Laura Marie Altom

by Dancing

  father before him did the same. I can't let his dream and

  him die. I can't. Won't."

  "Yes, but—" she stopped rubbing his shoulders to

  turn him to face her "—don't you see? That's your

  father's dream. What's yours?"

  He sighed and bowed his head while drying his hands

  on a dishrag. "Before meeting you, it had been so long

  since I'd thought of anything but the daily grind, I'd all

  but forgotten how to dream."

  "All right, then," she said, taking him by the hand to

  lead him to the sofa. "Here's what we have to do..."

  "Whoa," he said, halting her progress. "I have to finish

  cleaning in the kitchen. I always finish what I start."

  "Great." Releasing his hand, she finished the short

  trip to sit down. "Remind me to give you a Brownie

  point at the end of our session. Come here," she urged,

  patting the cushion beside her.

  "Really, I need to—"

  "Grrrr, you're a stubborn man. Please," she begged.

  "Humor me for just a few minutes, then you can not only

  organize the contents of my cabinets, but bleach the grout."

  "Okay," he said, plopping onto the end of the sofa

  farthest from her. Why couldn't he just break up with

  her? Why did he keep drawing out the pain? "What

  do you want me to do?"

  "Lay your head on my lap."

  "With Anna fifty feet away?"

  "I've watched and heard this movie thirty times.

  We've got about fifteen minutes until the end. Now,

  please, lay your head on my lap."

  Because he was still too cowardly to accomplish

  what he'd come for, he did as she asked. "Okay, I'm

  down. Now what?"

  Fingers stroking his temples, she said, "I want you

  to breathe."

  "I am."

  "No, really breathe—from here." She pressed his

  abdomen, and just the heat of her touch seeping

  through his thin polo shirt woke parts of his body he

  willed back to sleep.

  "Excuse me," he said, "but I think you're starting

  something you may not be able to finish."

  "Stay still, and keep your mind out of the gutter."

  Holding out his hands in surrender, he said, "Okay,

  I give up. You win."

  "That's better. Now, take another deep breath."

  "I already did."

  "Do it again."

  He complied.

  Rubbing her fingertips up and down his temples, she

  said, "Think back as far as you can and tell me what

  your first dream was."

  "Easy. To kiss Jodi Foster. She was hot back in those

  Disney movies." A mischievous wink shot her way.

  Rose chuckled and rolled her eyes. "As big a fan as

  I am of Ms. Foster's work, that wasn't the reply I was

  looking for. Try again."

  "I don't know what kind of dream you mean."

  "A work dream. What did you want to be when you

  grew up?"

  "An astronaut, first, then Jodi's boyfriend, second."

  "I'm ignoring that second part, but the first one was

  good. What else did you want to be?"

  "A pastry chef. Ours was really good, and he let me

  eat his mistakes."

  "Your family had their own pastry chef?" She

  couldn't even imagine such wealth, but far from envying

  Dalton's privileged upbringing, she felt sorry for him.

  Seeing the pent-up man all that money had created made

  her eyes sting for the lost little boy.

  "Hey, cut me some slack. He only came in three days

  a week. After all, how much pastry can one family eat?"

  "Good point. Anything else you wanted to be?"

  "A gardener. Andrew made really great topiary animals.

  His grouping of lions in my parent's formal garden is

  one of the best I've ever seen—and I've traveled a lot."

  "Wonderful. We're finally getting somewhere. Any-

  thing else?"

  "A chauffeur. Charles spent half his time driving cool

  cars, and the other half caring for them. Could there be

  any better job than getting paid to play with cars?"

  "Sounds good to me." She grinned, sweeping a fallen

  lock of hair from his forehead. "That it?"

  "Yep. That about covers childhood aspirations. Of

  course, in college, I went through that artistic phase, but

  then doesn't everybody?"

  "No. I mean, I guess my dancing would be considered

  an art, but my brothers all went to trade schools. They

  love working with their hands. Which, if you look back

  over the fields you just told me about, pretty much shows

  that you might enjoy working with your hands, as well."

  "Especially whenever I'm around you."

  "I'm serious," she said, gesturing to where his sculp-

  ture stood before the darkened window. "Look how

  beautiful your work is. You have a God-given talent

  that it's a sin to waste on cold, hard facts and numbers."

  Splayed hands against his chest, she said, "Your heart

  beats so warm, mi amor... Why do a job that's so cold?"

  He struggled beneath her. "Let me up."

  "Not yet." She held him down, close, just a few

  seconds more. "First, tell me you're completely happy

  with your current line of work."

  "I'm happy," he said, voice as flat as a warm can of

  pop. "There, I said it. Are you happy?"

  "No. This isn't just about words. I want you to do

  something special with your life. To wake in the

  mornings and say to yourself, 'I'm thrilled to be alive.'"

