Diana Whitney - One Man's Promise

He was aware of her subtle movement, noticed when she touched the child’s shoulder, murmured something that sent the girl scampering happily away. He knew he should do something, say something, but was rooted in place, helpless as an insect pinned to a corkboard.

She studied him a moment longer, then draped the towel around her neck, glided toward him so gracefully he wondered if her feet actually touched the floor. The leotard left nothing to the imagination, revealing a swell of round breasts, a sleek torso with hips that rolled smoothly as she moved, legs long and strong enough to wrap a man’s body and lift him straight to heaven.

A smile touched her lips, lush lips, devoid of artificial color yet naturally pink, pearlescent, enticingly moist. The lips moved. “Mr. Matthews, what a pleasant surprise.”

Richard wanted to respond. He really did. His brain told his mouth to speak, commanded it to do so, but there must have been some kind of short circuit, because to his horror he felt his head jerk in a cruel caricature of a nod.

She cocked her head, regarded him with a mixture of amusement and anxiety. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes.” The word slid out on a breath, the poignant sigh of a lovestruck adolescent. He coughed, cleared his throat and yanked his gaze away, concentrating on the pandemonium of scampering youngsters until he felt the peculiar numbness seep from his mind. “This is not what I expected.”

She studied him a moment more, then followed his gaze. “It’s a little crazier than usual. Things get wild the week before a recital.”

He chose not to correct her errant assumption that he’d been referring to the dance class rather than his unanticipated physiological response. “I’m surprised at the, er, variety of participants.”

“We try to integrate special needs children in our regular dance classes. Shelly—” she nodded toward the laughing child in the wheelchair “—was born with a spinal defect. She can’t walk, but as you may have noticed, she’s an excellent dancer.”

“She did seem to be enjoying herself.”

“But—?”

He chanced a look, recognized the question in her eyes. “I’ll admit I was surprised to see how well the other children accepted her.”

“Unless taught otherwise, children are naturally accepting of people’s differences. Besides, many of our students have limitations of one kind or another, although they might not be as noticeable as Shelly’s. Donna, for example—” she nodded toward a tall girl wearing a colorful paisley scarf “—is undergoing chemotherapy. The treatment saps her strength, so we’ve choreographed a part for her that requires minimal stamina and endurance. That way she can continue to participate with her friends, and isn’t made to feel different.”

“But she is different,” Richard noted, stunned that the girl’s parents would allow such strenuous activity. “She’s a very sick child.”

“Yes, she is.” C.J. grasped the towel hem with both hands, shifted her stance to angle a sideways glance at Richard. “Even sick children need to belong. They need friends, and fun, and the joy of accomplishment.”

“They need care and treatment.” The response was more forceful than intended, although C.J. neither flinched nor disputed it.

“I require a medical release from all my students,” she said. “If a child has special needs, I consult with his or her physician on a lesson plan that is within medical guidelines.” Snapping the draped towel, she suddenly spun to face him with a gaze so acute he squirmed at its intensity. “But I suspect you didn’t drive all the way across town to discuss dance lessons.”

“Ah, no.”

Her eyes widened. “Is Rags all right? Oh, God, the skateboard. There’s been an accident, hasn’t there? Is it bad?” She flung the towel away, dashed to a coatrack in the foyer. “Where is he, what vet hospital do you use—?”

“There hasn’t been an accident.” Richard caught up with her at the front door, grasped her elbow as she was struggling into her jacket. “Rags is fine.”

Her arms fell limp, her eyes filled with relieved moisture. “He’s not hurt?”

“No.”

She touched her face, closed her eyes. “Thank God.” A shuddering sigh, a moment to compose herself, then she squared her shoulders, cast him a curious glance. “Then why are you here?”

“Well, it does have to do with Rags, I’m afraid. Is there somewhere we could talk?”

Behind the closed doors of the tiny, cluttered office that had once been a janitorial closet, CJ. rested a hip on the edge of her wobbly desk, and frowned. “Let me get this straight, you’re offering me joint custody of Rags?”

“Not exactly.” Richard jerked as the folding chair shifted, then leaned forward, planting his hands on his knees as if preparing to leap should the unsteady seating device suddenly collapse. “More precisely, I’m suggesting a visitation arrangement, specific schedules whereby you and Rags could, er, spend time together.”

“And you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

He appeared stung by the inference. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not utterly devoid of feelings. Clearly, you’re fond of the animal and he, likewise, is fond of you.” His gaze darted, and the subtle slide of presumably damp palms over his slacks did not escape notice. “A change in ownership is traumatic for any pet. I thought regular visits might lessen his anxiety.”

C.J. nodded. “Rags has stopped eating, hasn’t he?”

Richard deflated before her eyes. “Yes.”

“How long?”

“Four days.”

She sucked a shocked breath, let the air out with a hiss. “Four days? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.” His gaze narrowed. “Has he done this sort of thing before?”

She nodded absently, chewed her lip. “It’s his way of pouting.”

“You could have warned me.”

Flinching at the reproach, C.J. offered a limp shrug. “It didn’t occur to me. I mean, he’d already been with you for weeks and there hadn’t been a problem.” She raked her hair, wished the office was large enough for her to pace. “When can I see him?”

Richard stood, smoothed the suit coat that made him look considerably more dapper than the saggy jogging suit he’d worn over the weekend. She had to admit he’d cleaned up nicely. Very nicely.

He offered a brusque nod. “You can see him whenever it’s convenient.”

“My last class ends at six. I could be at your place by half-past.” When another curt nod indicated the timing was acceptable, C.J. broached a more sensitive subject. “What does Lissa think of this arrangement?”

With a pained shrug, he shifted to avoid her gaze. “Lissa loves Rags. She will do what is best for him.”

As he reached for the doorknob, C.J. touched his wrist. Her fingertips brushed bare skin, tingled at a tickle of soft hair. “Thank you,” she whispered.

His eyes darkened, black pupils expanding inside a ring of soft heather sage. For a long moment he said nothing, simply stared with an intensity that left her breathless. Then he blinked, nodded, opened the door and was gone.

C.J. stood there, vaguely aware that her knees were trembling. She touched her mouth, transferred the tingling from her fingertips to her lips. In a sense, it was their very first kiss. It would not, she decided, be their last.

Woman-and-dog reunion part deux was every bit as exuberant and joyful as the first had been. Rags shot out the front door barking madly, leapt into C.J.’s arms and covered her face with familiar wet kisses. C.J. laughed and sputtered, hugged his wriggling body so tightly it was a wonder the poor animal’s eyes didn’t bulge.