by Diana Palmer
“Well, he doesn’t want me,” she said, “but thanks for the warning.”
He chuckled. “Not to worry, I’ll be around.”
“Thanks, Rourke.”
“Stanton.”
She pulled back and looked up at him with real interest. “Stanton?”
He smiled. “It’s my first name. I only share it with friends.”
She smiled back, shyly. “Thanks.”
“And Carlie? Is it your name or a nickname?”
She looked around to make sure nobody was close enough to hear. “Carlotta,” she whispered. “My mother thought it sounded elegant.”
“Carlotta.” He smiled gently. “It suits you.”
“Just don’t tell anyone,” she pleaded.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” he promised.
She was remembering Lanette’s nasty comment about her desk, right in front of her boss. She imagined the other woman was furious that she’d even danced with Carson. She just hoped there wouldn’t be a price to pay.
* * *
APPARENTLY CARSON DIDN’T like possessive women, because Carlie had no sooner finished her small plate of canapés than he was back again. He stopped by the bandleader and made a request. Then he went straight to Carlie, took the punch out of her hand and led her to the dance floor.
“That’s a tango,” she protested. “I can’t even do a two-step...!”
“I lead, you follow,” he said quietly. He shot a look of pure malice at the blonde, who was standing across the room with an angry expression.
“You’re getting even,” she accused as the band began to play again.
“Count on it,” he snarled.
He pulled her close and began to move with exquisite grace. He stopped abruptly, turned, and in a series of intricate steps, wound his legs around hers.
It shocked her that he was so easy to follow in such a hard dance. She laughed self-consciously. “This doesn’t look like tangos in movies,” she began.
“That’s Hollywood,” he mused. “This is how they do it in Argentina. People go to dance halls and do it with strangers. It’s considered part of the culture. Strangers passing in the night.”
“I see.”
He pulled her close again, enjoying the soft feel of her slender young body in his arms. She smelled just faintly of roses. “Have you ever been to South America?”
“You’re kidding, right?” She gasped as he pulled her suddenly closer and made a sharp turn, holding her so that she didn’t stumble.
“Why would I be kidding?” he asked.
“I’ve never been any place in my life except San Antonio.”
He frowned. “Never?”
“Never.” She sighed. “I went up with Tommy Tyler once in his airplane when he bought it. It was one of those little Cessna planes. I threw up. I was so embarrassed that I never wanted to get on an airplane again.”
He chuckled deeply. “I imagine he was unsettled, as well.”
“He was so nice. That just made it worse. I apologized until we landed. He got somebody to come and clean it up. To his credit, he even offered me another ride. But I wouldn’t go.”
“Were you serious about him?”
“Oh, not that way. He was in his fifties, with grown children,” she chuckled. “His wife and my mother were great friends.”
“People around here are clannish.”
“Yes. Most of us have been here for several generations. I had a teacher in grammar school who taught my grandfather and my mother.”
He looked down at her curiously as he did another series of intricate steps, drawing her along with him. The close contact was very disturbing. He loved it. He glanced at the blonde, who was steaming. He enjoyed that. He didn’t like possessive women.
Carlie followed his glance. “She’ll be out for blood soon,” she murmured.
“Which is none of your business.” He said it gently, but his tone didn’t invite comment.
She clenched her teeth and tried not to give away how hungry the contact was making her. She was astonished at how easy a partner he was. The tango was one of the hardest dances to master, she’d heard. She’d always wanted to try it, but she’d never had a date who could actually dance.
Carson could. He was light on his feet for such a big man, and very skilled. She didn’t let herself think about how many partners he must have had to be so good on the dance floor. She drew in a quick breath. She was getting winded already. It irritated her that she couldn’t run or even walk fast for long without needing to stop and catch her breath.
She’d never have admitted it to Carson. The feel of his body against hers was intoxicating. She felt his hand firm at her waist, his fingers curled around hers, as he led her around the dance floor.
She was vaguely aware that they were being watched by more people than just the angry blonde, and that the police chief and his wife had taken the dance floor with them.
Cash was a master at the tango. He and Tippy moved like one person. He danced closer to them, and winked. “You’re outclassed, kid,” he told Carson. “But not bad. Not bad at all.”
Carson laughed. “Don’t rest on your laurels. I’m practicing.”
“I noticed,” Cash said with a grin at Carlie, and he danced Tippy, who also smiled at them, to the other part of the dance floor.
Several other couples came out, trying to keep up with the two accomplished couples on the floor. Their attempts ranged from amusing to disastrous.
Carson’s chest rose and fell with deep, soft laughter. “I think square dancing has a larger following in this vicinity than the tango,” he pointed out.
“Well, not many men can dance. Even square-dance,” she added shyly.
He slowed his movements, and held her even closer, his head bent to hers so that she could feel his breath, smell its minty tang, on her mouth. “My mother danced,” he whispered. “She was like a fairy on her feet. She usually won the women’s dances at powwows.”
She looked up into liquid black eyes. “The Lakota have powwows?”
