Crazy for You by Maddie James Page B

join her. “C’mon, let’s try out those credit cards of
yours.”
    “I’m not going shopping and I’m not doing
Disco.”
    With always the perpetual smile on her lips,
like she knew something that Andrew didn’t know, she walked out the
door, tossing her final words over her shoulder. “Well, we’ll see
about that, Andrew Jacob Powell III.”
    ****
    The noise was deafening. The flashing lights
were blinding. There even was one of those gaudy, rotating,
mirrored balls hanging from the ceiling. Bodies were crammed too
close together. Gyrating. Wiggling. Spinning. Some might even call
it dancing. The room reeked of smoke and fruity alcohol drinks and
K.C. and the Sunshine Band.
    He hated smoke.
    He hated fruity alcohol drinks.
    He hated Disco.
    Why in the hell was he here?
    Andrew sauntered slowly through the crowd
toward the bar at the back of the room. He tried to stay as
inconspicuous as possible, but wondered how difficult that was
going to be.
    He did shop this afternoon. Although he had
difficulty finding exactly the attire he wanted, he came up with
something minutely close to being his style. The trousers were a
bit more pleated than he would have liked, but they still went with
his wingtips. He had trouble finding socks but finally found a loud
pair of deep purple ones that would suffice. He figured he wouldn’t
be showing off his socks much anyway.
    The shirt was much too silky, had no collar,
and was a bit too snug, but it had a nice feel to it.
    With his back to the bar, he eyed the crowd
again, this time taking in their ensembles, as well.
    He was way overdressed. Women with strapless
and near-strapless mini-dresses did the bump and grind around the
dance floor; men with no shirts at all or with shirts open down to
their navels followed them like sniffing hounds.
    Ridiculous. This was all ridiculous.
    “Drink, sir?”
    The guy behind the bar spoke to him and
Andrew glanced to his left. “Scotch,” he replied.
    “With water?”
    “Straight up.”
    “Coming right up.”
    Andrew eyed the dance floor. It appeared that
the mass of gyrating, human flesh out there consisted of nothing
but legs and arms and a bobbing head once in a while. Packed
together like sardines, he had no clue how one would crowbar their
way out of there if they wanted. It appeared, that once one was
claimed by that pulsating mass of human flesh, one was consumed and
became a part of the whole darned thing.
    Not for him.
    “Your drink, sir.”
    “Keep them coming.”
    “Yessir.”
    Andrew lifted the scotch to his lips and let
the liquid burn down this throat. Ah. A man’s drink. None of that
fruity stuff for him.
    “Dance with me?”
    The voice, a lilting southern drawl, came
from his right. Slowly he turned toward the woman standing not six
inches away. He didn’t need this, he thought. Not another woman
coming on to him and trying to—
    Her hips swayed to the music in a slow,
come-hither sort of fashion and suddenly Andrew was riveted to
them. Finally, he followed the wiggle of her body up to her face.
Her eyes were big and warm and brown and batted at him in a
different come-hither sort of way. Her lips were red and pouty and
slightly parted in a—
    He set his drink glass on the bar.
    “Another one, sir?”
    “Keep ‘em coming.”
    “Yessir.”
    The Southern belle inched forward.
    Then he saw her. Just behind the southern
belle-slash-sex goddess. It was hard to miss her; he didn’t know
how he’d missed her before now.
    Tall. Very tall. A head above everyone else.
That mane of long brunette hair swirling around her. And her legs.
Oh, God. A dress like that should be outlawed on a woman with legs
that long. The little black dress she wore looked to barely cover
her bottom. And there she was, turning and gyrating and shaking her
bootie to—Shake Your Bootie.
    “Want to dance?” The question came again.
    Andrew eyed the beauty before him. Then
glanced back to Tasha.
    “I don’t do Disco,” he told her.
    She sidled