Night Moves

by Nora Roberts

  With a sigh, she closed her eyes again. She wanted to bottle this moment, so that she could take it out again whenever she needed to feel content. “I like my bacon so crisp it crumbles, and I don’t like eggs at all.”

  “They’re good for you.” Cliff took his lips up her throat to nibble at her ear. “Might put some meat on you.” As he spoke, he took his hand down her side again.

  “Complaining?”

  “Uh-uh.” He ran his hand back up again so that his fingers brushed the side of her breast. “Though you do tend toward the lean side. We could build you up with three square meals a day and some exercise.”

  “No one needs three meals a day,” she began, a bit huffily. “And as for exercise—”

  “Do you like to dance?”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “Not much muscle,” he noted, pinching her arm. “How’s your endurance?”

  She gave him a saucy look. “You should know.”

  With a laugh, he pressed his lips to hers. “You’ve a very quick, very wicked mind.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, about dancing. Ever been in a contre line?”

  “A what?”

  “I thought so.” He shook his head, then shifted so that he could look down at her with pity. “Country dancing, Maggie.”

  Her brows drew together. “Square dancing?”

  “No.” It was time to educate the lady, Cliff decided, and drew her up to a sitting position. Her hair flowed wildly over her shoulders, the way he liked it best. “Square dancing’s more formal, more regimented, than country dancing, but there’d be traditional music and a caller.”

  Maggie ran a finger up his chest. “Swing your partner and do-si-do?”

  He felt the little thrill inch along his skin behind the trail of her finger. Did she know it? he wondered. From the smile that hovered on her lips, he thought she knew it very well. “Among other things.”

  Maggie linked her hands around his neck and let her head fall back so that she could look at him from beneath lowered lashes. “I’m sure it’s all very fascinating, but I don’t know why we’re doing all this talking when you could be kissing me.”

  For an answer he gave her a long, searing kiss that left her breathless and pleased. “Because,” he said, and nipped at her ear, “I want to go dancing with you.”

  Sighing, content, Maggie enjoyed the sensation of feeling her own blood begin to sizzle. “Where and when?”

  “Tonight, in the park outside of town.”

  “Tonight?” She opened one eye. “Dancing in the park?”

  “It’s a tradition.” He laid her back again but kept himself propped up so that his hand was free to skim her body. “A sort of Founder’s Day celebration combined with rites of spring. Most of the town’ll show. There’ll be dancing till midnight, then a potluck supper. Then …” He cupped her breast, enjoying the way her eyes clouded when he brushed a fingertip over the point. “There’s dancing till dawn for anybody who can handle it.”

  “Until dawn?” Intrigued and already hopelessly aroused, Maggie arched under him.

  “You’ve danced until dawn before, I imagine.”

  He’d said the wrong thing or used the wrong tone, because her body stiffened. No, he didn’t want to bring up their differences now. At the moment, he could hardly recognize them. He lay down beside her and cradled her in his arms. “We could watch the sun come up,” he murmured. “And the stars go out.”

  She lay against him, but her mind was clear now. The doubts had returned. “You never mentioned this to me before.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be much interested in country dances and potluck suppers. I guess I realized I was wrong.”

  It was another kind of apology. Maggie accepted this one as easily as she had the first. Smiling again, she tilted her head back from him. “Are you asking me for a date?”

  He liked it when her eyes held that half-teasing, half-challenging light. “Looks like it.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Okay.” Her hair fell onto his shoulder. Absently, he twisted the end around his finger. “Now, about breakfast.”

  She grinned, lowering her mouth to his. “We’ll have it for lunch.”

  She didn’t know what she expected, but Maggie looked forward to an evening out, away from the house, an evening to spend with other people. After her brief stab at being a hermit, she’d discovered that she could indeed take total command of her own needs. Being able to live with herself for long periods of time simply showed her that she didn’t always have to in order to prove her independence. Perhaps she hadn’t been attempting to learn anything with the dramatic change in her lifestyle, but she’d learned something, anyway. She could take charge of the tiny details of day-to-day living that she’d always left to others, but she didn’t have to cut herself off from everyone to do it.

