety, concluding with the promise that if the Almighty would just get her back to earth, she would never climb on a Ferris wheel again for as long as she lived.

  Lucy heard Blackie’s low, deriding chuckle and said without opening her eyes, “It isn’t funny, Blackie LaDuke! I’m scared to death.”

  “No need to be,” he murmured in low, modulated tones and put a long arm around her. “I’ve got you. You’re as safe as a baby in her cradle.”

  “I am not,” Lucy wailed miserably, so tense she was literally frozen in place, her back straight and poker stiff, her hands clutching the bar so firmly her knuckles were turning white.

  Blackie squeezed her rigid shoulders and gently commanded, “Lucy, open your eyes and you’ll see a sight so breathtaking you’ll no longer be afraid.”

  “I can’t,” Lucy whispered miserably, shaking her head, “I just can’t.”

  “Sure you can,” Blackie soothed, one hand cupping her slender shoulder, the other at her waist. Very slowly, very carefully, he pressed her back against him.

  Still clinging tenaciously to the bar but cradled in Blackie’s protective arms, Lucy finally got up the nerve to peep out through lowered lashes. Her lashes fluttered, then lifted. She looked about and her eyes slowly widened with wonder. She saw a fairyland of twinkling lights, silvered waters and tiny people moving about far below.

  Enchanted, she slowly lifted her gaze to the skies above where a quarter moon sailed lazily in and out of the low lying clouds.

  “If you let go of the bar,” Blackie said in a warm, caressing voice, “you can reach up and touch heaven.”

  Fingers curled around the bar, Lucy said, “We aren’t quite that high, LaDuke.”

  “Wanna bet?” was his response. “Go on. Give it a try. You’ll see.”

  “If I let go of the bar, do you swear to me you won’t rock this chair?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Lucy took a deep, calming breath. Reluctantly she released her death grip on the safety bar, and sank slowly back against Blackie. He took one of her chilled hands in his and pressed it to his chest. Lucy could feel his rhythmic heartbeat beneath her icy, perspiring palm. The slow, steady cadence pulsing through her fingertips was reassuring. He wasn’t afraid, so why should she be? They stayed like that for three of four full revolutions of the turning wheel.

  Then abruptly, just as the wooden seat in which they rode reached the highest point, the giant wheel jerkily stopped.

  They hung suspended, rocking gently back and forth, high atop the unmoving wheel. Lucy trembled. She turned her head, looked into Blackie’s dark eyes, and asked fearfully, “What is it? What’s wrong?

  “Nothing’s wrong. Everything is right.” He smiled reassuringly at her, wrapped both arms more snugly around her, and drew her closer into his embrace. He said, “We’ve stopped so that you can lift your arms, reach up and touch heaven.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I can’t reach heaven from here.”

  “Sure you can. Try it and see.”

  “You won’t let me go? You won’t stop holding me?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Very well. This is silly, but…”

  Lucy’s hands reluctantly left his shirtfront. She hesitantly lifted her arms up, up until finally they were stretched out full length above her head. She waved her slender fingers about, as if attempting to touch the heavens.

  Head thrown back, looking straight up at the night sky, she said, “You lied, LaDuke. I can’t reach that far.” She started to lower her arms. He stopped her.

  “Wait,” Blackie commanded. “Don’t give up too soon.”

  “My arms are getting tired.” Lucy obediently kept them lifted over her head, but lowered her eyes to look at him. “When do I touch heaven?”

  “It’s about to happen,” he said, his black eyes flashing in the shadows, as his dark face moved closer to hers. When his lips were an inch away from her own, he said, “Lucy, I’m going to kiss you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lucy wasn’t given an opportunity to say no. She didn’t even have time to lower her raised arms before Blackie’s mouth was on hers. He kissed her squarely on the lips, but it was nothing more than an amiable, closed-mouth kiss. The harmless affectionate kind that he might have bestowed on an old friend or relative whom he hadn’t seen in some time.

  At the very most it was an innocently playful kiss, a teasing caress not intended to stir any real emotions. Either hers or his own.

  But Lucy was stirred.

  His unexpected kiss produced an immediate weakness that left her without the strength to keep her arms raised. They fell weakly to Blackie’s wide shoulders. The momentary pressure of his warm, smooth lips on hers took a toll on her senses. She was affected by his harmless, hasty kiss. More than he would ever know.

