Carol O'Connell - Bone by Bone

"That's better." Evelyn sat down and leaned toward Oren. "The next dance will be a tango. Are you up for that?"

Henry Hobbs rested one hand on his son's shoulder. "We're not tango people."

"Speak for yourself," said Evelyn. "I taught him that dance when he was sixteen." Turning back to Oren, she said, "If you could do it naked, I guess you can manage well enough with your clothes on."

The judge spilled his wine and used a napkin to dab at the puddle. "Evelyn, you must find the statute of limitations very liberating."

Rising from the table, Oren held out one hand to her. "Would you like to dance?"

"No," said Evelyn, though she was clearly pleased by the request. "I think it's high time you settled accounts with the Winston girl. And here's the best part. You won't even have to say hello."

Oren crossed the floor, his eyes on Isabelle Winston, and he was not worried that she might turn him down. He had no plans to ask for this dance. That was not in keeping with the spirit of the tango, a dance of love and war. He grabbed her roughly by the wrist and joined her to his hip, then pushed her away.

And she came back.

They owned the floor.

The music was louder, more passionate. Faster, then slower, the notes almost shy and then- vavoom. The music wrapped around them and stroked them up and down. They moved apart. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back again.

So close.

He smelled the wine on her breath, and then, with a turn of the head, the flower scent of her hair, and now her sweat and his. Lips close, almost a kiss, but no. She backed away, a tease with no remorse. He would make her pay for that.

They set out to destroy each other in every move they made. She lifted her face to his, he looked away She returned the insult. He flung her across the floor, and Isabelle came crawling back to climb his body. Oren pressed down on her shoulders, and she sank to her knees. Rising to a swaying stand, she moved in close. Her leg rode upon his hip for an embrace.

And so they danced with perfect understanding, anger and contempt, sex and longing. Her nails dug into his neck. He left impressions of his fingers on her bare shoulders.

Apart, together-heat, incredible heat. And always the rhythm kept time with two hearts pounding. Bone against bone, grind and sway, down and down, lower still, he laid her on the floor and then pulled her up by one hand, not caring if he tore her arm off.

The Latin tempo was climbing the walls and thrumming in the floorboards.

Forced down to her knees again, she clawed her way up his legs, and he allowed it. Long fingernails raked his breast, buttons went flying, and a small spot of blood appeared on his white shirt. All around the room, breath was sucked in and moans expelled. The two dancers tangoed on. The music reached a crescendo as Isabelle slapped his face-and he loved it.

The song ended like sudden death.

The dancers turned their backs on one another. Oren walked toward the terrace, and Isabelle walked toward the caterer's bar. Applause rose up like thunder.

"Well, that was different," said the judge, raising his voice to be heard above the clapping hands, the stomps and whistles. "I don't think I've ever seen blood drawn on a dance floor."

Hannah looked upon the bloodletting as progress in a somewhat stalled relationship. "I bet those two get married."

The judge doubted this, offering recent evidence that Isabelle would rather kill Oren than wed him. And Evelyn Straub ventured that Isabelle could do both. "I don't see a conflict."

"Ma'am?" One of the caterer's people stood by the table, looking down at a saucer that had been used as an ashtray.

When asked to put out her cigarette, the grande dame of hoteliers looked up at the waitress, a young girl who could be easily killed with a word or two. Yet Evelyn did nothing to harm her. Instead, she took her smoking cigarette outside in search of some small dog that she might kick.

Approaching her golden years, she found pleasure in small things.

The couple on the terrace stood close together, sheltered by the low-hanging branch of a tree and the privacy of darkness. They never noticed Isabelle Winston in the open doorway. She held two wineglasses, one of them a peace offering for Oren Hobbs, but he had found other company.

Eleven years old again, shy again, dying of it, Isabelle left them a gift of two champagne flutes abandoned on the terrace wall.

Oren bowed to his companion and gently took the lady's hand to lead her out of the shadows. He pulled her to him, and they moved to the strains of slow music wafting out from the ballroom. The dancing partners closed their eyes. Oren Hobbs held a slender woman with long brown hair the color of lions, and Evelyn Straub danced with the boy from the moon.

Sally Polk was never far behind the sheriff as he made his way through the crowd, shaking hands and flashing his politician's smile. He had yet to notice her, but she was a patient woman.

Ah, now Cable Babitt was turning her way. He saw her, and the effect was electric-a bit like a cattle prod to the private parts.

Apparently, her new party frock made quite an impression on him, though it was nothing stylish, just something grabbed off a rack in haste, and chosen only for its color. Maybe her bright green dress reminded him of some errand left undone, for now he was moving toward the door. She walked after him, taking her own sweet time, yet relentless in the click of high heels dogging him.

Can you hear me coming, Cable?

A suitcase lay open on the bed, and two more stood by the door. Isabelle slammed a bureau drawer and opened another. "This is because of him, isn't it?" Her hands balled into fists as she turned to her mother. "It always ends like this!"

The hired car would be here any moment-so little time left. Sarah Winston stood by the window, dividing attention between her child and the driveway below. "Belle, you can't stay here and watch over me every minute. I want you to have a life of your own."

Isabelle held a blouse in her hands, absently twisting it into a rope. She dropped it into the open suitcase. Eyes full of tears-finally-for these tantrums always ended with tears, she crossed the room, reaching out to her mother.

Sarah opened her arms to an embrace and kissed her daughter's hair. Turning her eyes to the window, she saw the approaching headlights of the limousine. "The car is here. I'll tell the driver you're almost ready. You'll be back in London soon."

Isabelle would not release her hold. "Don't make me leave. Please, Mom. I won't fight with him anymore. I'll be good."

Sarah held her daughter tightly. So little time-this moment only. Better to be stabbed with a knife, better that than to hear this old refrain from the first time she had sent Isabelle away-and the second time-and the tenth. Both mother and child knew all the words to this ritual parting and how it must end.

"I love you," said Sarah. "It's time for you to go."

The caterer's staff had been sent away and told to return in the morning. The lodge was still dressed in its gala finery. The debris of a thousand guests, their glassware and dishes and even their rented chairs, remained. Only the ice sculptures had been removed, taken outside to melt on the grass.

Addison Winston stood before a glass wall in the tower room. No need for a telescope tonight. He watched the headlights turn into the driveway down on Paulson Lane. The twin beams vanished under the boughs of trees and reappeared at William Swahn's front door. Time was allowed for the man to limp into his house, more time for a slow elevator ride upstairs to the study. There a lamp was switched on in keeping with habits of the past few nights. Addison counted off the usual ten seconds, long enough for Swahn to fetch a pair of binoculars from a desk drawer. And now that distant light was extinguished. Sarah's devoted sentry preferred to keep watch on the tower from a darkened room.