The Rancher's Dance (17 page)

“We've pretty well strayed far away from the ballpark of
neighborly
conversation.”

She didn't look away when his gaze captured hers. “I know.” And she still wanted to know. “Was she?”

His eyes narrowed a little and her lips actually tingled when his gaze seemed to drop to them for a brief moment. “Was Lars yours?”

Touché. “No.”

“Taggart?”

“Evan? Good grief, no. We never even got close to it. We were just friends.” She smiled a little. “Maybe kissing friends for a while,” she allowed.

“So who was?”

She hesitated. She couldn't very well evade his question if she wanted an answer to her own, even if she figured he would disapprove. “The choreographer for the first dance company I was with in New York. I was nineteen.”

“Choreographers are a habit for you. Were you in love with him?”

She shook her head.

“Then why sleep with him? To get ahead?”

She grimaced. “Not at all. He slept with a lot of dancers, quite honestly. I was the only virgin in the company and was tired of it and I thought he was dashing and powerful and he made my heart beat faster. So I joined the crowd.”

His eyebrows lifted a little. “Jesus,” he muttered. “That's honest.”

But he didn't look disgusted, she decided. Not the way he looked when she talked about Lars.

“So…was your wife
your
first?”

He shook his head.

For some reason, she was relieved. “Second?”

Again, he shook his head. “Do you really want a number?” His voice was dry.

“Perhaps not,” she allowed. “You, um, you must have been pretty young, though,” she hazarded. He'd already admitted to being high school sweethearts with Harmony.

“Yup.” He nudged his plate away. The waffle was gone. “Fourteen years old.”

She gaped. “Fourteen?”

“I was a hellion. Would probably still be if I hadn't met Harmony.”

She could hardly fathom it. When she'd been fourteen, she'd either been dreaming about famous ballerinas or her favorite horse. Or her first kiss. Certainly not about having sex. She took his plate. “Want another?”

“I want you.”

Her fingers slipped on the plate, landing in the sticky, dark syrup.

“Isn't that what this morning is really about?” he asked.

She exhaled carefully and set his plate on the counter. Removed the waffle and turned off the waffle iron. “No.” She stared hard at the granite countertop. “Yes.” She exhaled. “I don't know, Beck.”

She heard the scrape of his chair, and then his arms slid around her from behind.

She caught her breath, her eyes closing.

He slid his hand beneath her loose hair, smoothing it over her shoulder. And she nearly dissolved right then and there when his lips touched the back of her neck.

“This help you decide?” His palm was flat against
her abdomen, burning through the thin, gauzy dress, and then it glided upward, his fingers brushing over her aching breasts.

She nearly whimpered and curled her fingers against the granite. “Yes.”
No!
“I mean I think you walked away last night and it was probably the smart thing to do.”

His hand slid away slowly, so slowly that she wasn't sure it would, and knew if it didn't, she wouldn't have the strength to resist. Then all he did was reach around her, split the waffle in two, and drop half on his plate before returning to the table.

She let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “You're really hell on a woman's ego, you know.”

He looked at her. “I'm hard. I'm hungry. You said no, and you've still got waffles,” he said gruffly. “What else do you want me to do?”

She flushed and nearly jumped out of her skin when the telephone rang.

She reached out and her sticky fingers grabbed the phone. It clattered noisily when she picked it up. “Lazy-B.”

“Hey, there, Luce.”

Her father.

For some reason, she felt as if she were nineteen again and had been caught doing something she shouldn't. “Hi, Dad.” She searched her brain for a second. “How's Barcelona?”

Beck's chair scraped as he stood. He licked his thumb and stopped next to her, lowering his head until his lips were near her other ear. “Thanks for breakfast,” he murmured and the brush of his breath slipped straight down her spine.

Then he reached around her, grabbed the remaining half of the waffle, and walked out of the kitchen.

A moment later, she heard the front door close.

She sank weakly down onto the chair.

“Luce?”

She moistened her lips. “I'm here, Dad.” But barely.

Because most of her senses had trailed right out the door after Beck.

T
wo more days.

Beck stared at the addition around him and thought,
two more days.
He'd be finished with everything, including the final touches, and then he wouldn't have to keep traipsing over to the Lazy-B.

Not that the Lazy-B itself was the problem. That, he knew good and well was the dancer in residence.

He exhaled and picked up the crown molding he'd just cut and started up the ladder.

He could get through two more days.

