The Texan. Catherine Lanigan
me I’m the first to dance with the birthday girl,” he said.
“You are?” Suddenly, Angela realized she was not dreaming. “I mean, you are! Yes, I mean, I’d love to.”
His smile revealed perfectly white even teeth between full, sensual lips. His jawline was sharply hewn and his cheekbones were high as if he had Indian blood somewhere in his ancestry. His Western clothes were faded and snug on his lean, fit body.
Angela stood very close to him when she rose from her chair. She couldn’t help detecting the faint smell of leather, as if he’d ridden into town on his horse. She would have swooned, but modern women didn’t do such things.
His touch was gentle yet possessive as he took her hand and led the way through the crowd around the dance floor. It wasn’t until she was behind him that she noticed his massively wide shoulders and chest that looked as if he could carry the weight of the world on them. Surely, he was a man of great responsibility. He’s my kind of man.
Whoa! Slow down, Angela, she thought to herself. Get a grip, girl. He’s only asked you to dance.
Melancholy strains of the country-western song being played filled the room as couples clung to each other under the dim colored lights. Angela wished she’d paid more attention to Ilsa’s dance instructions, but the truth of the matter was that Angela was the first to volunteer for overtime and the last to frequent the clubs with her friends. The result was that she did not follow well. Nor did she line-dance or square-dance. None of that mattered because this man, who seemingly had walked out of her dreams and now held her body in a forceful yet graceful manner, had actually made her feel as if they were one of those dance teams in an old Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire movie.
“Do you think we fit well?” he asked with that maddeningly sensual voice.
“I’m not sure,” she replied coolly, wanting to prove to herself she was over men forever. This killer-looking hunk was not going to foul her newly planted resolution. If she could resist him, she could do anything.
The logical side of Angela’s personality was quite pleased with her performance, but it was her romantic and heretofore overly impetuous side that shouted: You idiot! Why don’t you tell him what you’re really feeling? Other girls would already have him wanting to take them home to bed. “I mean, I think we fit fine.” That’s being assertive? Angela, girl, no wonder you never get a real man.
His breath was like a lover’s caress on her neck. His hands were callused and no matter how she fought it, another image of him, on horseback, streaked across her mind. His chest was rock-hard and as she pressed her fingers into the tight muscles in his shoulders she could feel her body responding to him. She couldn’t help leaning into him a bit more.
His hand slipped from the middle of her back to her waist and with splayed fingers, he pressed her body to his. Then he began moving his hips in rhythm to the music.
All this time, she’d thought he was coming on to her, but instead he was showing her what it was like to feel the music with her body. It was an incredible experience. He taught her how to catch the melody with her head and translate it into body language. They glided, swayed, turned and dipped according to the beat, the pulse and soul of the music. When the crescendo exploded, he spun Angela around so many times she was dizzy. She lost eye contact with the people around the dance floor as the room seemed to disappear. In order not to lose her balance, she was forced to lean against him. She looked in his eyes.
He gazed at her with smoky blue pools that seemed to promise eternity.
Quit, Angela! Wasn’t it only moments ago you promised yourself not to ever fall under a man’s spell again?
That’s right, she thought. From now on she was going to be adult about all her relationships. She tried to look away from him, but his feet quick-stepped around hers so fast that she was no longer aware of touching the ground. She’d taken flight and he was the pilot.
The music fluttered into a second chorus and the tempo eased them back to gentler movements.
“And what’s the birthday girl’s name?” he asked, placing his slightly rough cheek against hers.
“Angela Morton,” she replied haltingly. It was tough pretending her heaving lungs and banging heart were from the exuberant dance and not from him. After all, she wasn’t affected by men anymore.
“Nice name,” he whispered. “You feel like an angel.” He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, he thought. Rafe had to shake his head to dispel the romantic images from his brain. What was he thinking?
God, I don’t think I can stand this much longer. He’s doing everything right! He would have to call her “angel,” just like her father and grandfather had. Not one person she’d ever dated had figured that much out.
“I do?” she asked.
“Yes. Soft. Sweet and very, very warm.” He pressed his hand against her back again.
Her vow of becoming friends first and lovers later was becoming a dim memory as her breasts pressed against his granite chest. She didn’t like the fact that her breasts were far too sensitive for her own good. She couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like for him to touch her delicate skin. She squeezed her eyes closed, hoping the thought would disappear.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Everything’s wrong. I’m responding to him more than any man in my entire life. I wish to heaven there was something I didn’t like about him.
“You closed your eyes so tightly, I thought maybe you’d lost your contact or something.”
“I don’t wear contacts.”
“I was holding you too tightly then?” he asked, putting his hand up to her chin and lifting her face to his. “I’ve been accused of getting carried away when I dance. It’s just that I’m a sucker for these torchy ballads. I’ve always liked music I could understand the words to... sing to.”
Angela felt her mouth go dry. Wouldn’t you know it? Just my luck he likes the same music I do. I’ll find something wrong with him yet. After all, nobody’s perfect. “Country-western is too whiny for me. I like real oldies... like Cole Porter.” I’ll bet he’s never heard of Cole Porter or Gershwin for that matter.
“Where did you come from? The stars? I’ve always thought no song will ever top ‘Night and Day,”’ he replied, flabbergasted.
Angela gulped. She’d never met anyone who liked her music. “I would have thought you were the George Strait type.”
“Honky-tonk bars and good-time lovers?”
“Yes,” she said feeling oddly nervous about his caustic reply.
“I’m that, too.”
I thought so . Angela dragged her eyes away from his cool, steady gaze and pretended his honest answer was just fine with her. The last thing she needed was a cavalier cowboy who racked up affairs like notches on a gunbelt.
They danced silently for what seemed like an eternity before Rafe broke the tension by asking her where she worked.
“I’m a Realtor. My office is on San Felipe, so it’s not far to my townhouse,” she replied, looking up at him and forcing herself to feign the same aloofness he’d injected into his voice.
Without warning, he kissed her.
An unbelievable fire leapt through her body the instant their lips touched. He held nothing back and claimed her mouth with such raw passion, she wondered how she’d survive the intensity.
His arms pulled and pressed her body into his, though they undulated to the music. Breast to chest, belly to belly and with his pelvis crushing into hers, her dream man locked his body to hers. Wonderfully, she felt as if she were melting into him. There was such a possessiveness about his kiss that she felt as if she was precious to him. Never had she felt so close to anyone.