Sharing Sunrise (7 page)

She whirled, blinked and shook her head, bewildered by the intrusion, finding it almost impossible to form a coherent thought.

“Marian?” The dark-haired man who had touched her seemed taken aback by her reaction. “So sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. It is Marian Crane, isn’t it?” He had a crisp British accent, but one not regional enough for her to place.

“I … yes. Of course.” She bit her lip. Who was this? He looked familiar, but she couldn’t recall from when or where.

“You remember me, don’t you?” he said with a smile. “Robin Ames. We met in Hong Kong a few years back. I was married to Adrienne then.” His smile never changed. “But I’m not now. Say, I don’t suppose your brother would mind if I danced with you, would he?”

“My brother?” Marian’s gaze flew to Rolph’s set face. “This is Rolph McKenzie. We’re not related.”

“Oh. Oh, not your brother? I say, forgive me. I wouldn’t have intruded if I’d thought … but you do look so very much alike, you know.” He shared a smile between Rolph and Marian. “That golden hair. Those green eyes. Even your faces are the same triangular shape. Sorry,” he said again. “My mistake.”

“Not at all,” said Marian. “How nice to see you again, Robin.” It wasn’t. Even married to Adrienne, Robin Ames had tried to put the make on any woman around, but she was prepared to be civil. “Rolph is my employer. If you’re in the market for a boat of any kind, or have one to sell, Rolph’s the man to see.”

The two men shook hands briefly, assessing one another. After a few moments of stiff conversation, Robin Ames smiled again and lifted one of Marian’s hands, kissing the backs of her fingers. “Perhaps, McKenzie,” he said, looking up, “you’d have no objection if I asked your employee to dance?”

Rolph dropped his arm from around Marian’s shoulder and stepped back. “Ms. Crane is capable of speaking for herself and making her own decisions.”

Marian made one on the spot. She shook her head. “Thank you, Robin. But Rolph has already asked me. Perhaps another time. Good evening.”

“Wait.” Again Robin touched her arm. “I’ll be in town for several weeks,” he said. “Perhaps I could call you?”

She smiled. “I don’t think so. I’m terribly busy just now. Good night, Robin. Nice seeing you again.”

“Why did you do that? You didn’t have to send him away.”

“I didn’t want to dance with him. I want to dance with you,” she said.

Rolph stood looking down at her, his gaze filled with questions, and the same kind of doubts she’d seen the day he massaged her back in the office. “Why?” he asked softly.

She smiled. “Because,” she said, wondering how he’d handle the truth, but not yet ready to risk it, “you happen to be a far better dancer than Robin Ames.” She tucked her arm through his. “You’re a better dancer than any man I know. Now, are we going to stand here and discuss it, or are we going to go out there and boogie?”

“Boogie,” Rolph laughed, capitulating. “Let’s go.”

C
APITULATION HAD ITS REWARDS
. That smile of hers! It heated him from the inside out and he walked her to the dance floor with an arm close around her shoulders.

“Oh, good!” she added as the band swung into action. “A Tango. I love Tangos.” She gave her fingers a couple of snaps that would have done justice to a flamenco dancer and waggled her hips, taking a long, slinky stride, shapely leg insinuating itself between his for just an instant before she backed away, teasing him, tempting him, attracting attention to which she seemed oblivious, her gaze riveted on his face.

He noticed the Mastersons smiling at them, at Marian’s antics, really. “Cut that out,” he said softly, squelching an absurd desire to laugh. “Remember, people looking on might think we’re brother and sister. Act accordingly or we’ll go sit down, clients or no clients.” He was only half kidding. He wondered how many other people had made the same mistake as Robin Ames tonight and, thinking of the way he’d held her when they’d danced earlier, it made him more than a little uncomfortable.

“Oh, don’t be such an old poop!” She pouted, using the phrase she’d first used on him when she was thirteen and wanted him to buy her a pack of cigarettes so she could “learn to look sophisticated.”

“I’m not exactly asking you to do the Lambada.”

“When the Tango first reached local dance floors, it was treated to as many raised eyebrows as the Lambada when it came into being.” he said, moving easily into the steps of the dance.

