“Wouldn’t you?”
“The great Anita Goodman, out for vengeance. Now that is a superhero movie I would watch.” Why had he gone to New York again? He had not bantered with anyone like this in months. Sometimes, late in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t stop thinking about the smell of her shampoo, he wished that he hadn’t left working with her at the studio. Last year, finally realizing it was just too painful to spend all day working with her but not, frankly, all night, he had stopped teaching lessons and shifted more to writing. The lonely hours in front of the computer felt like penance of some sort. Or maybe purgatory.
Maybe this was his ticket out of purgatory? A chance to move things in a different direction?
“We don’t have time for this. We need to start practicing,” she replied primly.
So, no chance of a new direction, then.
Anita walked to the sound system and turned off the ’80s power rock. “What do you think? Quickstep first?”
Interesting option, but he was in the mood for something more classic, maybe a bit overly dramatic.
“Nah, let’s waltz.” He did some arm and leg circles to warm up while she thumbed through the songs on her playlist.
The opening strains of Lifehouse’s “You and Me” emanated from the speakers as she took her position across from him. “Iapprove the choice.” He grinned as he bowed to open the dance. She curtsied pertly, then they stepped together, opposite hands raised toward each other.
Something was different. It wasn’t the frame, the placement of his right hand on her back and their other hands entwined. It wasn’t the electric thrill in his body that noticed every move she made, the way they seemed perfectly in tune. He had always felt that way when they had danced together.
No. Now it seemed almost as if she finally noticed it too and was subconsciously trying to ignore it.
Intriguing. Definitely intriguing.
He led her through a series of different waltz elements, turns, whisks, establishing the rise and fall of the dance. Through the connection of their bodies, he felt her relax into the music, into their rhythm. It was almost better than sex.
Almost.
He sang softly under his breath as they swayed around the floor, closing his eyes in an overly dramatic, and hopefully romantic, way.
“Are you seriously singing right now?” She giggled—giggled!—and he tucked her into a complicated figure, loving how she followed wherever he led. “You are not taking this seriously.”
“I always take you seriously. Hey, keep your frame.”
Her gaze flicked toward his. Was that surprise, pleasure? Whatever it was tilted her mouth and lifted the corners of her eyes in this incredibly sexy way that made him want—
Things he could not have.
The music crescendoed. Might as well have a bit of fun.
He turned her into and out of a series of turns, then into a Viennese spin. “Arabesque,” he whispered. As commanded, she lifted her right leg in an arabesque, and then he put his hands on her waist and lifted her into the air. He twirled her for an eight count, his gaze riveted to her, stretched out over him likea willow tree. His hands burned where they touched her waist. If only he could transfer his strength to her, but he knew better. She did not need his strength.
The music slowed to a close, and he gently lowered her back to the floor, his hands sliding along the sides of her body, trying to make the few beats last as long as possible.
He breathed heavily, deeply, his heartbeat racing faster than was probably wise.
This woman would kill him one day. He would probably let her.
His gaze met hers. Had he remembered to temper the fire within him? Her eyes widened. Was that a flicker of desire? A momentary tightening of her hand against his?
Finally, finally, maybe he could just incline his head a little—
And she pushed him away, standing up and moving back to the sound system all at once. She took a long, long drink of water from her travel mug. “Well,” she said at last. “Your Standard isn’t bad. Let’s try jive.”
He bounced up and down on his toes. A dance they could do almost entirely in shadow position. Maybe she had finally felt that kick in the heart, too.
Chapter Three
Anita politely dismissed her last student of the night around nine-thirty. Fourteen hours of dancing and her feet were going to fall off right here, right now. She just needed to finish locking up, and then she could sink her toes into a warm bath filled with peppermint-scented salts. God, yes.
