by Dancing
Chapter One
"Next on the agenda," Alice Craigmoore said in her
raspy, Southern drawl, "is this year's Miss Hot Pepper
pageant. Mona, as our reigning pageant chair, do you
have a report?"
Dalton Montgomery took this as his cue to commence
with a nap.
The private back room of Duffy's Barbecue was
famous for not only its fishing-themed decor, but also
its oak and leather chairs roomy enough to allow a guy
to enjoy a man-size meal without feeling sliced in half.
In other words, it was easy to tune out of the bimonthly
meeting's most mind-numbing portions.
As president-elect of Hot Pepper, Louisiana's cham-
ber of commerce, Dalton had no problem tackling
ordinary business matters. But whenever his fellow
members started in with one of their half-dozen festi-
vals they'd planned, or God forbid this pageant, he felt
completely out of his league. But then these days, was
there anywhere he did feel comfortable and in control?
As the only son of the president of the First National
Bank of Hot Pepper, Dalton had been expected since
birth to one day step into his father's shoes. The one time
he'd deviated from the plan, he'd failed miserably both
personally and professionally, leading him to believe
maybe fate was smarter than he was.
Fifteen years later, here he was, resigned to living the
rest of his days in a twelve-by-twelve office with an
alley view.
Rubbing his forehead, he stifled a groan.
He wasn't usually so cranky about his lot in life. He
had a large group of family and friends. A great house.
Pool. Shiny new red Escalade. In the grand scheme of
things, he didn't have much to complain about.
So why was it that when he'd shaved this morning,
the guy gazing back at him in the mirror had looked
damn near dead?
"Dalton?" Mona asked. "Haven't you heard a word
of what I've just said?"
"Huh?" He glanced up.
All ten chamber of commerce members present
stared his way.
"The outgoing Miss Hot Pepper. It's your respon-
sibility to tango with her during the lag time when the
judges tally their scores."
Nope. Not going to happen. "I thought it was the pres-
ident's responsibility to do the whole cheesy dance thing?"
"Cheesy?" Alice and Mona said in equally out-
raged tones.
"I'll have you know," Mona said, "that the end-of-
pageant dance is a tradition that's been alive longer than
you."
"And as incoming president," Alice piped in, "seeing
how you're a man, you'll have to perform. After all, you
wouldn't want to see me up there dancing with the
beauty queen, would you?"
Hell, no. But that didn't mean he wanted to do it,
either. "Why does it have to be me? There are twenty
other guys I'm sure would be thrilled for the opportu-
nity. For that matter, doesn't the outgoing Miss Hot
Pepper have a boyfriend? Why can't you use him?"
"It's not that bad," Frank Loveaux said, loosening his
brown striped tie. The man had a triple chin, so Dalton
could see where the business noose would hinder his
breathing. "I did it three years ago and had a ball. That
was back when Mindy Sue Jacobs was Miss Hot
Pepper." He whistled, then grinned. "That little lady
was a pistol. To this day, I still dream about the kiss she
gave me at the end of our dance."
"That's all well and good," Dalton said, "but every-
one knows I can't dance. Just ask my prom date—over
a decade later, and she's still crippled from my stepping
on her toes."
"My daughter's toes work just fine," Catherine
Bennett—mother of his prom date, Josie—said. "Why
are you being so obstinate? If it weren't for your arguing,
we could've been three more items down the agenda."
Ouch. He and Josie hadn't lasted much beyond prom.
Her eagle-eyed, blunt-talking mother had been a huge
part of the problem. That, and the fact that Josie had
been pretty and sweet and all, but she hadn't lit any fires
in his belly. His mama had always told him that if a girl
didn't keep him awake at night, craving their next kiss,
it was time to move on.
Well, here he was, thirty-five years old, and aside from
his ex, Carly, sleeping like a rock. Not that he lacked for
female companionship. Just that to date, no woman
except Carly had come anywhere near making him feel
alive. Complete. But she had changed all that by slashing
his heart in a zillion pieces. Now he vastly preferred the
single life. He might occasionally be lonely, but the alter-
native of being emotionally annihilated sucked.
Alice slammed her gavel against the speaker's
podium. "I'd like to make a motion that Dalton perform
the end-of-pageant tango. All in favor?"
Nine arms shot up. "Aye."
"Opposed?"
"Nay," Dalton alone said.
With another slam of her gavel, his fate was sealed.
"The ayes have it. Next on the agenda—the Hot Pepper
Festival's food concessions. Frank, are you ready with
your report?"
Whoa.