“I don’t know why each new Latin American dance has to suffer such disapproval before it catches on. I love the Lambada.” She paused. “Especially with a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

“Don’t look at me if they play one.”

She laughed up at him. “I won’t. At least not this time.”

The thought of there being other times when they might be here in this club, dancing until dawn, did things to him that’d he’d rather not be done. “You’re a seductive brat,” he growled, swinging her close into the rhythm of the Tango. She tilted her head back and fixed her luminous gaze on his face, making him forget every reason he’d ever considered for keeping her at arm’s length. “I shouldn’t have brought you along tonight.”

“Then you’d have missed making a deal with the Mastersons. Remember, they were only thinking about dealing with your brokerage. But because of me, they’re definitely going to do so.”

“You’re right, and I’m grateful,” he said, but he knew he was right, too, and that he shouldn’t have brought her here, not once he saw her in that dress. But the hot Latin American rhythm infected him and he put everything out of his mind as he gave himself up to the music and incredible, impossible magic pulsing between the two of them.

Tango over, Rolph knew he should have taken her back to the table, but with another slow, sweet melody wrapping itself around their senses, he knew he couldn’t deny himself just a few more minutes of this forbidden bliss. As they moved together, he became more and more aware of her, of the satin skin of her back beneath his right hand, the delicacy of her fingers nestled in his left, the scent of her rising up, the way her breasts and thighs brushed against his body. He wanted to go on touching the warm, living flesh of her, seeking out more of it, but forced his hand to stay where it was until he could stand it no longer. Then, wrapping his arms around her waist, he put his hands on his own jacket sleeves, hoping to cool himself down that way.

He recognized his error at once.

With a soft sigh he felt rather than heard, Marian melted against him and rested her head on his shoulder. He nearly groaned at the sensations caused by her heat, the weight of her against his chest, her sweetly scented smooth skin and perfumed hair.

Enough! Enough! he wanted to plead, but knew it was nowhere near enough. With a sigh, he succumbed to the intense delight that washed over him. “Heaven help me,” he murmured. “I’m going down for the third time.”

Then he drew her hard against him, resting his cheek atop her head. He would hold her like this for just a moment more, or …

A moment or a month or maybe, unless she told him to stop, a lifetime. And since she said nothing, just snuggled closer, he wrapped her into the sensual world he’d entered, wondering if she were feeling it too. She had to be. She must. It was too potent to be the product of one set of hormones, too deep to be the residual passion from one shared Tango, too tempting to be refused.

His hands, far from staying safely on the fabric of his jacket, encircled her waist, his fingers meeting at the slight depression of her spine, and he couldn’t prevent their exploring that shallow trail all the way up to the nape of her neck, then slowly, all the way back down to where her dress stopped them, then all the way back up …

As his hand came to her nape again, and circled around to stroke the skin behind her ear, Marian tilted her head back and smiled at him, a slow, exquisite smile that took up residence inside his heart, making it glow. God, holding her like this, breathing in the scent of her perfume, looking into her shining eyes, did things to him that shouldn’t be done but there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it although within another twelve seconds, she would know beyond any doubt that he saw her as all woman. Quickly, he shifted his grip on her, turning just enough aside so she wouldn’t be frightened by his response. This, after all, was Marian, and he was responsible for her …

It was heaven. If she died now, Marian thought, she would die happy. She had felt like this twice before, and both times had been at weddings, both times while dancing with Rolph.

Those other times, she’d tried to tell herself she was just reacting to the romance of the occasion, that weddings did that to people. And Jeanie’s had been a particularly romantic wedding with the muted colored lights and decorations, the scent of the Christmas tree, the sweet, flowing music from Sharon Leslie’s harp, and the soft-spoken vows exchanged by Jeanie and Max, vows they must have thought they would never make before their friends and families, when they fell in love trapped deep in a cavern, believing themselves doomed, but willing to love in spite of that.

For the first time, hearing another couple’s wedding vows had choked her up with tender emotions. Tears had welled up in her eyes. She had sniffed them back, blinked hard, but with little effect. Beyond her control, they had spilled over, splashed on her linked hands and Rolph had seen. From his position in the front of the room, he had grinned wickedly at her and winked then later, he’d teased her about it.