He nodded. “It’s what we call them. The first in is the drum. Several men sit around it and play, but it’s always called the drum. There are men’s dances and women’s dances. They’re very old.”
She nodded. “I went to a powwow up near San Antonio once,” she recalled. “There were Comanche people there.”
His fingers moved sensuously against hers. “I have Comanche cousins.”
“Your people are clannish, too,” she remarked.
“Very. Both sides.”
“Both sides?”
“One of my great-great-grandmothers was blonde and blue-eyed,” he said. “She married a Lakota man. He was a rather famous detective in Chicago at the turn of the twentieth century. He was at Wounded Knee. She nursed him back to health. Later, he was with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show for a time.”
She wouldn’t have mentioned it, but his skin was a light olive shade. She’d guessed that his blood was mixed.
“That must have been one interesting courtship,” she said.
He chuckled. “So I’m told.” He searched over her face. “Your father has Norwegian ancestors somewhere.”
“Yes, from someplace with a name I can’t even pronounce. I never met any of his people. He didn’t come back here until I was thirteen...” Her voice trailed away. She didn’t like thinking about that. “Mama had pictures of him, but I only saw him a few times when I was growing up. He’d stay for a day or two and go away again, and Mama would cry for weeks after.”
He scowled. “Why didn’t he stay with her?”
She stared at his shirtfront as the music began to wind down. “They argued once. I heard. He said that she trapped him into marrying her because I was on the way. I wouldn’t
speak to him after that when he came home. I never told him why. It wasn’t until she was dying that he came home. He’s...different now.”
“That’s what I’ve heard from other people who knew him. He seems to enjoy the life he has now.”
“He says he has to do a lot of good to make up for the bad things he used to do,” she replied. “He won’t talk about them. At least, he wouldn’t. Rourke had supper with us and he and Daddy talked about old times. It was fascinating.”
“Rourke?”
She smiled. “He’s really nice. He likes my cooking, too.”
His hand on her waist contracted as if he were angry. “Rourke’s more of a lobo wolf than I am. You’ll break your heart on him.”
She looked up at him with wide, shocked eyes. “What?”
He pulled her closer, bent her against his body in such a sensual way that she gasped. His head lowered until his mouth was almost touching hers as he twirled her around to the deepening throb of the music. “But better him than me, baby,” he whispered at her soft mouth. “I don’t do forever. Even a child on the way wouldn’t change that.”
She was barely hearing him. He’d called her “baby.” No man had ever called her that, and certainly not in such a sexy, hungry sort of tone. She felt herself shiver as his hand smoothed up her rib cage, stopping just under her breast on the soft fabric. And she couldn’t even protest.
She felt as if her body was going to explode from the tension he raised in it. She bit off a soft moan as she felt him drag her even closer, so that she was pressed against him from breasts to hips.
In all her life, she’d never felt a man become aroused, but he wanted her, and he couldn’t hide it. She shivered again, her heart beating so hard that she thought it might break out of her chest.
“You...shouldn’t,” she choked.
His cheek rasped against hers. “You’d be the sweetest honey I ever had,” he breathed at her ear. “I’d go so hard into you that you’d go up like a rocket.”
She moaned and hid her face, shocked, embarrassed...excited. Her nails bit into his jacket. Her body moved against his helplessly as his long leg moved in and out between hers as the dance slowly wound down.
He arched her against him as it ended, positioning her so that her head was down and leaning back, his mouth poised just over hers.
She held on for dear life. Her eyes were locked into his, imprisoned, helpless. He pulled her up with exquisite slowness, held her against him while people clapped. Neither of them noticed.
He let her go, his cheeks ruddy, as if he were angry and unsettled by what had happened. He had to recite math problems in his mind to force his body to relax before he let her go. She wouldn’t realize what was going on, but that blonde would see it immediately.
“You dance well,” he said stiffly. “All you need is practice.”
She swallowed. “Thanks. You’re...amazing.”
His eyes, narrow and wise, searched hers. “You have no idea how amazing, in the right circumstances,” he whispered huskily, his eyes falling to her mouth. “And if you’re very lucky, you won’t find out.”
She felt her heart shaking her. She knew he must be able to feel it, too. She could barely get her breath. Funny, it felt as if air could get in but couldn’t get back out. She coughed slightly.
He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Perfume,” she faltered. “It bothers me sometimes.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I don’t wear perfume.”
“Not you,” she muttered. “Other women.”
He sniffed the air and smiled. “Florals, musk, woodsy tones,” he said. His eyes smoothed over her face. “You smell of roses.”
“I love roses,” she told him.
“Do you?”
She nodded. “I grow them at home. Antique roses. My mother used to plant them.”
“My mother was an herbalist,” he replied. “She could cure anything.”
“The music has stopped,” the blonde pointed out coldly.
Carlie and Carson turned and looked at her blankly.
“And I’d like some punch, if you please?” Lanette added icily.
Carson let Carlie go. He hadn’t realized that the music had stopped, or that he and Carlie were standing so close together...alone on the dance floor.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he told Lanette. He let go of Carlie’s hand and moved toward the restrooms.