Dalton's first glimpse of the hottie greeting him in the
dance studio's pale pink reception area had him doing a
double take. "Um, you're not blue-haired Miss Gertrude."
Flashing a professional smile that didn't reach her
eyes, the vision said, "Miss Gertrude retired. I'm the
studio's new owner, Rose Vasquez. Are you the Dalton
Montgomery I have down for a tango lesson?"
"That'd be me," he said. For the first time since that
week's chamber meeting, he stopped cursing his fellow
committee members. Maybe the whole dance gig
wouldn't be half-bad.
"Welcome." She held out her slim hand for him to
shake.
When their palms met, he felt a twinge in his gut. Her
grip was firm, yet somehow fragile, as if the merest
hint of a wind might blow her away. Aside from a trick-
ling lobby fountain and humming drink machine, the
studio was quiet—save for his racing pulse. He hadn't
expected them to be alone. Not that it was a problem.
Just that, being in a small-town dance studio, he'd
pictured himself surrounded by eight-year-old gigglers
in pink tutus.
Clasping her hands over her gently curved belly, she
said, "The woman who made your reservation—"
"My secretary—Joan."
"Yes, well, Joan, mentioned you just need a crash
course."
"Yep. That'll do it. The basics are all I need to get
me through one heinous night."
"That's all well and good," the woman said, her once
lovely expression now sober, "but
when you say you
want to know just the basics about the tango, you've
insulted not only me, but a tradition that has lasted more
than a hundred years. Tango isn't just a dance, and I
hope that once we're finished with our lessons, you'll
see that. I also hope you'll treat this venture we're
embarking upon with the dignity and respect it
deserves—even loyalty."
Dignity and respect? Loyalty? Dalton figured he
deserved an Academy Award—at least an Emmy—for
the acting job he was doing in holding back a snort.
They were talking about dance moves. This woman
might be attractive, but she had a lot to learn about what
in life deserved such sentiments. If anyone was an
expert on what loyalty made a man do, it was him.
"You're awfully quiet," she said, tapping a purple
pencil against the top of a yellow laminate reception
desk. The girlie colors brought on indigestion, or was
it the fact that he was for all practical purposes being
lectured by a stranger that had his stomach in an uproar?
He reached into the chest pocket of his suit for a
chewable antacid, but he was fresh out. Damn.
When he spotted her eyeing him funny, he withdrew
his hand from his pocket. "I'm assuming from the tone
of our one-sided conversation that either I play this
dancing game all your way or hit the highway?"
She smiled, and the force of it nearly knocked him
off his feet. She wasn't merely hot, as he'd previously
thought. She was beautiful. In fact, she could've
launched an entire new category of beauty. Rich, olive-
toned skin served as the perfect backdrop for soulful
brown eyes and silky, raven-black hair that his finger-
tips itched to touch.
Snap out of it! his conscience cried.
She was a looker, but considering the tone of the
speech she'd just delivered, she was also a few cupcakes
shy of a dozen.
Smile not reaching her eyes, she said, "I can't say
anyone has ever paraphrased my wishes so eloquently,
but yes, you're right. If I agree to give you a crash course
in tango, you must give me as close to one hundred
percent of yourself as possible."
When he opened his mouth to object, she shocked him
by placing the pad of her index finger against his lips.
"No," she said, "don't speak. I can read your mind.
You're thinking how can you devote all your energy
to learning this dance when work is what you live for,
am I right?"
He nodded.
"As you'll soon see, I'm not asking for much. Just
your undivided attention."
Right. From where he stood, sounded more like his
soul.
"Do we have a deal, Mr. Montgomery?"
Telling himself he felt the same jolt of awareness
every time he shook a female colleague's hand, Dalton
once again grasped the lovely Ms. Vasquez's fingers in
his. "Deal. Ready to start?"
"You mean now?"
"My secretary did make a reservation."
"No," she said with a faint shake of her head. "I—
I'm sorry, but something has come up. I have lessons
from noon until six tomorrow evening. You and I shall
tango at seven."
After Mr. Montgomery left, Rose had trouble locking
the door. Her fingers trembled as she remembered the
spark of interest in Dalton Montgomery's striking blue
eyes. Her stomach clenched when she considered how
close she'd come to reaching out to straighten a
wayward lock of his unruly short, dark hair. At just over
six feet, with a square jaw, high brow and Roman nose,
Dalton exuded strength and undeniable sex appeal.
Why had she lectured him like that? Why had she
turned away the good money she could've earned from
tonight's session?
The truth?
Not because she was eager to check on Anna as she'd
told herself, but because for the first time since John's
death well over a year earlier, she'd found a man attrac-
tive, and the notion shook her to the core.
