Laura Altom - Dancing with Dalton

“Want to join us?” she asked, suddenly by his side. “Anna’s on a temporary school reprieve for the dentist, but I thought since we were right here, I’d also grab her shoes before getting her back.”

“Join you for what?” he asked, mesmerized by the way her hair reflected the midday sun streaming through the windows.

What the hell was wrong with him? Here he was supposed to be heading back to work, yet all he really wanted to do was finger those inky strands. Could they be anywhere near as soft as they looked?

“There you go again,” she teased, “looking as if you’d rather be anywhere but here.”

“No,” he said. “You’ve got me all wrong. I’ve always adored shoe shopping.”

“Liar,” she said with a soft elbow to his ribs. “Join us for a quick sandwich at the deli?”

Yes. “Sounds great, but I’m due back at the office. The only reason I’m here is that according to my fellow pageant-committee members, my shoe fitting had to be done ASAP.”

“I get that, but can’t your office spare you for lunch?”

“Ordinarily they could, but seeing how it’s a lunch meeting I’m supposed to be at, they might frown on me switching to your team.”

“We’ll be more fun,” she said, hugging her daughter close.

“I don’t doubt that. Rain check?”

“Absolutely.”

“Come on, Mommy,” Anna said, tugging Rose’s hand. “Me and Barbie are hungry.”

“Sounds like you’d better get going,” Dalton said with a faint smile.

“She’s not the only one,” Mona said, butting in to his last few moments of fun. “Now, quit flirting and get on over here to try on some shoes.”

Dalton groaned.

Rose grinned.

“IN CLOSING,” Dalton said a week later in the bank’s suffocating, windowless boardroom, “it’s my recommendation that the bank dispose of all TWG assets in favor of taking a temporary shelter in bonds until such time as the market’s volatility subsides. Questions?”

“Excellent report,” Alice Craigmoore, the bank’s VP in charge of finance, said before clearing her throat.

“I concur.” The bank’s chief loan officer, Bud Weathers, eased back in his chair. “Now, seeing how that was the last item on the agenda, who’s up for Chinese?”

“Sounds good,” Dalton said, straightening his files.

His father sighed. “I’ve been ordered to steer clear of the fried stuff, but I suppose they have something on the menu that’s steamed.”

Alice again cleared her throat. “I, um, do have one more question.”

“Shoot,” Dalton said.

“Mona tells me you’re sweet on your tango teacher. Care to substantiate?”

Dalton closed his eyes and counted to ten.

“Son,” his father interjected, “your mother told me you were seeing the Browning girl.”

He cocked one eye open. “Occasionally,” Dalton admitted, “but it’s nowhere near as serious as Mom would like.”

“There’s no law that says a guy can’t be hot for his teacher. Especially if she’s your hot dance teacher,” Bud confided, and winked. Dalton fought the urge to smack the suggestive look right off his face. He couldn’t say why, but he felt protective toward Rose. She’d been through a seriously rough patch. Sure, she was sexy, but she was also fragile. She deserved to be treated with infinite care.

“Thank you all for your comments,” Dalton said, tone brusque, “but could we please get on with lunch?”

“What’s your hurry?” Bud asked with a snort. “Got an after-lunch dance lesson?”

“No, no, no, Dalton!” Rose cried above the pulsing Latin beat. “I said to arch toward the door, not away from it.”

“What the hell do you think I am? Made of rubber?” The minute Dalton had said the words, he regretted them. He’d never been prone to shoot his mouth off in the heat of anger, but then, this was the first time he’d felt an emotion other than boredom or resignation since his last lesson.

Rose marched to the stereo to turn off the music. Then she returned, heels punching the wood floor in the sudden silence, to stop six inches in front of him, hands on her hips. “First of all, the rock step is the mere tip of the iceberg in terms of technicalities. Second…” Frosty expression thawing, she grinned. “How can I stay mad at you when you give me that look?”

“What look?”

“That one, right there,” she said, pointing to his grinning mouth. “The one where you look like an incorrigible child.”

“Yeah, but a good-looking one, right?” His grin broadened into a full-blown smile.

She rolled her eyes.

“What?”

“What am I going to do with you? You’re a dancing disaster.”

“At our last lesson, you told me I’d improved.”

“Yes, well—” turning her back to him, she aimed for the door “—I take it back. You are quite possibly the worst dancer I have ever encountered.”

“Then where are you going? Obviously, I need more instruction.”

“I’m going upstairs to make a salad to go along with the enchilada casserole already in the oven.”

“What about me? I mean, I paid for an hour lesson.”

“I’ll give you a refund.”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

“Oh?” With Dalton in the hall, she flicked off the studio’s lights.

“How about inviting me for dinner?”

“What?”

“You know—food, drink, conversation. Well, we don’t have to converse, but I am awfully hungry, which might explain my lack of concentration.”

“I don’t know…” She glanced toward the loft stairs.

“Rose. It’s food. What’s not to know? It’s not like I’m asking you on a date.” Although that’s exactly what I’d like to be doing.

“I know, but what’s Anna going to think?”

“Hmm…That you invited a friend for dinner?” He shot her another grin.

“There you go again, giving me that goofy look. How am I supposed to say no?”

“You’re not. At least, that’s the plan.”

“Oh, all right,” she said. “But behave. And Anna and I will expect help with the dishes.”

“You shall have it,” he teased her with a formal bow.

She returned the favor with a not-so-formal swat.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Dalton found himself seated in a kid-size chair at a kid-size table. In front of him was a blob of Play-Doh that he was guessing used to be three different shades—red, green and blue—but was now a purplish-gray.

“Mr. Dalton?” Rose’s wide-eyed daughter asked, hogging all the still-pure-yellow clay.

“Yes?”

“What’re you making? ’Cause there’s kids at my school who do way better than you—even Tommy Butler, and he eats his boogers.”

“Hey, Rose,” Dalton called across the loft to the kitchen where she hummed while making salad. Although he’d offered to help, she’d refused on the grounds that not only did she not want him messing up her kitchen, but it might be helpful to his dancing if he connected with his inner child. Right. The kid in him said he needed better Play-Doh colors. “Are you hearing this abuse?”

“What I’m hearing is a lot of whining. Come on, Dalton, play nice, or I’ll have to sit you in time-out.”

Anna whispered, “She means it, Mr. Dalton. You’d better be good, or you’ll miss Mommy’s cheesy supper. It’s the best.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll play nice, but you’ll have to show me what to make.”

“A horse,” she said. “I like My Little Pony. Tommy Butler says they’re too girlie, but I think he’s gross. And anyway, he eats his—”

“I know—” Dalton said, molding his lump of clay “—boogers.”

“How’d you know?”

With his right index finger, he tapped his temple. “Superhuman mind-reading skills.”