One ticket, and Bri’s insistence she would look after Vicky added up to a whole lot of suspicion and a high level of discomfort at the thought of going to a social event alone. Not that he was anti-social or afraid to go alone. He wasn’t even angry Bri had bought the ticket. He’d seen the looks on the faces of friends, understood they were concerned about him, how he was doing since Linda’s death.
So long as she stayed out of his bedroom, he would cope. He had to.
When he was good and ready, he’d do things, go places. In his own good time. He scrubbed his face on a towel and tossed it into the laundry hamper.
Cocktails and tuxedos—and dancing?
Vaguely Harry remembered Jim referring to dancing at some kindy ‘do’ that was coming up and groaning about having to go to dancing lessons with his wife. It must be the event Bri had mentioned.
And she’d got him a single ticket?
He shuddered at the thought of small talk and inebriated women cajoling him onto the dance floor. At the very least, Bri could have got two tickets and ridden shotgun for him. He dragged a T-shirt over his head and ran a brush through his hair.
Now there was a thought. He missed dancing and holding his partner close. Linda hadn’t liked the old time dances and Harry, besotted and in love, had let the monthly dance evenings slide after they married. But if Bri wanted to get him to the dinner dance, he’d go.
On one condition.
He strolled into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of syrupy goodness wafting from the oven. “What are you cooking?”
“Biscuits. You said you have another overnighter this week. I’ve made lamb stew for dinner. There are a couple of portions in the freezer for your trip.” She busied herself at the sink, washing bowls and a wooden spoon and studiously ignoring him. She was definitely up to something. Harry felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, busting to let loose. He restrained it, confining it until he got what he wanted.
“Where’s Vicky?”
“The Faulkners picked her up about twenty minutes ago. She’s gone to the new Transformer movie with Fraser. They’ll drop her home around seven-thirty. Did you forget that was tonight?”
He ran a hand through his hair and sat on a stool at the breakfast bar. “It slipped my mind. Sorry if I snapped before, Bri. Work kind of overtook everything, but I shouldn’t bring the mood home with me.”
She shrugged and turned on the kitchen tap, adding detergent to the water. “Apology accepted. And I apologise in return. I kind of forgot what I was doing after Vicky decided to play hairdresser on Ariel’s hair. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.”
“You surprised me, that’s all. It’s been a while since I’ve had to wear a towel into my own bedroom.” A flush of pink coloured her face that could have been from the steam rising from the sink, or the hot water she had sunk her hands in. He chose to attribute it to the image he’d painted. Good. He wanted her off-kilter and not thinking too much until she agreed to his idea.
“Look, I was thinking about the kindy party and that ticket you got for me.”
Bri’s hands stilled in the soapy water and she turned her head, just a little, just enough to confirm his suspicion that the kindy function was her means to some end, and he was her target. “And?”
A sliver of devilry prodded him to string her along. This wasn’t about payback; not precisely, although he looked forward to beating her at her own game. “It’s important to be involved at Vicky’s kindergarten, more than just going along to working bees and such. I guess I overreacted when you said you bought me a ticket, without giving it any real thought.”
“I agree. Supporting fundraisers like this is good for the school and good for relationships between parents and children. Clare was saying so just this afternoon.”
There it was—Bri’s cat-that-got-the-cream smile flashed out at him, relaxed and delighted by her imagined success.
“I’ll go—” He let the sentence hang. Hooked by his agreement, he wanted her locked into the transaction, unable to back out. “On one condition.”
“Anything.”
Snap. Once he agreed to go, he’d been certain Bri would let her guard down. He wanted to grin like a loony, but maintained a frown as though he wasn’t sure of what he was going to ask. It was like playing a fish on his line, letting it pull away, the sense of escape luring it to turn its back on the fisherman before the tug, twist and reeling in.
“Two conditions actually. First, can you get a second ticket?”
“Sure, easy.” She pulled the plug, rinsed her hands and picked up the hand towel. “What else? Take your tux to the drycleaner?”