  Lucy didn’t let on.

  She didn’t dare allow the worldly, wise cracking Blackie to guess that she was so pitifully inexperienced it took nothing more than one quick, meaningless kiss to put her in a dither. She’d have died a thousand deaths rather than have him know that the touch of his lips on hers evoked a sweet yearning that startled and dismayed her.

  Blackie’s lips left Lucy’s and slid over to her ear. “A touch of Heaven?” he queried cockily, a grin in his voice.

  Lucy pushed him away and decisively shook her head. “Not so much as a hint of paradise,” she sassily informed him, hoping he wouldn’t detect the rapid beating of her pulse, the glassy look in her dazzled eyes.

  “You didn’t feel a thing?” He pulled back to look at her.

  Shrugging her slender shoulders, Lucy sighed dramatically. “No. Sorry. Absolutely nothing happened. Not a thing.”

  “Wanna try again?” he asked, leaning closer.

  “You had your chance,” said she, turning away, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Blackie laughed, amused and enchanted. He liked it when she insulted him. He got a kick out of it. It was novel. Different. Enjoyable and challenging. He was tempted to wipe the smug little smile right off her composed face. He was of a good mind to take her in his arms, press her back against the chair seat, and kiss her good. Really kiss her. Kiss her like she’d never been kissed before.

  He didn’t do it.

  An hour later, when they said goodnight at the door of Lucy’s third floor hotel room, Blackie put his hand to her chin, tilted her face up to his, and brushed his lips lightly back and forth on hers. That’s all he intended to do.

  But he forgot himself for a second. He opened his mouth slightly and nipped at Lucy’s full bottom lip with sharp teeth. Then sucked her soft lip into his mouth while his hand moved from her chin to cup the side of her neck. His long thumb gently stroked the delicate hollow of her throat. Lucy softly sighed.

  Blackie lifted his head and looked into her shining, emerald eyes. His thumb continuing to lightly caress her bare throat, he said, “Meet me in the lobby at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow.”

  “And if I don’t?” She could hardly speak her heart was beating so.

  “I’ll get a key from the front desk, come up here and haul you out of bed.” He grinned wickedly and his night-black eyes gleamed with devi
lment. “Maybe you’d like that.”

  Lucy gave him a wilting look. But before she could say anything smart, he clasped her upper arms, drew her up on tiptoe, bent and pressed his lips to the spot his thumb had caressed. Lucy shuddered involuntarily when she felt his warm mouth open on her sensitive flesh. Her head fell back and her heart pounded when he kissed the hollow of her throat, his lips gently plucking, his tongue stroking the tender flesh.

  “Blackie,” Lucy murmured weakly, breath short, senses reeling, “Don’t…don’t do that. Stop.”

  Blackie stopped. His moving mouth immediately stilled. He raised his handsome head and smiled at her.

  “Tell me something, Lucy,” he said. “Were don’t and stop the first words you learned as a baby?”

  “It’s too bad you were never taught their meaning,” she was quick to reply. “It’s obvious no one ever said no to you. And Lord knows you could have benefited from a few don’ts and stops. You’re spoiled, self indulgent.”

  “I am what I obviously am and I have no problem with that,” Blackie said with a shrug. “Do you?”

  He touched a springy lock of curly chestnut hair, which lay against her cheek. He carefully tucked it behind her ear with his little finger. Lucy brushed his hand away.

  “I guess not, but we don’t see eye to eye.”

  “Hell no, I’m taller than you.”

  Lucy couldn’t keep from laughing. Then she sighed and said, “You are hopeless and I am tired. I have to go in now and get some sleep. Goodnight.”

  “Dream of me,” Blackie said.

  “I never have nightmares, LaDuke,” she said flippantly.

  Blackie laughed. Then he quickly threw her words back at her, “It’s cruel of you to entertain yourself at my expense.”

  Lucy laughed and hit at him. Dodging, he caught her hands in his, drew them up, and Lucy was struck by how white and slender her fingers were against the olive of his warm palms.

  “Let me go,” she warned.

  “Or you’ll what?”

  “I’ll…I’ll hide from you tomorrow.”