Daddy’s Deli, okay?” he asked. “I could really go for a turkey on rye.”
“Perfect,” she said, shifting her thick black ponytail from the nape of her neck, exposing tantalizing, sweat-moistened curves. “Only I’m thinking I’ll probably have a pastrami and Swiss.”
“Yeah. Um, sure. Sounds delicious. Lead the way.”
After a flashed smile, she took off.
Too bad for him, facing her backside hardly worsened the view. The sight of her perfectly rounded derriere encased in denim short shorts almost did him in. Worse yet, as if her cutoffs weren’t sexy enough, her top was scant, too. Scant enough that her every step caused it to ride up, exposing a strip of tanned, firm back that he could only imagine—
No. This had to stop. He was with this woman for one reason. To learn a simple dance. Simple, simple, simple.
After Carly, he no longer associated with artsy women.
“Oh,” she said, lyrically spinning, walking backward as she talked. “I’ve got to have raspberry tea, too. Big Daddy’s makes the best in town. Perfect on a hot day or night.”
Hot? Did someone say hot? Picturing his instructor running a frosted glass across her glowing collarbone scorched him. And no way was tea going to be enough to cool him down.
“You okay?” she asked. “You look—” she cocked her head, causing that ponytail of hers to tumble in a glorious wave across her left shoulder “—kind of flushed.”
“I’m fine,” he said, quickening the pace. “Just a little out of shape.” Right. He worked out five days a week. He’d never been in better shape. Problem was, he’d also never been in better-shaped company.
Business. Think business.
No other topic held the power to so quickly bring him down.
“Mr. Montgomery?” Rose abruptly stopped. Pirouetted to face him.
As deep in thought as he was, Dalton crashed into her. Only this wasn’t the kind of collision one called the police about. More like paramedics. Sounded corny, but from the moment his body bumped into hers, he needed CPR.
Her breasts…Sweet warmth mounded against his chest. Her smell…Musky, mysterious, exotic. Damp tropical earth after an afternoon rain. Had there ever been a woman more worthy of poetic verses?
The fact that he’d even thought such a thing had him breathing unsteadily. He wasn’t supposed to like poetry. How many times during his formative years had his father told him poetry—any art, for that matter—was for wimps not future executives?
“Sorry,” he said, lurching back.
“That’s okay. It was my fault for stopping. You just had this determined stride, like you were going to keep walking.”
“Right. So, see? The crash was my fault for not keeping my eyes on the road.” Instead of your behind.
“Hey,” she said, holding open the restaurant’s door, “don’t sweat it. Once we get started on our lessons, we’ll get a lot closer than that.”
Dalton gulped.
Thank the good Lord for the air-conditioned breeze streaming from the restaurant. The rich smell of mingled cold cuts and cheeses further revived him.
His companion asked, “How’s that table?”
He glanced in the direction she’d pointed.
An intimate table for two. The windowed alcove would’ve been ideal if this were a date, but since it wasn’t, and he didn’t want to risk another medical emergency, he stammered, “I’m, a…touch claustrophobic. How about that one?” He gestured toward a well-lit booth large enough to seat eight and sandwiched between a rowdy family of five and the beeping cash register.
After they sat across from each other, a waitress stopped by and they both ordered raspberry tea.
Once the pretty teen had returned with their drinks, then left them to study menus, Ms. Vasquez said, “I never can decide whether to get the pastrami and Swiss or try something new. It’s a toss-up, you know. One way’s safe, comfortable. The other’s a risk. Calculated, but a risk all the same.”
Dalton took a hasty sip of tea. Could the woman read minds? Only he hadn’t been pondering his food selection, but his life choices. What was it about the woman that’d made him itchy? Discontent?
“I’ll have the pastrami,” she said. “I just can’t help it. It’s so good.” She slid her menu to the end of the table. “How about you? Made a decision?”
“My usual turkey on rye.” I’m not in the mood for experimentation. Though the night had started out on the fun side—kind of a wild departure from his usual staid evenings of Seinfeld reruns and frozen dinners—Rose’s offhand comment about risk taking had reminded him that after being badly burned nearly a decade ago, he’d taken few chances in his own life.
So what? Did that make him less a man for choosing the path of least resistance? Because from where he was sitting, that’s how he suddenly felt. He sighed.
After ordering, Rose asked, “Everything all right?”
“Sure,” he said. Peachy. At least it would be once this dance thing was over.
“You seem tense. Did I say something to offend you?”
“No. Just a rough day at work dogging me.”
“Want to talk about it? I mean, not to be nosy, but our dancing will go easier if we’re at least friends.”
Considering how a few minutes earlier he’d wanted to take their acquaintance beyond friendship, Dalton had a tough time meeting her gaze. The woman was only trying to be professionally courteous, yet from the moment they’d met, his thoughts had been anything but professional. “You know how I mentioned I work at the bank?”
“Mmm…Fun.” The sparkle in her eyes told him she was teasing.
He flashed her a wry grin. “It can be. When the money’s flowing…”
“Why do I get the impression there’s a but on the end of that statement?” She still smiled, but her eyes now looked sad. “Mr. Montgomery, as much as you may like to have folks believe otherwise, I don’t think you’re all about the Benjamins.”
Her statement hit him hard. How could she know something like that? Something he’d never admitted to anyone, yet a fact that’d troubled him for years. What kind of banker could he be when he didn’t live and breathe money?
“Sorry,” she said after the waitress left homemade chips and fat dill pickles. “My friend Rachel and I are always playing games like that. You know, trying to figure out deep, dark secrets about people just by looking at them. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Dalton knew he should be relieved by her statement, but how could he be when this stranger’s guess had been right on the mark? Taking a chip, he asked, “What about me—my appearance—led you to this conclusion?”
“Really wanna know?”
To deflect the fact that he didn’t just want to know, but had to, he chuckled. “Just curious.”
Reaching across the table for his wrist, she tapped his clear plastic watch face. “This is a dead giveaway.”
“What?”
“Your Fossil.” On a business trip to New York City, he’d picked it up at the gift shop in the Met. For college graduation, he’d been presented with a gold-and-diamond Rolex, but something about the sand and mini fossils inside this cheap black model made him smile. “Just my opinion, here, but no man obsessed with money would be caught dead wearing such a fun yet unpretentious timepiece.”
He snatched a pickle, bit off a big chunk and chewed.