you have a problem with?"
He
glanced around the room, indicating the occupied tables. The pianist, a blonde
chicly dressed in black chiffon, was playing and crooning a ballad about the
first time ever she'd seen her lover's face. "No one's dancing," Walker
pointed out.
"So?
There's a dance floor. See, right there by the piano."
"I
see, but—"
"But
what?"
"I
have two left feet."
"I'll
bet you don't."
"Trust
me, I do. I also have a bum knee."
"No
big deal. We'll slow dance." She pushed back her chair. "C'mon."
"Lindsey!"
he whispered, grabbing her hand to keep her seated. Her hand felt warm—just the
way it had the night she'd taken his hand in hers. He pulled his hand away,
uncertain why he was fighting the warmth, uncertain why he was fighting her offer
of a dance. He just felt he should. On the off chance that all of her was as
warm as her hand.
"You
need to loosen up, Walker. Live a little. How am I ever going to get you to run
off with me to Timbuktu if I can't even get you to the dance floor?" Rushing
ahead, she said, "Look, I'll make you a deal. If the pianist plays... oh,
I don't know, 'Misty,' let's say... yeah, 'Misty'... if the pianist plays
'Misty' next, we dance. If she doesn't, we don't. Fair enough?"
The
expression on Lindsey's face, the spark in her slate-gray eyes, was one of
utter playfulness. Once more Walker was reminded of how alive Lindsey was. Of
how alluringly alive she was. Of how irresistibly alive she was. Leaning back
in his chair, he heard himself assume the same playful posture.
"Let
me get this straight," he drawled. "If the next song the pianist
plays is 'Misty,' we dance. If it's not, we don't."
"Right.
Deal?"
Walker
considered all the songs—the hundreds, the thousands, the tens of
thousands—that the pianist had to choose from. What were the chances of her
playing one specific song? Walker gave a half grin, the sign of a man confident
of his win because the deck was stacked in his favor. "You've got yourself
a deal."
"Good,"
Lindsey replied, pushing her chair back farther and rising. "Excuse me a
moment. I'll be right back." With that, she crossed to the pianist, bent
and whispered something, then started back toward the table. The triumphant
look she wore said that Walker had been had.
Despite
his loss—which curiously he also viewed as a win—he had to admire her style.
"You, uh, you wouldn't call that cheating, would you?"
"Not
in the least. I'd call it guaranteeing that I get what I want." She held
out her hand. "Time to pay off."
The
beginning strains of "Misty" spilled from the piano and filled the
silence.
In
a single gulp, Walker downed what was left of his drink. Something told him
that he was going to need what fortification he could get. Standing, he placed
his hand in hers—dammit, why was her hand always so warm?—and, following as she
led, walked to the dance floor. It was he, however, who stopped, turned her and
pulled her into his arms. After all, a deal was a deal, right?
He
took Lindsey by surprise. She'd known that he'd have to take her in his arms,
but she'd expected to be the one to make the move. She might even have to force
the issue. His assertiveness startled her, pleased her and left her wholly
breathless. She'd been in his arms before-countless times when she'd been
growing up—but she'd never been in his arms after she'd realized her love for
him. Except for that moment at the airport, which was marked primarily by its
brevity. Now, however, she was in his arms in earnest... and for the duration
of a song. What was that? Two minutes? Three minutes? Could she force the brief
time to make up for all the lonely nights she'd lain awake wondering what it
would feel like to be held by him?
"See,"
she said, hoping that she didn't sound as breathless as she felt, "you
don't have two left feet."
Her
eyes were on his, and he could never remember seeing anything that looked more
beautiful. The blue of a peaceful ocean shone through, a shimmering
He
glanced around the room, indicating the occupied tables. The pianist, a blonde
chicly dressed in black chiffon, was playing and crooning a ballad about the
first time ever she'd seen her lover's face. "No one's dancing," Walker
pointed out.
"So?
There's a dance floor. See, right there by the piano."
"I
see, but—"
"But
what?"
"I
have two left feet."
"I'll
bet you don't."
"Trust
me, I do. I also have a bum knee."
"No
big deal. We'll slow dance." She pushed back her chair. "C'mon."
"Lindsey!"
he whispered, grabbing her hand to keep her seated. Her hand felt warm—just the
way it had the night she'd taken his hand in hers. He pulled his hand away,
uncertain why he was fighting the warmth, uncertain why he was fighting her offer
of a dance. He just felt he should. On the off chance that all of her was as
warm as her hand.
"You
need to loosen up, Walker. Live a little. How am I ever going to get you to run
off with me to Timbuktu if I can't even get you to the dance floor?" Rushing
ahead, she said, "Look, I'll make you a deal. If the pianist plays... oh,
I don't know, 'Misty,' let's say... yeah, 'Misty'... if the pianist plays
'Misty' next, we dance. If she doesn't, we don't. Fair enough?"
The
expression on Lindsey's face, the spark in her slate-gray eyes, was one of
utter playfulness. Once more Walker was reminded of how alive Lindsey was. Of
how alluringly alive she was. Of how irresistibly alive she was. Leaning back
in his chair, he heard himself assume the same playful posture.
"Let
me get this straight," he drawled. "If the next song the pianist
plays is 'Misty,' we dance. If it's not, we don't."
"Right.
Deal?"
Walker
considered all the songs—the hundreds, the thousands, the tens of
thousands—that the pianist had to choose from. What were the chances of her
playing one specific song? Walker gave a half grin, the sign of a man confident
of his win because the deck was stacked in his favor. "You've got yourself
a deal."
"Good,"
Lindsey replied, pushing her chair back farther and rising. "Excuse me a
moment. I'll be right back." With that, she crossed to the pianist, bent
and whispered something, then started back toward the table. The triumphant
look she wore said that Walker had been had.
Despite
his loss—which curiously he also viewed as a win—he had to admire her style.
"You, uh, you wouldn't call that cheating, would you?"
"Not
in the least. I'd call it guaranteeing that I get what I want." She held
out her hand. "Time to pay off."
The
beginning strains of "Misty" spilled from the piano and filled the
silence.
In
a single gulp, Walker downed what was left of his drink. Something told him
that he was going to need what fortification he could get. Standing, he placed
his hand in hers—dammit, why was her hand always so warm?—and, following as she
led, walked to the dance floor. It was he, however, who stopped, turned her and
pulled her into his arms. After all, a deal was a deal, right?
He
took Lindsey by surprise. She'd known that he'd have to take her in his arms,
but she'd expected to be the one to make the move. She might even have to force
the issue. His assertiveness startled her, pleased her and left her wholly
breathless. She'd been in his arms before-countless times when she'd been
growing up—but she'd never been in his arms after she'd realized her love for
him. Except for that moment at the airport, which was marked primarily by its
brevity. Now, however, she was in his arms in earnest... and for the duration
of a song. What was that? Two minutes? Three minutes? Could she force the brief
time to make up for all the lonely nights she'd lain awake wondering what it
would feel like to be held by him?
"See,"
she said, hoping that she didn't sound as breathless as she felt, "you
don't have two left feet."
Her
eyes were on his, and he could never remember seeing anything that looked more
beautiful. The blue of a peaceful ocean shone through, a shimmering
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