“Hmm, good suggestion, but that’s not it.”
“Okay, I’ll be looking after Vicky so that’s covered. Do you want me to find you a date?” She smirked and hung the towel over the handle of the oven.
“Oh, I can manage that for myself. I have the perfect partner in mind. I’m sure she’ll be happy to come when I ask her.”
“That’s great!” The oven timer buzzed. Bri slipped her hands into a pair of oven mitts before she did a double take. A worried frown narrowed her eyes. “You do? You are—certain of her?”
“I am.”
“Are you going to tell me who your date is?”
“No, a man has to have some secrets, don’t you agree?” Harry sat back, his palms flat on the bench top. Was this Bri’s plan? Hook him up with someone, maybe a single mum from among the kindy parents, in the name of what?
Harry knew a bittersweet sting. Did Bri have someone lined up as his date? His gut squirmed as he realised she had matched and dispatched him, dusted off her hands and baked biscuits. Played him. He’d just agreed to go the damned party!
Who the hell did she think she was, organising his social life for him? Just like Jim—bloody—Faulkner, Nora and the other mothers shaking their heads when he threw cold water on their assumption Bri had moved in with him.
Even though she has. But it wasn’t like they all thought. Was there anyone there not predisposed to matchmake him with the first available woman?
“Have you invited a woman on my behalf, Bri?”
Her gaze slid sideways and he had his answer. “I see. Care to tell me who you decided on.”
She opened the oven door and peered inside then turned to face him. A saucy little smile touched her mouth and she leaned against the bench. “Harry, Harry, Harry, I haven’t asked anyone to be your date. You’re a big boy; I’m sure you can ask a woman out all by yourself.”
“Why don’t I believe you, Bri?”
She shrugged. “Your love life is none of my business. If you don’t want the ticket, I’ll return it. Easy.” Her features rearranged themselves into a pseudo-sad face. He knew it was a put-on, but she was good. There was just enough truth in what she said, how she said it, to prevent a direct challenge.
“Vicky will be disappointed of course. She was excited when she showed me an old photo of you wearing a tux. She’s never seen it for real.”
“Isn’t that kind of low, bringing Vicky into this discussion?”
“She wants to see you all dressed up. She even got me to help her find some dance clips on the internet, to see what kind of dances you’d be doing. I think she wants to dance with you, Harry.”
How many years had it been since he’d danced anything more than a slow, swaying dance-that-wasn’t-dancing with Linda? Of course that sort of dancing had always led them to bed. He missed holding a soft woman in his arms, their bodies moving in time with one another. The slow glide across the floor, the brush of hip against hip, chest to breast. The promise of after in eyes darkened by music and desire. He closed his eyes on the memory.
He couldn’t do it.
He wouldn’t. It was too much to ask, too soon.
Will there ever be a perfect time, a right time?
He opened his eyes. Bri was watching him, and it wasn’t victory he saw in her gaze, but compassion. As though she . . . cared about what the damned part
y might do for him. His stomach lurched as the idea formed, as words sprang, unpractised and unbidden from his mouth.
“Since you’re responsible, you can help me dust off my very rusty moves. I won’t take to the dance floor without some practice.”
Bri’s lips compressed. She took a tray of biscuits out of the oven and put them on a cooling tray without a word.
“Bri? Will you help me?”
“Sure. But I’m warning you now, you’d better wear your steel-capped boots. I’m not known for my dance moves.” With a show of reluctance, she joined him in the living room.
He found an old dance playlist and selected a waltz before taking Bri in his arms. The scent of baking and a faint hint of her floral perfume teased his nose and Harry wondered if his actions were sane or masochistic.
If he’d been smart, he would have hired a different woman to care for Vicky, one who didn’t make him notice things like how her eyes were as bright as Ceylonese sapphires, as clear as summer skies. And now he could see the smattering of light freckles across her nose. He still wanted to trace a path from one to the other.
