Maureen Child - The Last Santini Virgin

“That’s all for tonight, everyone,” the teacher said.

He ignored the shaft of disappointment that sliced through him. Two hours passed mighty damn quickly in this place.

“But I want you all to think about something,” she went on. “The Bayside Amateur Dance Competition is next month, and we’ve been invited to enter three couples from our class.”

A ripple of conversation rose up and then faded as Mrs. Stanton continued. “Next week I’ll be selecting the three couples who will represent my little dance school, so do your very best, and good luck to you all.”

He caught the excited gleam in Gina’s eyes.

A competition?

In public? Oh, he didn’t think so.

Once class ended, Nick walked outside, barely listening to Gina’s stream of chatter. He kept envisioning himself dancing in public. And those mental pictures were enough to give him chills.

Hell, the whole reason he was taking these classes was because of what had happened the last time he’d danced in public. It was at last year’s Marine Corps Ball. In front of everyone. In a flash he remembered it all.

A crowded room, hundreds of people and him, dancing with a major’s wife. Or rather, trying to dance. She’d cajoled him into it, and he’d reluctantly given in. But as the dance had gone on, he’d almost relaxed…until the moment he’d spun her. Somehow she’d slipped free, and he’d watched, helplessly, as she’d sailed directly into the punch bowl.

Nick swallowed a groan at the memory and quickly pushed the rest of it aside. He really didn’t want to remember the crash of the punch bowl, the splash of liquid, the major’s wife’s screech or the image of the poor woman sitting on the dance floor drenched in ruby-red punch.

Instead he clearly recalled the meeting he’d had a week later with the major.

“You cost me about $250, Gunny,” the officer had said. “It seems even a talented dry cleaner can’t get red punch out of ivory silk.”

Standing at ease, but certainly not feeling it, Nick offered, “I’d be happy to pay to replace the dress, sir.”

“Not necessary,” the Major told him as he stood up from behind his desk and walked around to stop just inches from him. “But I suggest you make sure this never happens again.”

“It won’t, sir,” Nick assured him. “I’ll avoid the dance floor at all costs.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Sir?”

The Major perched on the edge of his desk, crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “You know as well as I do that ‘attendance is expected, and body movement at these things will be noticed.’”

Nick winced internally. The Corps couldn’t order a man to show up and dance, but they managed to get the point across, anyway.

“So before you toss some other poor woman into a punch bowl, I suggest, Gunnery Sergeant,” the man said in a low growl, “that you learn what to do on a dance floor.”

Panic, clean and sharp, whistled through him as he realized what the officer was telling him to do. “You can’t be serious, sir. Dance lessons?”

The other man stared at him for a long minute before asking, “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Nick groaned tightly at the memory before tucking it into a dark corner of his mind. Hell. He had to be the first Marine in history to have been ordered into a dance class. Well, technically not “ordered.” He’d been “suggested” into it. He would much rather the Major had sentenced him to a few thirty-mile hikes. Or had him transferred to Greenland.

But, no. That would have been too easy a punishment.

Instead Nick was stuck practicing to be a second-rate Fred Astaire. And, oh, man, what his friends would say if they knew what he was up to. For weeks after the punch bowl incident, he’d put up with the teasing, the jokes, the near-constant barrage of abuse from his friends. Hell, if they ever found out that he was actually taking ballroom dance lessons, they’d never let him forget it. As for dancing in a contest? He’d probably have to resign from the Corps just to get some peace.

Nope. What he had to do was survive this stupid class then get back to being a full-time Marine.

Of course, when the classes were over, he wouldn’t be seeing Gina again. Surprising really, how much that realization bothered him.

A cold, damp breeze slinked in off the ocean and swept the rest of old memories and troubling thoughts from his mind. He returned his attention just in time to the short woman walking—or rather, running along beside him.

“Are you listening to me?” she asked, and judging from the exasperation in her tone, it wasn’t for the first time.

Nick stopped, looked down at her and shook his head. “If you’re still talking about that competition, no.”

She threw her hands wide and let them fall to her sides again. “Why not?”

That mouth of hers looked good even in a frown. Oh, no, he wasn’t going there. Leaving his hormones out of the equation, Gina Santini was not going to get to him. “A better question, princess, is why are you so hot to enter a contest with me when all you can do is complain about how badly I dance?”

The wind tossed her dark-brown curls around her face, and Gina reached up with one hand to push them back from her eyes. “You’re really not totally bad.”

Heartwarming. “Gee,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his words, “thanks.”

She pulled in a deep breath, which distracted him momentarily by drawing his gaze to the curve of her breasts, then she sighed dramatically. “It’s a contest,” she said as if that was enough to explain everything. “Don’t you want to win?”

That gleam in her eyes was back again, and a part of Nick admired her. He liked a good competition, too. He just preferred entering contests that he had some small chance of winning.

“We’re not good enough,” he said flatly, and started for his car again, hoping she’d drop the subject.

He should have known better.

Right behind him, he heard the heels of her shoes tapping against the asphalt as she trotted to keep up with his long-legged stride.

“We could be,” she said, “good enough, I mean.”

Nick laughed shortly.

“All we’d need is extra practice.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “for a year or two.”

“For Pete’s sake, General,” Gina said, and stepped in front of him, bringing him to a quick stop. “Do all Marines give up as easily as you?”

A quick flash of irritation swelled up inside him.

“Marines do not give up, princess,” he said, and loomed over her, which wasn’t hard since she was so darn short. “We simply choose our battles.”

“Uh-huh. Apparently only the ones you’re sure of winning.”

“Look,” he said, and threw his car a longing glance before looking at Gina again. Obviously, he wasn’t going to get out of here without yet another argument. And to think that only a moment ago he’d been bothered by the thought of never seeing her again. God. What had he done in his life to deserve this irritating, too-damned-attractive woman? Answer: he’d thrown a major’s wife into a punch bowl. “You said yourself all we do is argue. Do you really want to spend more time together?”

She folded her arms under her breasts and he absolutely refused to look. It wasn’t easy, but he kept his gaze locked with hers. One of her finely arched eyebrows went just a bit higher. “We wouldn’t argue so much if you weren’t so stubborn.”

“Hah! I’m stubborn?”

She gave him a look that would have fried a lesser man’s soul. Then, clearly disgusted, she asked, “Why am I even talking to you?”

“You got me, princess.”

“Will you stop calling me princess?”