  No, she didn’t know what to expect, perhaps a quaint little festival with tinny music and warm lemonade in paper cups. She didn’t expect to be particularly impressed. She certainly didn’t expect to be enchanted.

  The line of cars that sloped down the winding drive to the park surprised her. She’d thought most of the people in town would simply walk. When she mentioned it to Cliff, he shrugged and negotiated his pickup into a spot behind a yellow van.

  “They come from all over the county, and from as far away as D.C. and Pennsylvania.”

  “Really?” Pursing her lips, she climbed out of the truck into the warm, clear night. There’d be a full moon, though the sun was just beginning to set. She wondered if the town had planned it that way or if it had been the luck of the draw. Either way, it was one more thing to be enjoyed. Putting her hand in Cliff’s, she began to walk with him to the crest of the hill.

  As she watched, the sun dropped lower behind the mountains in the west. She’d seen the sun sink gloriously into the sea and been awed by the colors and brilliance of sunsets in the snow-covered Alps. She’d seen the desert vibrate with color at dusk and cities glow with twilight. Somehow, watching the gold and mauve and pink layer over what were hardly more than foothills of a great range, she was more deeply affected. Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps it was fanciful, but she felt more a part of this place, more involved with the coming of this night, than she’d been of any other. On impulse, she threw her arms around Cliff’s neck and held on.

  Laughing, he put his hands on her hips. “What’s this for?”

  “It feels good,” she said, echoing her morning words.

  Then with a bang that shattered the silence, the music burst out. As a musician, she recognized each individual instrument—violin, banjo, guitar, piano. As a music lover, she felt her excitement leap.

  “It’s fabulous!” she exclaimed, drawing quickly away. “Absolutely fabulous. Hurry, I have to see.” Maggie grabbed his hand and raced the rest of the way up the hill.

  Her first impression was of a maze of people, two hundred, perhaps two hundred fifty, crowded together in a covered pavilion. Then she saw they were in lines, six, no, eight, she realized after a quick count. There would be a line of men facing a line of women, and so on, until they simply ran out of room. And they were moving to the music in a system that looked both confusing and fluid.

  Some of the women wore skirts that flared out as they dipped, swayed or spun. Others wore jeans. Men’s attire was no more consistent and no more formal than the women’s. Some of the dancers wore sneakers, while a great many more wore what seemed to be old-fashioned black leather shoes that tied and had thick, sturdy heels. Still others wore what looked like oriental slippers with a single strap across the instep. It didn’t seem to matter what was worn; everyone moved. Petticoats flashed, heels stomped, laughter rang out.

  A woman stood at the edge of a small wooden stage in front of the band and belted out instructions in a singsong voice. Maggie might not have understood most of the words, but she understood rhythm. Already she was itching to try it herself.

  “But how do they know what d
o to?” she shouted over the music. “How do they understand her?”

  “It’s a sequence of moves repeated over and over,” Cliff told her. “Once you’ve got the sequence down, you don’t even need a caller; she just adds to it.”

  A sequence, Maggie mused, and tried to find it. At first, she only saw bodies moving in what seemed a helter-skelter pattern, but gradually she began to see the repetition. Counting off the beats, she concentrated on one couple while trying to anticipate their next move. It pleased her to be able to find the sequence, just as the music pleased her ear and the swirling colors pleased her eye. She could smell a mixture of colognes, men’s and women’s, and the bursting fragrance of the spring flowers that skirted the pavilion.

  As the sun dropped lower, the lights, strung overhead, spilled over the dancers. The floor vibrated under her feet so that she felt she was already dancing herself. With Cliff’s arm around her, she watched with the undiluted fascination of discovering something new and exciting. She recognized the postmistress. The rather severe-looking middle-aged woman spun by like a dervish and flirted like a young girl.