Carlie, left alone with the overperfumed blond wildcat, braced herself for what she knew to expect.
* * *
“WELL, THAT WAS an exhibition if I ever saw one!” Her pale blue eyes were like ice. “Don’t you get any ideas about Carson, you little hick secretary. He’s mine. Hands off. Do you understand me?”
Carlie just stared at her with equally cold green eyes. She was still shaking inside from Carson’s sensual dance and the things he’d said to her. But she wasn’t going to let the other woman cow her. “That’s his choice.”
“Well, he’s not choosing you. I’m not kidding,” the other woman persisted. She smiled coldly. “You think you’re something, don’t you?” She looked Carlie up and down. “Did your dress come from some bargain basement up in San Antonio?” she asked sarcastically. “Marked down 75 percent, perhaps?” she added and laughed when Carlie blushed. “And those shoes. My God, they must be ten years old! I’m surprised he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen dancing with you in that dress...!”
“Got yours at a consignment sale, darling?” came a soft, purring voice from beside Carlie.
Tippy Grier moved closer, cradling a cup of punch in her hands. She looked elegant in her green silk gown, dripping diamonds and emeralds. She smiled at the blonde. “That particular dress was in a collection of only five gowns. I recognize it because I know the designer,” she added, watching the blonde’s eyes widen. “It isn’t to my taste,” she added, “because I don’t sell myself.”
“How dare you...I was on the runway!” Lanette almost spat at her, reddening.
“Honey, the only runway you’ve been on is at the airport,” Tippy drawled. She looked down. “Those shoes are two seasons out of date, too, but I suppose you thought nobody would notice.” She pursed her bow lips in a mock pout. “Shame.”
Lanette’s hands were clenched at her sides.
“Run along now, kitty cat,” Tippy dismissed her. “Your saucer of cream’s waiting outside the door.” She smiled. “Do have a lovely evening.”
Lanette was almost sputtering. She turned and went storming off toward Carson, who was just returning. She ran into his arms, making a big production of crying, wiping at her eyes, and gesturing toward Tippy and Carlie. The look Carson gave Carlie was livid before he took Lanette’s arm and walked her toward the front door.
* * *
“WOW,” CARLIE SAID to Tippy. She shook her head. “You’re just incredible! I didn’t even have a comeback.”
Tippy laughed. It sounded like silver bells. Her reddish-gold hair burned like fire in the lights from overhead. Her green eyes, lighter than Carlie’s, twinkled. “I’ve seen her kind in modeling. They think they’re so superior.” Her smile was mischievous. “When I was new to the runway, there was this terrible woman from upstate New York who made fun of everything from my big feet to my accent. I cried a lot. Then I got tough.” She pursed her lips. “You know, if you time it just right, you can trip someone on the runway and make it look like a terrible accident!”
“You wicked woman,” Carlie gasped, laughing.
“She really did have it coming.” She shook her head. “I almost felt sorry for her. She lost her contract with the designer. She didn’t work for six months. When she finally got another job, she was a different person.” Her green eyes glittered. “I hate people like that woman. I know what it is to be poor.”
“Thanks,” Carlie said. “I couldn’t think of a thing to say. It is a sale dress, and my shoes are really old.”
“Carlie, you look lovely,” Tippy told her solemnly. “It doesn’t matter how much the dress cost if it flatters you. And it does.” She smiled. “I hope she tells Carson what I said to her.”
“If she does, he might have something to say to you.”
Tippy laughed again. “He can take it up with my husband,” she replied, and raised her cup of punch to her lips.
* * *
“HOW WAS THE DANCE?” Reverend Blair asked when Carlie came in the front door.
“It was very nice,” she said.
He moved closer, his eyes probing. “What happened?”
She drew in a breath. “Carson danced with me and his girlfriend got really angry. She said some really unpleasant things to me.”
His pale blue eyes took on a glitter. “Perhaps I should speak to her.”
She smiled. “Tippy Grier spoke to her.”
“Say no more. I’ve heard about Mrs. Grier’s temper.”
“She was eloquent,” Carlie said. She shook her head. “And she never said a single bad word the whole time.”
“Good for her. You don’t have to use bad words to express yourself. Well, unless you’re trying to start a lawnmower,” he amended.
She pursed her lips. “Daddy, you think ‘horsefeathers’ is a bad word.”
He frowned. “It is!”
She laughed. “Well, I did enjoy the dancing. Rourke is really light on his feet.”
“Yes.” He gave her a concerned look.
She waved a hand at him. “No way I’d take on that South African wildcat,” she said. “I have a good head on my shoulders.”
He seemed relieved.
“I’m going on up. You sleep well, Daddy.”
“You, too, pumpkin,” he replied with a smile.
* * *
SHE WAS HALF-ASLEEP when her cell phone rang. She picked it up and punched the button. “Hello?” she asked drowsily.
There was a pause. “It will come when you least expect it,” came an odd-sounding masculine voice. “And your father won’t walk away.” The connection was broken.