  He shot her a thunderous look, then struggled to his

  feet. This time, she let him go. Maybe she'd overstepped

  her bounds, but what she'd told him had needed to be said.

  "I've got to go," he said. "Thanks for the great meal."

  "Don't leave mad. I'm sorry if I offended you. I was

  only trying to make you see what I have from the start."

  "What's that?"

  She stood, too, and with her hands pressed to his

  chest, she quietly said, "I see inside you, Dalton Mont-

  gomery. You have the raw material to be a fantastic

  artist. If only you'd open yourself up and let him

  outside to play."

  Dalton sighed. "That would be nice, but my father's

  lying in a hospital bed, inches from death's door. What

  kind of man would I be if I abandoned the one thing in

  his life he cares most about in order to search for my

  artist's soul? Doesn't that sound selfish to you?"

  "No, it doesn't. And I'll tell you something else.

  Judging by the talk your dad tried having with you, I

  don't think the subject of your happiness would sound

  selfish to him, either."

  "I have to go," Dalton said, clutching his chest. "Say

  bye to Anna."

  "What's wrong? You're not having pains in your

  heart, are you?"

  "No. Just indigestion."

  "You get it a lot."

  "So?"

  "You should see a doctor."

  "You should mind your own business."

  Tears welled in her eyes at his incredible insensi-

  tivity. "I thought you were my business."

  "Lord, Rose, what am I doing?" He pulled her

  close, crushing her with his hug. "I'm sorry. I never

/>   meant to hurt you."

  "It's okay. I'm strong."

  "But you shouldn't have to be. You deserve a man

  who treats you like the amazing woman you are. You

  deserve so much better than me."

  "But it's you I want."

  "Then maybe you need to reassess your dreams."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Long after Dalton left, Rose couldn't get his harsh

  words from her mind. The nerve of him. Telling her to

  reassess her dreams. Her dreams of what? Being a

  mom? A dancer? Sharing her love of dance with anyone

  who cared enough to learn? She'd already achieved

  those dreams. That only left dreams for her personal life,

  and since, at the moment, all her future aspirations

  centered around Dalton, that made his cryptic statement

  even harder to bear.

  Had he been warning her that he wasn't as perfect for

  her as he seemed? Worse, did he carry a secret in his heart?

  A secret he was either too proud or too cowardly to share?

  Mind swirling with pain, Rose got Anna settled for

  the night, then put herself to bed. But when her head

  touched the pillow, all that happened was a lot of tossing

  and turning.

  When they'd last made love, she'd been certain she and

  Dalton would be together forever. He'd been so tender.

  His touch whispery soft, yet at the same time, powerfully

  erotic. A man who put so much effort into lovemaking

  could never conceive of hurting her, could he?

  She drew the covers close. Alternately hating and

  loving the way they still smelled of him. She'd have

  stormed out of bed to wash them, but a simple sheet

  washing would do nothing to cleanse him from her soul.

  Long into the night, she watched silver moonlight

  cast a longer shadow from her sculpture. Why hadn't he

  started another one? What was holding him back?

  Whatever debt he felt he owed his father? Or her?

  "Joan!" Dalton barked into the intercom to his secre-

  tary, sounding suspiciously like his father. "Have you

  seen the Rogers file?"

  "Nope. Want me to help look?"

  "No. Thanks, though." Casting a frantic glance

  about his desk, he gritted his teeth. His stomach

  started churning.

  He was on the verge of asking Joan to come help him

  after all when she magically appeared at his desk, much

  needed file in hand.

  "You're a saint," he said. "Where was it?"

  "Carrie in accounting found it on the break-room

  table." She wiped at a smudge on the manila folder's

  corner. "It has ranch dressing on it, but other than that,

  seems none the worse for wear." She stepped back to

  appraise him. "You, on the other hand.look awful."

  "Thanks."

  "Rough night?"

  "The worst."

  "I just spoke with your mother, and since your father's

  doing well, and expected to be released this afternoon,

  I'm guessing this has something to do with a certain

  gorgeous brunette who's been a frequent visitor?"

  He pressed his lips tight.

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "No."

  "Everyone has tiffs, Dalton. Plus, as a benefit to

  fighting, afterward you get to make up."

  "I said I don't want to talk about it."

  "Okay, okay. I'll leave you to sulk in peace. Oh—and

  sorry about messing with you about your file. I had it

  all along. Alice put me up to it."

  "Figures," he said, his voice not quite as rough as it

  had been. Alice was his right-hand man—or rather,

  woman. She'd been working for the bank a decade

  before he'd even been born. Childish pranks were her

  fountain of youth.

  Joan waved, then returned to her desk.

  She hadn't been gone five minutes when Dalton was

  back on the intercom. "Did you really just say my

  father's being released today? Isn't that too soon?" And

  why the hell was I the last to know?

  "Miracles of modern medicine. Oh—and before I

  forget, your mother asked me to tell you not to make

  plans for Saturday night."

