by Dancing
"You'd sure never know it by your performance
around here. Alice said you've been coming in late and
leaving early. She suspects it's because of that tango
instructor. What do you have to say on the matter?"
"I know it's because of the tango instructor, and you
were the one who insisted I grab a few more lessons—
remember? So I'd be sure not to shame the family with
my lack of dancing prowess? I hardly think you're in a
position to complain."
"Are you and this woman serious?" his father
asked, snagging a cookie from the center of the break
room's table.
"Put that down. You know you're not allowed to eat it.
And what if Rose and I are serious? Would you object?"
Ever defiant, ever master of his domain, his dad
didn't just take a bite of the cookie, but ate the whole
damn thing, then proceeded to down another. "You
know your mother has her heart set on you marrying
Miranda Browning. Now, she's a nice girl. She belongs
to our club. Our world. Yours."
"I know Mom means well, but she wouldn't be the
one spending the rest of her life with some nice girl
from the club."
"So you're saying it is serious? This fling you're
having with a dance teacher? For heaven's sake, Dalton,
did your divorce teach you nothing? Plus, she has a
daughter. Did you know that?"
clenching and unclenching his fists, Dalton said,
"It's taking everything in me not to slug you."
"Slug me? What did I do? Other than shower you
with love and everything money could buy? Then top
all of that off by giving you your own bank?"
Shaking his head in disbelief, Dalton left the room
before he did something they would both regret.
Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the dance acad-
emy. The parking lot was full, save for a spot at the very
back.
In the lobby a group of leotard-clad, white-haired
women clamored around the reception desk.
He politely hovered behind them until he and Rose
and the throbbing Latin bass from studio three were all
that remained in the room.
"What's wrong?" she asked, stepping out from behind
the desk to smooth his forehead. "You look awful—not
that you aren't still handsome as ever, just that—"
"I know," he said, taking her wrists, drawing her
hands down. "I have an odd favor to ask."
"Sure. Anything."
"If it's not too much trouble, could I use your loft for
the rest of the afternoon? I want to work on my sculp-
ture. It somehow..." He shrugged. "It just seems like the
right thing to do."
"Of course you can, mi novio. Stay as long as you
like or need."
"Thank you," he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek,
then leaving her to take the stairs two at a time.
Slanted shafts of sunlight lent the loft a churchlike feel.
He opened the fridge, planning to grab a bottled
water, but spotting an open wine bottle, he chose that
instead. If he was going down, might as well do it right.
Taking the protective sheet from his sculpture, he
surveyed his work. He drank deeply, and for a long time
just stared at his creation, at the infinite nuances left to
be explored.
Rose's face, gentle with sleep. Her throat, arched in
passion. Breasts, swollen with desire. Her hands.
When she held him, he was capable of conquering the
world on his own terms—not his father's.
Eyes open, he set the wine on a side table and
breathed. Drawing the room's warm air slowly in
through his nose, and out through his mouth, willing his
pulse to slow.
Everything would be okay.
He wasn't sure how, but everything would be okay.
Approaching the sculpture stand, he glanced down,
surprised to find his hands trembling. Funny, how dif-
ferent the piece looked with Rose in the room, urging
him forward. Alone, he was lost, confused. He hadn't
realized how much Rose had come to mean.
Tentatively, he fingered the damp clay. It was cool to
the touch, smelled of earth and rain and somehow Rose,
herself. Her goodness. Her deep well of emotions and
endless depth of spirit. Thinking of her, only her, he put
aside his nerves and embraced the work.
With just his fingers and the rudimentary tools Rose
had bought him, he molded and shaped the clay until
slowly, Rose was there, not in the physical sense, but in
the spiritual. His mind's eye caught her hair streaming
behind her in a danced leap. Her arms flung high in a
joyful abandon he'd never before known but would cer-
tainly like to try.
His work took on a fever pitch.
For the first time since sculpting in college, he experi-
enced the wonder of being so engrossed in a project that
he forgot the time and place. All that mattered was the
flow of creativity sparking from his fingertips to the
clay. All that mattered was Rose, and the fact that she'd
made this pleasure possible.
He hardly knew her, yet in a sense, he owed her
everything. She wasn't in any way like his ex-wife.
Rose was just her sweet, beautiful self.
Stepping away, hands and back sore, he realized the
piece was done. The room had grown dark, and it only
just now occurred to him that Rose wasn't there. All
afternoon, he'd lovingly kneaded her curves, stroked her
lips, breasts and thighs. She'd been as real to him as the
air he breathed, but now the illusion was shattered.
He'd stepped out of his dreamworld and into a cold,
empty loft, and a heart that didn't feel much better.