The thought of spending an hour in Dalton Mont-
gomery's arms while performing the dance she'd so
loved with her husband, well... It was inconceivable.
Which was why she'd bought herself a little extra time.
To adjust to the idea that it was okay to find another man
physically attractive.
Find him attractive yes, but feel warmth spreading
through her limbs when he looked at her? What had that
been about? How could she begin to process her mixed-
up feelings in the all-too-brief time until they met again?
Somehow, some way, she'd found the strength to
tackle each day since the motorcycle accident that'd
stolen John from her and Anna. Rose forced a deep breath,
knowing she'd capably handle this development, as well.
In the brief time they'd shared as man and wife, she
and her husband had enjoyed a wholly fulfilling
physical relationship. She'd always been a passionate
woman. It was common sense that as a healthy female
in her prime she would have certain needs. Logically,
the attraction she'd felt for Mr. Montgomery had been
purely biological—nothing at all to be concerned about.
Oh yeah? Then how come your pulse is racing at the
mere thought of seeing him again?
She didn't have an answer—at least one she was
willing to admit, even to herself. Rose flicked off the
studio's lights then resolutely marched up the stairs to
her and Anna's airy loft.
In coming to terms with John's death, Anna had been
her rock. Tonight, whether the six-year-old knew it or
not, she would again be her mom's strength.
As for Dalton Montgomery, all Rose had to do to deal
with him was convince herself that he was just another
student and the tango was just another dance.
Early Thursday evening, an hour before her lesson
with Mr. Montgomery, Rose trudged up the stairs.
Since crawling out of bed that morning, dread had
settled low in her stomach. Now, entering the high-
ceilinged kitchen she thought of as her private sanctu-
ary, she didn't bother masking full-on panic. Luckily,
Anna was out for dinner and a movie with a friend.
Though Rose wasn't hungry, it'd been noon since
she'd last eaten, so she slipped off her heels, then
prepared a light meal of tomato soup.
While waiting for the creamy liquid to boil, she
gazed about the massive space, loving the slant of late-
spring sun through the towering bank of west windows.
She adored plants and the brightness of the place—
not to mention the high ceilings and lack of interior
walls—allowed her to house a collection of trees. Palms,
miniature oranges and even a red maple she'd been
given as a housewarming gift but hadn't quite gotten
around to planting in the historic brick building's
postage stamp of a backyard. Her know-it-all brothers
had assured her that the tree would die after being i
nside
over a week, but months later, it still thrived.
Giving the soup a stir, she mused that a lot of
people—especially her overprotective father and two
big brothers—had thought her business would die. But
it'd been ninety days since she'd opened her doors and
while she wouldn't say her business was thriving, it
was holding its own. Just like her and Anna.
Together, they were learning to weather grief, life's
toughest storm.
What about the storm you're about to face in part-
nering with Dalton Montgomery?
A burning, sweet scent filled her nostrils a second
before the telltale sizzle of liquid hit the gas burner's flame.
Rats. In all her daydreaming, she'd forgotten her
soup. She twisted off the heat and cleaned the oozing
red mess. So much for supper.
Grabbing saltines from the pantry, she plopped into
her favorite overstuffed armchair. She knew it'd sound
silly to anyone else, but the chair had been John's, and
sitting in it was akin to getting a hug. At times, she'd
have sworn she still smelled his citrus aftershave on the
brown leather.
She switched on the local news, but when the bulk
of the broadcast consisted of an extended sports
segment, she turned it off, and her eyes drifted shut....
"Ahem. Ms. Vasquez?"
Rose jerked to attention only to find Dalton Mont-
gomery standing less than twelve inches away!
"Sorry," Mr. Montgomery said. "I didn't mean to
startle you."
Rose scooted to an upright position and tried to
quickly pull herself together. Her hair was probably
a mess and she did her best to shove it back into a
metal clip.
"Don't," her uninvited guest said, eyeing her in his
annoyingly direct way.
"Don't what?"
"Fix your hair. It looks.fine. Like that." He swal-
lowed hard. "Down." Wild. While he hadn't voiced that
last part, she sensed that was what he'd meant. Which
was why she went ahead with the task of smoothing her
hair back and purposefully snapping the clip.
His tone made her do a quick check to ensure her nap
hadn't resulted in a wardrobe malfunction. Nope, all
was well with her formfitting black dress. It was her
mind that seemed in trouble. What was it about him that
left her off balance?
"Why are you here?" she asked, adopting the coldly
professional tone she used with unruly junior-high
students forced to take waltz classes by their parents.
"I have a lesson. Remember?" He tapped his watch.