  "Why not?"

  "She and your father have booked the club to throw

  a party. He's going to announce his retirement, then

  name you his successor. Sounds fun, huh?"

  Dalton clutched his chest. "Have you seen my antacid?"

  In the dance academy's lobby, the damn fountain

  gurgling happily as ever, Dalton took a deep breath,

  then slowly exhaled. He didn't want to do this, but if he

  truly loved Rose and Anna, it was the right thing—only

  thing—to do.

  Latin bass pulsed through the studio walls, bringing

  to mind the many hot nights he and Rose had shared. If

  only things had been different. If only his dad hadn't

  been sick. If only his parents had seen fit to have a

  bigger family, with lots of heirs.

  Too bad for him, if onlys wouldn't get him anywhere.

  With his dad's big party planned for Saturday night, the

  sooner Dalton made a clean break from the life he so

  desperately wanted, the sooner he could return to the life

  he'd been given.

  Right on schedule, Rose released her senior-citizen

  samba class. He lingered in the hallway's shadows,

  watching her easy smile and the way all of her students

  seemed to love her—including him.

  When the crowd had finally thinned, he cleared his

  throat. "Rose?"

  She jumped. "Dalton. You scared me. How long have

  you been back there?"

  "Not long. I wanted to let you finish before interrupt-

  ing your day."

  "Mi novio, you're not interrupting, but enhancing."

  She kissed him, then locked the front door. "I've got

  an hour before my next class. Let's head upstairs and

  I'll feed you."

  "That sounds great," he said, pulse raging, acid

  roiling up his throat, "but I don't have time."

  "Oh...okay. But if you don't have time to be here,

  why did you come?"

  "My dad's being released from the hospital today."

  "That's wonderful. I'm so happy for you—him, too."

  Dalton shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

  "Yeah, well, here's the deal. Saturday night, my folks

  are hosting a party at the club."

  "How fun. I hope there's going to be dancing." She

  snapped her fingers and wriggled her hips.

  Meanwhile, he cleared his throat, praying for

  strength for himself, and understanding from Rose. "I

  couldn't say about the dancing. Dad's announcing his

  retirement. Naming me his successor."

  "How do you feel about that?"

  "Resigned."

  "Honey, you have to say something. Get out now,

  while you can."

  "That's just it," he said. "Seeing my father in that

  hospital bed made me more determined than ever to do

  just that. Get out now. Only not from the bank, but from

  whatever lunacy led me to forget everything I am in

  being with you."

  Rose needed air.

  This couldn't be happening.

  "Dalton?" She went to him, put her hands on his

&nbs
p; shoulders, but he wrenched free of her hold. "Honey, we

  can work through this together. Who says you can't

  work at the bank and have a satisfying home life? It

  doesn't have to be all or nothing."

  He snorted. "That's where you're wrong. I'm mis-

  erable at that job. Do you honestly think that's ever

  going to change? Say we stay together, get married,

  have a couple kids of our own, what happens when my

  misery causes me to being grumpy with you or the kids?

  What happens if I do like so many other guys in my

  family's sainted social circle and turn to booze or other

  women to drown my sorrows?"

  "Oh, Dalton," she said, forcing him to look at her,

  smoothing his brow. "You would never do any of that.

  You're too good, too pure."

  "You may think that now, but there are no guaran-

  tees, Rose."

  "I know you're hurting, Dalton, but why do you have

  to hurt me, too? Why can't you lean on me to help you

  through this? Why do you insist on being Mr. Tough

  Guy? Handling everything alone?"

  "Because," he railed, gripping her forearms. "That's

  the way it has to be. I love you, Rose, but I love my

  family, too. If I leave the bank and it fails and my mother

  ends up penniless and on the street? How the hell would

  I live through that, knowing her pain was a direct result

  of my selfishness?"

  "Her pain? What about mine, Dalton? For one

  second, would you please forget your parents and look

  at me. Really look at me. I love you. Anna loves you.

  The three of us, we've become a family. Your parents

  are capable of taking care of themselves. It's time for

  you to focus on you, on us."

  "I can't," he said, holding her tight. "I'm sorry, but

  my sense of duty is too strong."

  "Your sense of duty?" she asked, stroking his hair.

  "Or your fear?"

  He remained silent.

  "I'm right, aren't I?" she probed. "You have been

  harboring a secret, haven't you?"

  He wouldn't meet her gaze.

  "Dalton? Honey, I love you. You can tell me

  anything. I promise, I—"

  "Look, I was married, okay?"

  "W-what?" It wasn't that the notion was so outra-

  geous, but how could he have kept something like a

  previous marriage from her?

  "Carly and I met in college. One of those love-at-

  first-sight kind of things that never should have

  happened. Bottom line, things didn't work out. She

  soon saw I wasn't who she'd thought I was—an artsy

  free spirit, ready to roam the world on a whim. She