  Flirtation was part of it, Maggie realized as she began to watch faces instead of feet and bodies. Eye contact was essential, as were the saucy smiles she noted and the quick head tosses. It was, as perhaps dances had always been, a kind of mating ritual.

  He hadn’t thought she’d be fascinated or excited, but he recognized both in the look in her eyes. It gave Cliff overwhelming pleasure to know he’d brought that to her. Her face was flushed, her body already moving to the beat, and her eyes were everywhere at once. She didn’t make him think of Maggie Fitzgerald, star baby and glamorous celebrity, but of Maggie, a woman he could hold on to and dance with until the sun came up again.

  When the music ended, Maggie burst into raucous applause with everyone else. Laughing, her face tilted back, she grabbed his hand. “I have to try the next one, even if I make a fool of myself.”

  “Just listen to the calls and follow the music,” he said simply as the lines began to form again. “They always run through the dance once before the music starts.”

  She listened as the next dance sequence was explained by the caller. Though she didn’t understand half of the terms, Maggie tried to link them in her mind with the moves that followed. As Cliff guided her slowly through the paces, she enjoyed the sense of camaraderie and the lack of inhibitions around her.

  Though she could sense that she was being watched with speculation and interest, Maggie refused to be perturbed by it. They had a right to look, she decided. It was, after all, the first time she’d participated in a town function, and she was being partnered by a man everyone seemed to know.

  “This one’s called, ‘Whiskey before Breakfast,’ ” the caller sang out. “If you’ve tried it, you know it ain’t as good for you as dancing.” She stomped her foot on the platform, one, two, three, and the music began.

  The dance was fast and exuberant. Maggie was caught up in the moves before she’d fully registered them. Right, then left; join left hands with your corner and turn around twice. Pass through. Balance and swing.

  The first time Cliff whirled her around, she felt the rush of air on her face and laughed.

  “Watch my eyes,” he warned. “Or you’ll be too dizzy to stand up.”

  “I like it!” she tossed back, then “Whoops!” as she botched the next step and hurried to keep up with the rest of the line.

  She didn’t mind the sense of confusion or the crowd. Shoulders bumped, feet tangled, her waist was gripped, and she was whirled around by people she’d never met. Teenagers danced with grandmothers. Ladies in frilly dresses swirled with men in jeans with bandannas in their back pockets. Obviously anyone was welcome to line up and dance, and Maggie had already noticed that women picked men for partners just as often as men picked women. It was a free-for-all, and the rules were loose.

  As the steps became more repetitive and more instinctive, she began to enjoy it even more. Her steps became more animated, her concentration less focused on the moves and more on the music. She could see why it drove people to dance. Feet couldn’t be still with that rhythm jangling out. She knew, as Cliff grabbed her and swung her in fast circles, that she could’ve danced for hours.

  “That’s it,” he said, laughing as she clung to him.

  “Already?” She was breathless but not nearly finished. “It was wonderful, but too short. When do we do another?”

  “Any time you like.”

  “Now,” she told him, sliding in as new lines formed.

  She was fitting in as if she’d been to country dances in rural parks all her life. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d proved him wrong time and time again in his preconception of her. Yet in other ways, Cliff mused, he’d been right. She had an elegance that was too ingrained to be missed, whether she was scraping linoleum or lying in his arms. There was a polish that came from affluence and classy schools that set her apart from the other women around her. For days he’d been telling himself that it was that difference that attracted him as much as it put his back up. He couldn’t explain the reason for either. He couldn’t explain now, as he watched her begin the next dance as if she’d been moving to the call all her life, why she made him uneasy.

  Circumstances, he told himself, and turned her back and around in a butterfly swing. The circumstances almost from the moment they’d met had been uneasy. That was bound to affect the way he felt when he looked at her—when he thought of her. And he thought of her, Cliff admitted, more often than he should; he looked at her less often than he wanted to.