He might be a freaking basket case, but he could do it.

Then another week after that, Shelby would be starting school again. And Lucy…well he wasn't sure what Lucy would be doing after that.

Except for heading back to New York, that was.

She'd been plenty plain about that particular point.

He shot a finish nail through the length of molding and steadily worked his way to the end.

Couldn't happen soon enough for him.

Maybe then he'd start getting some sleep again without waking up every hour from yet another dream about her. It wasn't just that he was dreaming about making love with her either. That he could have endured well enough, he supposed.

It was all the other dreams that were driving him nuts.

He shook the thoughts out of his head and went back down the ladder. Retrieved the next piece of molding and climbed back up the ladder again.

The rhythm ought to have been soothing. It wasn't.

Nothing was soothing these days around the Lazy-B. Only because every time he worked there, his nerves were on end waiting for one more encounter with her.

But since the morning of the waffles, she'd gone out of her way to avoid
him.

Guess he'd gotten his answer about sleeping together, hadn't he?

Annoyed with himself even more, he checked his watch. He was picking up Shelby himself that afternoon from day camp because his father had gone off somewhere with Susan for the day.

Since the day out at the Double-C, his father and the woman had been pretty much inseparable.

Beck didn't begrudge his father that. Susan was an attractive, available woman. Why shouldn't Stan go after her?

Unfortunately, Beck still had another two hours to go before it was time to retrieve his daughter. And no reason whatsoever to not finish the crown molding before he did.

Of course once he picked up Shelby, he still wouldn't
have a reprieve from Lucy. Because Shelby was constantly talking about her. Either the ballet lessons or the school picnic on the first day of school that Lucy had promised-promised-promised to go to with Shelby, or the pretty pink tutu that Lucy had given her last week. Or else she was twirling around everywhere they went, insisting to anyone who listened that one day, she was going to be on television the same way that Lucy had been, and dance
so
beautifully…

He could thank Ryan and Mallory for that last bit; they'd evidently introduced Shelby to some old videotape of Lucy dancing on some documentary.

And then he'd spent an hour in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep trying to search it out on the internet. He'd found loads of mentions about her and NEBT dating back several years. He'd also found a picture of the cheating pig.

Frankly, Beck couldn't envision Lucy with the guy at all. He'd been slick and artificial even in a photograph. And Lucy…well, she was one of the most genuine people he'd ever met.

He reloaded his nailer, grabbed another length of the crown that he'd spent much of the morning measuring and cutting, and went back up the ladder yet again.

He couldn't get away from Lucy, no matter what he tried to do. If Shelby wasn't talking about her,
he
was thinking about her.

He exhaled roughly and somehow managed not to slam the crown molding into place so hard that he'd damage the wood. Where
was
she anyway?

The ranch truck she drove hadn't been parked outside the barn that morning when he'd gotten there. And aside from mentioning before the weekend that she wouldn't be
available for Lucy's ballet lesson that morning, she hadn't given him a reason why.

Not that he'd really invited her to share the information, he acknowledged.

Since the waffle episode, they hadn't shared much at all. As if the things they'd said that morning had been
more
than enough to last awhile.

That was fine and dandy with him.

Talking wasn't his strong suit anyway.

Down the ladder again. But instead of grabbing another piece of molding, he restlessly went into the kitchen. The coffeepot was empty. Dry. He'd finished it off earlier and rinsed it out. He refilled his water bottle from the tap and turned back toward his work, but a movement near the front window caught his eye.

Before he had a chance to move, the door was opening, and there she stood.

Her otherworldly eyes seemed startled to see him standing there, but they didn't look away from his.

Not right away.

“Hi.” Her voice was faint but audible. Then she seemed to gather herself and continued forward. Her arms were laden with grocery sacks.

He left the water bottle on the counter and met her halfway. “Here.” He lifted several of the bags out of her grasp and tried not to notice the spark of heat that rippled up his spine when his fingers grazed hers. “Lot of food. Planning a party?”

“Not exactly. Just getting ready for Mom and Dad to get back tomorrow.” She sidled around him into the kitchen and unloaded her bags on the table. “Everyone's going to want to hear about their trip, so I figured I'd better lay in some extra food.”

“What time are they due in?”

“Sometime in the afternoon if their plane is on schedule.” She brushed up the crisp sleeves of her man-styled white shirt that hung down around the thighs of her skinny black jeans and began unloading her purchases.