Chapter Eleven
"Why'd we have to go out to eat, Mommy?"
Rose eased the lock into the back door, opening it
slowly to first check if Dalton was still working inside.
A cursory glance showed her the coast was clear.
"Mr. Dalton was working, honey."
"On what?"
"His sculpture," she said, flicking on the overhead
lights, then hefting the two grocery sacks she'd carried
to the kitchen counter.
"Whoa. Look, Mommy. It's you."
Rose finished putting the milk in the fridge, then
spun to look where Anna was pointing. She was blown
away by the incredible likeness of herself.
Hands to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes, Rose
moved closer to the sculpture. Dalton didn't just have
talent, he was phenomenally gifted. For him to spend
his days locked in an office when he had this kind of gift
to share with the world was a crime.
"Did Mr. Dalton really make this? Or did he just buy
it while we were at the store?"
"H-he really made it," Rose stammered. "Pretty
amazing, huh?"
"Yeah. Can I take it to show-and-tell?"
"I don't think so, sweetie. It might be kind of hard
to fit in the car."
"Oh. Can I have some of the Oreos we bought?"
"Sure."
"You want some?"
/> "No, thank you."
While her bottomless pit of a child chased off in search
of her latest snack, Rose backed onto the sofa's arm,
trying to remember the last time she'd faced such quality
artwork. New York? London? The lines and proportions
were flawless. Even more incredible was that Dalton had
made the creation in two days. For his father to deny—
squash even—this level of god-given talent was shameful.
In his heart, Rose believed, Dalton knew that. But
how would she ever convince him to act upon that knowl-
edge?
"Miss Shreveport, while I appreciate the fact that
you've been amply blessed," Alice said in a stern tone,
eyeing the girl's heaving, turquoise-sequined bosom,
"please keep in mind that this is a family-oriented event."
"Yes, ma'am," the blonde said in a slow drawl as she
practiced her dance moves onstage at Hot Pepper's
municipal auditorium.
"Now, where were we?" Alice asked Rose. "Oh—the
staging for your production numbers. Flanking the stage
will be three giant chili peppers representing the past,
present and future of our city. At the stage's center,
you'll have an approximately twenty-by-fifteen-foot
area for use at your discretion for choreography. Will
that be sufficient?"
"Sounds perfect," Rose said. "Are the costumes done?"
"All but one. Stephie Jenkins's mom fibbed about her
daughter's waist size. She'll be over tonight to get fitted
for alterations."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Thank you for agreeing to the
added performances. I think it will not only add flavor
to a normally dull portion of the pageant, but should also
drum up new interest in your dance studio."
Miss Houma bolted across the stage, clutching a fire
baton and three hula hoops.
"That would be wonderful. When Miss Gertrude
retired, many of her students left with her. I'd be happy
for the new business."
"Interesting you should mention that," Alice said.
"I had a talk with William Montgomery this morning,
and he seems to feel Dalton has taken his dance
lessons too seriously. They've begun to jeopardize his
job performance, and this is a crucial time in the
bank's growth."
"That's ludicrous," Rose said. "There's no such thing
as being too engrossed in dance."
"Yes, well, in Dalton's case, I beg to differ. Not to get
into your affairs, but Dalton can't afford any distractions."
"Is that what you think I am?" Rose asked.
"Now, I didn't in any way mean that to be offensive,
just that you're relatively new to Hot Pepper, and as
such, it's understandable that you wouldn't be familiar
with our ways."
"Your ways? Does this have something to do with the
fact that I'm of Latin descent?"
"No. Lord, no. I meant our ways as in small-town
business. We work very hard here. We have friend-
ships, but it's helpful if relationships overlap. You
know, in a meaningful manner that could be beneficial
to both parties."
"Kind of a 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours'
thing?"
"Exactly," Alice said with a brilliant smile. "Here's
the thing. We all like you. You're lovely, kind-natured
and talented. But, sugar, Dalton was born to bank, and
you were born to dance. Judging by the time he's been
spending away from his office lately, the two vocations
don't mix."
"She said what?" Dalton fumed from his perch beside
Rose on her sofa. He was glad Anna had long since
fallen asleep.
"Had I known you'd get this upset, I never would have
told you." Finger-combing his hair from his forehead, she
said, "Laugh it off. That's what I did. The very notion is
archaic. It smacks of a time when there were arranged
marriages between landowners to increase holdings."
"I'm going to see my father right now. He's got to be
stopped." He pushed to his feet.
She stood, urging him back down. "Nothing can ever
be solved by fighting. Understand, this is the only way
he knows to do battle. What you must do is take the high
road. Show him that you're more than capable of having
both a happy home life and successful business life."