  Living with her for the past few days had given him the odd sensation of having something he hadn’t known he’d wanted. There was something just a little too appealing about waking each morning with her warm beside him, about coming home to Maggie and her music. It would be wiser, much wiser, if he remembered those differences between them. No real common ground, he told himself again. But when she whirled into his arms, laughing, it was as though he’d been waiting for her.

  The first few dances were a blur of color and sound and music. Maggie let herself go, realizing it had been weeks since she’d felt this free of tension and trouble. She’d danced in trendy clubs with celebrities, twirled in ballrooms with royalty, but she knew she’d never had as much simple fun as she was having now, following the caller and the fiddle.

  As she turned to her next partner, she found her hand gripped by Stan Agee. Without his badge and gun, he might’ve been an attractive athlete in his prime. For a reason Maggie couldn’t analyze, she tensed immediately on contact.

  “Glad to see you’re out, Miss Fitzgerald.”

  “Thank you.” Determined not to give in to the mood, she smiled, lifting a hand to his shoulder as he began the spin. She caught his scent, the familiar department-store cologne, but it didn’t soothe her.

  “You catch on fast.”

  “It’s wonderful. I can’t believe I’ve missed it all my life.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cliff spinning with Joyce. The tension wouldn’t dissolve.

  “Save out a dance for me,” he ordered before they whirled back to their original partners for the next step.

  The moment he touched her, Cliff felt the rigidity of her muscles. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” It was nothing, Maggie told herself, because she couldn’t explain it. But now, as she swirled and turned from one pair of arms to another, it came to her that each time she danced with someone, she might be dancing with a murderer. How was she to know? It could be anyone—the real estate agent who’d sold her the house, the butcher who’d recommended the pork chops only the day before, the postmistress, the bank teller. How was she to know?

  Maggie’s mind began to whirl. For an instant, her eyes locked on Lieutenant Reiker’s as he stood on the sidelines, watching. Why here, she asked herself as she was snatched up and spun again. Why would he come here? Perhaps he was watching her—but why? Protecting her—from wh
at?

  Then she was in Cliff’s arms again, grateful that her feet could follow the mindless repetition of the dance while her thoughts raced in dozens of directions. Hadn’t Cliff said people came from all over to this all-night festival? Maybe Reiker was a country-dance enthusiast. More likely, she thought grimly, he’d wanted to see all the townspeople together, observe, dissect. She shuddered. It was his job, she reminded herself. He was only doing his job. But how she wished he’d go away.

  There was Louella, seeming to float through the dance. Rather than verve, she had a restrained dignity in her movements that was both lovely and uncomfortable to watch. Lovely, Maggie realized, because Louella had the grace of a natural dancer. Uncomfortable—though she wasn’t able to put her finger on it, Maggie sensed there was something beneath the restraint that struggled for release.

  Fanciful, she berated herself. She was being foolish and fanciful, imagining things that weren’t there. But the feeling of discomfort was persistent. She was being watched, she knew.

  By Reiker? Stan Agee, Joyce, Louella? By everyone, Maggie thought. They all knew one another; they’d all known William Morgan. She was the outsider who’d uncovered what had been dead and buried for a decade. Logic indicated that at least one of them would resent her for that—perhaps all of them.

  Suddenly, the music was too loud, the steps were too fast and the air was too full of scent.

  Then she was caught up in Bog’s short, wiry arms and spun at a breathless pace. “You’re a good spinner, Miss Maggie,” he told her, grinning and showing several gaps instead of teeth. “One helluva spinner.”

  Looking down into his homely, wrinkled face, she broke into a grin of her own. She was being ridiculous. No one resented her. Why should they? She wasn’t involved in a tragedy that was ten years old. It was time she stopped looking beneath the surface and accepted things as she saw them. “I love to spin!” she shouted to Bog, leaning back into it. “I could spin for hours.”