No, if Harry were smart, he wouldn’t have asked Bri to dance. But she felt good in his arms.
Chapter Sixteen
“No, Bri, it’s not one, two, three and one, two, three like that scene in The Kind and I. It’s just one, two, three on a continuous loop.”
“Gah. It’s so simple, what’s wrong with me?” Two left feet and no sense of rhythm wouldn’t stop her dancing with Harry. Not now she’d discovered just how crazy fun it was, no matter how hopeless her moves. “Are you sure you want to practise with me? You seem to know this waltzing gig just fine without my input.”
“I’d look pretty stupid dancing by myself.”
Bri rolled her shoulders, shook out her hands and stepped up in front of Harry. She placed one hand on his shoulder and gripped his hand with the other. “This time I’ll get it right.”
He nodded. “You will get it. Let’s try again, only this time, don’t look at your feet. Ready?” She nodded and tipped her head up to meet his gaze, and wondered if it had been smart to agree to dance with him.
“Are you waiting for me to count us in?”
“No, just waiting for you to—get used to looking up instead of down.” He picked up the beat, counted them in, and kept counting, emphasising the first beat and partnering her in two, breathless, faultless circuits around the sofa. The music ended and a spurt of pride—and pleasure filled her. Bri collapsed on the sofa with a pretend groan. “We did it.”
Harry picked up the remote, paused the player, and then sat at the other end of the sofa. “Well done. You’ve mastered the waltz.”
“I haven’t mastered anything. That was all down to you, but hey, I never knew how much fun these old time dances could be. Where did you learn to dance?”
Gramps occasionally reflected on the old days, and Saturday night dances had featured prominently in his memories. He’d met and danced the night away with Nana the first time he saw her and kept right on dancing through fifty-one years of marriage until his health left him breathless just walking to the letter box. Hanging up his polished black leather shoes had been one of the hardest things about his illness. “Did you go to Saturday night dances?”
“My mother is a dance teacher. There was never an option not to join in her junior dance classes. At least—” The side of his mouth tipped up in a half smile as his gaze settled on a family photo in the shelving unit. Bri examined the photo more closely. Father, mother, and a young version of Harry with a little sister smiled from the frame, all dressed in what Bri only now recognised were probably competition outfits. “If I wanted to play rugby, junior dance classes were the price. My parents believed in a well-rounded education and dance balanced out the sport and filled the cultural element. Along with a bit of guitar.”
“You mean you were blackmailed into it?”
“Only at first. The funny thing is, dance lessons helped my school footy career. I was light on my feet and could sprint for the try line before the opposition knew I’d even changed direction.”
Bri looked him over from head to toe. “I can imagine it. Did your team mates cotton on to the secret of your skill?”
“One did; my best mate started coming to lessons with me. He reckoned his neat footwork won over his wife. Jim Faulkner refused.”
Bri laughed. “His wife is dragging him to lessons now. She confided that she refuses to shuffle around the dance floor with bruised toes because Jim doesn’t know a waltz from a cha-cha.”
“Good point. You never know when the chance to dance will come your way. Speaking of which—up you get. There’s a random selection of music on this dance list. We’ll go with whatever comes on next.” He pressed play and guitar chords filled the living room, followed by—
Panic swirled in her stomach. Bri sat upright and slapped her hands down either side of her body. “Is that castanets? Oh my God, I’m not attempting a tango!”
Harry laughed with a degree of pleasure she hadn’t heard before. A deep chuckle that swamped her fear and set other desires swirling in her stomach.
“So you do know more than you let on! Armik is one of my favourite guitarists and his tango is sublime. How can you not dance to this?” His hand uncurled in front of her disbelieving eyes and he waited.
She looked up, hoping he wasn’t serious. “Harry, I barely managed a waltz. I’ll accidentally slap, skewer or trip you. What makes you think you’ll survive a tango with me?”