"Is that what we have?" he asked, stroking her cheek.
"A happy home life?"
"I know I'm happier when you're here. So is Anna."
She fixed him with a misty-eyed stare. "Are you?"
"What?"
"Happier when you're here?"
"Of course," he said, lacing his fingers with hers. As
usual, he ignored the sliver of doubt still lingering in his
gut. They weren't talking forever, but about the here and
now. And here—now—he was happy. "But I'm not
remotely happy at the office."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"What can I do? If I quit, I'll give my dad a potentially
life-ending heart attack. If I don't quit, I'll probably keel
over myself by age forty. If I give you up, my friends and
family will apparently be overjoyed. I, on the other hand,
have started craving you like an addiction."
Raising her feet onto the sofa, Rose snuggled against
him, resting her head on his lap. "An addiction, huh? I
have a penchant for funnel cake, whenever I can get it."
She winked.
He tightened his jaw. "I'm serious."
"I can see that. But why?"
"Why?" He half laughed. "Because you've got a
beautiful little girl who deserves all of you, and I'm a
mess. You don't have time for a guy like me."
"Shouldn't I be the judge of that?"
"Why do I get the feeling you're avoiding me?" Rose
asked Dalton backstage at the pageant's dress rehearsal.
"I couldn't tell you," Dalton said, adjusting the red
satin tie Alice and Mona had made him wear with his
black tux and red satin shirt.
"Lookin' good," Frank said to Dalton, hustling by
with a platter of hoagies.
Dalton rolled his eyes. "I look like a cross between
Cupid and an undertaker."
"You do not," Rose said, hoping to smooth things
between them. Why, she wasn't sure. By his own
admission, he wasn't the man for her. But if that was
true, why, with every breath of her being, did she
suspect he just might be?
Ignoring her worries, along with the noise level
created by twenty chattering contestants and their
mothers, Rose raised her hand to Dalton's forehead, on
the verge of caressing him like she'd done dozens of
times before. But he ducked away from her, consulting
the schedule he held in his hand.
"Looks like it's about our turn."
"Uh-huh," she said, close to tears. Dalton was an
amazing man. Anna already loved him. Rose felt as if
she could so easily love him, if only she could let go of
her fears. She was trying. Why couldn't Dalton do the
same? "Dalton?"
"What, Rose?" The look he cast her wasn't cold
or
cruel, but impersonal. As if he'd washed his hands of her.
"Nothing, I—"
"Rose!" Mona shouted from the wings. "You and
your little ones are on!"
The stage lights came up. Fifteen girls in fire-orange
dresses with fruit on their heads giggled out from the
wings. Dancing with her protégées, Rose fought past the
lump in her throat, forcing a brilliant smile. She battled
the urge to see if Dalton stood in the wings watching.
All too soon, Rose was alone onstage as the lighting
and music took a sultry turn.
Dalton stepped from stage right to join her.
Ever the gentleman and professional, he offered her
his hand. As much as his eyes denied his attraction, his
body couldn't lie. The heat between them was palpable,
and as the lights dimmed and music rose, they were spot
washed in light, and danced beautifully.
Even though tonight was only a practice run,
Dalton's moves were flawless. He danced as if he'd
been born to it. But while technically his performance
was perfect, there was something missing.
The soul. Spirit.
When the music ended, Dalton made a hasty escape
to the opposite side of the stage. Before she was able to
ask if they could talk, he'd vanished into a crowd of
leaping human fruit bowls, giggling beauty queens and
anxious stage moms.
"Mommy?"
"Hey, sweetie," she said. "You did great.You, too," she
said to Anna's friend Becca. "I'm proud of you both."
The music she'd selected for Dalton's dance with
the outgoing Miss Hot Pepper boomed, turning Rose's
attention back to the stage. To Dalton. To the undeni-
able fact she wanted to be the woman in his arms
instead of the beauty queen he currently held. While
his performance was flawless, it lacked passion. This
observation warmed her. Told her that whether Dalton
mentally acknowledged their being right for each other
or not, his body—more importantly his spirit—already
knew.
"Mom-mee?" Anna's voice had raised to a whine. "I
came over here to ask if I can spend the night with
Becca. Can I?"
"I'll have to talk with her mom to make sure it's okay."
Ten minutes later, the sleepover was arranged, and
Rose had kissed her daughter good-night.
Heading for the stage-crew lounge, she searched for
the snack table, hoping Frank would be nearby. Sure
enough, he was.
"Hey there, Teach. You and Dalton really tore up the
dance floor."
"Thanks," she said.