“All women cry at weddings,” she’d said and he’d raised his brows.

“But not you, surely!” he’d scoffed with the affectionate sarcasm permitted a long-time friend. “What made you cry? Thinking about Jeanie’s lost freedom, I suppose?”

She’d shrugged, still not sure in her own mind exactly why she’d found the ceremony so touching, so poignant, why it had made her throat ache. Ordinarily, since her own fiasco of a marriage, weddings had been something to be avoided and when they could not be, she’d often found herself thinking scathing, bitter thoughts as the promises were made. Only this wedding had been different. “Could be that, I guess.”

He’d held her firmly that night, as he always had when dancing, so that she’d know what he intended almost as soon as he knew himself. That was what made them such a good couple on the floor. Only that night, for her, it was different. His hands had never felt so large nor so warm. The scent of his after-shave had never affected her as it did that magical Christmas Eve. And the play of his powerful muscles as his thighs brushed against hers set up such a clamor in her blood she’d felt the first stirrings of fear liberally mixed with desire.

The fear was because since her marriage she had avoided men who might have that kind of power over her. The desire came out of nowhere and refused to leave her. She felt stunned by its breadth and its depth, almost horrified because she knew if she gave Rolph even the slightest indication of what she was feeling, he’d laugh at her.

When it came time to catch the bridal bouquet, she saw it coming her way and in that instant, caught the mocking, laughing gaze Rolph had turned on her, and she’d ducked, letting Jeanie’s flowers—and the lovely tradition that went with them—sail on by, right into the hands of Sharon, Jeanie’s sister.

And then, less than a year later, Sharon had married that gorgeous Jean-Marc Duval, just as tradition dictated and Marian had to wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t ducked.

But here she was, in his arms again, feeling distinctly romantic again and without a wedding to blame. Nestling close, she rested her head against his chest, twined her arms around his neck and gave herself up to the beauty of the moment. His hair was crisp and curly under her fingers. The skin of his nape was soft and faintly moist. She lifted her face and pressed her lips gently to his throat, parting them, slipping the tip of her tongue out to sample the salty flavor of his skin. His arms tightened, his body hardened, and she heard him take in a harsh breath. For just a moment, she thought he might push her away from him, but though he went stiff, after a second or two he relaxed and slid his hand up into her hair. She felt a pin give way, felt it slither down her back, thought she heard it hit the floor with a faint “ping” but knew that as finely tuned as her sense were, it was her imagination that her hearing could be so acute. She shivered as his fingers delved deeper into her hair and another pin went flying. Lifting her head, she looked up at him, smiled, and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, wanting to speak to him, but finding no words available. All she could do was convey what she felt by the movements of her body and the expression in her eyes.

He met her gaze, but only for a moment. Then, with a shuddering intake of breath, he closed his eyes and pressed her head down onto his chest, holding her there with one large, warm palm against her cheek.

Marian’s breath came in sharply, then trailed out slowly as she leaned into his embrace.

Just when Rolph thought he might explode, the band played the tune to its end, added a flourish of trumpet and drum, then laid down their instruments for a break.

The Mastersons were still on a joyous high, demanding more and more details about their beloved
Catriona
while another bottle of champagne sparkled into glasses around the table. When, after a few more dances, the older couple said their goodnights, insisting on taking a cab back to their hotel so Marian and Rolph could stay and dance, Rolph suggested that they, too, should call a taxi.

“My head’s buzzing from the champagne,” he said, brushing a strand of hair back from her flushed cheek. “I don’t think I should drive.”

Marian’s head was buzzing too. “I don’t want to go home yet. Couldn’t we have just one more dance, Rolph?”

He drew in a deep, unsteady breath. Again, something inside warned him that enough was enough. “No,” he said.

She put one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek. Gently, she brushed her thumb over his bottom lip.

“Please?”

She heard his breath whistle slightly as he sucked it in, saw his eyes darken, his mouth twitch, and then he reached up and caught her hand, she thought, to fling it away, but instead, he flattened it onto his throat, holding it there. “One more dance,” he conceded softly, drawing her into his arms, his grin crooked and self-deprecating. “I must be out of my mind.”