“Trust me, Bri?” His voice was pitched low, seductive—desire simmered beneath those three simple words. Harry was serious. A curious stillness, edged with expectation, with want, with longing wrapped them in a moment frozen in time.
Her chest tightened as though a corset confined her, and the breath stalled in her lungs. Harry had to know what dancing the tango did to people. Even she knew what tango meant. Her panic ratcheted up another degree. Hadn’t she seen all those dance movies with Gramps, snuggled up beside him with a bowl of popcorn on their laps? Tango was intense. It meant more than moving to the music. She had only a few short weeks left with Harry and Vicky but dancing the tango with Harry meant leaving part of herself with him. Her awareness of him had become heightened as they waltzed. The scent of his aftershave teased her nose, and his thighs brushed hers as they spun around the sofa. How much more intense would her memories of him be after the tango?
Dancing tango with Harry would change everything.
But she couldn’t allow it to.
In a few weeks she’d be gone, out of the Isa and Harry and Vicky’s lives. Hesitating like she’d never done in her life, Bri stared at his hand. If she took it, she’d be giving Harry a truth about herself she barely recognised. That somewhere in the past couple of weeks, he had become important to her.
But she had only now, and Bri had never refused an adventure. She would dance the tango with Harry and—
What the hell was she worrying about? Briony Middleton was never going to have enough time to learn to tango with Harry. She would stand on his toes or stab him in a vulnerable spot as she flicked her foot up between his legs because her timing was appalling and that would be the end of it. As she took his hand and stood she almost regretted there wasn’t enough time for him to teach her properly.
Harry drew her into his personal space, closer than the waltz, closer than she had ever been to him. So close his breath brushed her cheek, stirred the tendrils of hair that had come loose from her ponytail.
Close enough that she was aware of amber flecks in his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. Standing this close to Harry was dangerous. It was a revelation. He was no longer merely Vicky’s dad. He was nothing like the stuffy, silent Harrison of her roadside rescue nor the angry, bare-chested man of her bedroom incursion.
Here, sharing the same square foot of floor, Harry was a man who looked at her with an intensity and a yearning she had no hope of refusing. “The tango is danced with two
bodies moving as one. It’s the most connected dance of all.” His smoky seductive tones set her nerve endings on fire.
He took her right hand in his left and held it level with her shoulder, and then rested his other hand on her waist. He drew her closer until her breast brushed his chest and the heat of his body melded with hers. She breathed deeper, seeking the gentle friction against her nipples, feeling her body respond to his. She’d known it would happen, but now she was powerless to stop whatever happened.
Because she wanted Harry in all the ways a woman wants a man.
And she couldn’t have him.
“Harry, I can’t do it.” Her panic had little to do with the fact she couldn’t dance to save herself. It had everything to do with standing too close to him, inhaling the pine scent of his aftershave, the smell of Harry.
He tightened his hold on her hand, maintaining a subtle pressure on her back. “You can do it. We’ll start with basic steps. They’re easy. Put your weight on your left foot, bend your knee and step back on your right foot. The count is slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. Ready, and—”
Harry guided her in the simple series of steps around the room, circling the sofa. His strength was contained and controlled, but she was aware of it, of how it gave her a strange sense of being protected within his arms. Tango was a dance made for lovers; he demanded, she followed, feeling lost, feeling liberated all at the same time. The simple steps repeated, over and over until the rhythm filled her, until their two bodies couldn’t be closer without being—
Harry stopped, his breathing harsher than the effort of dancing demanded. The music continued, its tempo upbeat, but his hands held her in the tango position, his head angled up in that proud, dominant male stance she associated with the dance. But his eyes were ablaze, asking permission, telling her what was about to happen. Then Harry bent his head and she closed her eyes.
His lips were warm, his breath minty as their mouths meshed. It began slowly, but Harry’s kiss was no tentative exploration. It was a kiss of certainty, of the rightness of the connection.
Wild About Harry (Hearts of the Outback Book 5) Page 9