He probably wouldn't quite be finished with the addition. Another day, though, would do it, but not if he spent time lollygagging around with his tongue all but hanging out for the neighbor's daughter.

He set the bags he'd taken from her next to the others and watched her move around the kitchen for a long moment. “You're barely limping at all anymore.”

She gave him a startled look. “Yeah.” She yanked open the refrigerator door and the big picture that Shelby had given her that day that seemed so long ago now fluttered softly. She shoved the gallon of milk she was holding inside and closed the door. “I actually had an appointment this morning with my old orthopedist. He comes up from my uncle's sports clinic in Cheyenne.”

“Your uncle has a sports clinic?” How much more about her would be a surprise?

“Huffington,” she said. “It's fairly well known.”

Good grief. “Your uncle is
Alex Reed?
”

“You've heard of him?”

Anyone who watched professional or collegiate football—and Beck watched 'em all—had heard of him. The man's clinic was the go-to place for sports injuries. “Yeah.”
Get back to work.
The order circled inside his head. He grabbed his water bottle. Headed toward the new, arched doorway that led to the addition. “So what'd the orthopedist say?”

She looked at him. “Everything's good to go,” she said smoothly. Except the right corner of her lips turned down, ever so slightly.

She was lying.

He leaned against the archway. “So, back to the company, then,” he prompted deliberately.

Her gaze skittered away from his as she pulled a bag of grapes out of the sacks and turned back to the refrigerator. “Mmm-hmm.”

“What are you going to be doing when you get there?”

He saw the way her shoulders stiffened beneath the white shirt. “What do you mean?”

“Dancing in the corps?” He knew the term only because the chatty Cathy that his daughter had evolved into had shared it with him. The corps de ballet. Comprised of dancers who weren't soloists. The place that all dancers pretty much started out…or so his daughter had said.

Lucy exhaled suddenly and slapped the refrigerator door closed. “No.” Her voice was sharp. “Not the corps. Not anything. I won't be dancing again. Not professionally, anyway, but you've already figured that out for yourself, haven't you?”

There were tears in her eyes.

And he knew he was an even bigger heel.

She made a muffled sound and started to rush out of the kitchen, but he caught her arm. “I'm sorry.”

Her throat worked. “Why? This is just the way things go for dancers who can't dance.” But her voice was hoarse.

He swallowed an oath and pulled her against him, his hand moving to the back of her head. He felt the shuddering breath she drew way down deep in his gut.

Felt, too, somewhere deep the fact that she didn't pull away.

“What'd the orthopedist say?” he asked quietly.

“Exactly what I already knew.” Her voice was thick. Choked. “It's healing, but not well enough to ever dance professionally.”

“The way things go sometimes stink to high heaven,” he murmured.

She laughed brokenly. “You'd know that better than most people.”

He sighed and tucked her head beneath his chin again, and he just held her for long minutes until her breathing finally stopped hitching and her shoulders finally stopped shaking. “Have you let NEBT know?” he asked cautiously.

She made a sound. “It doesn't matter.” She pulled out of his arms, wiping her cheeks. “I'm sorry I got your shirt wet.”

“It's a T-shirt,” he dismissed. “And why doesn't it matter?”

He saw the swallow she took work down her long throat. “I knew before I left New York that I probably wouldn't be going back there in a performing capacity.”

He eyed her. “That's not what you've been saying.”

“Because I was still holding out some hope!” Her voice rose and fell again. “I thought if I could just go back, prove that I still had what it takes…then maybe I could get the board of directors to overrule Lars. He doesn't have the entire say when it comes to the artists—” She broke off, shaking her head. She swiped her eyes again and yanked a paper towel off the roll to wipe her red nose. “It doesn't matter now. The only thing left for me
is
to go back as ballet master. I'll get to rehearse my own replacement,” she added in a raw voice. “Happy day.”

“Then don't go back.”

“It's my job!”

“Get a new one.”

“Oh, like you did?” She eyed him. “Maybe I don't want to walk away from a career that I spent a lifetime building. Ballet was my life. It was all I had.”

“What's
that
supposed to mean?”

“I gave up everything for it. A chance to meet a man who might actually
want
to marry me. Have children with me.” She shook her head. “I don't even have any excuse to be upset about it. I knew what I was doing. I knew the choices I was making. And God knows I should have known Lars better than I did.”

“Then stop talking as if you'll never have that chance. You'll meet someone.” He was out of his depth. He wished like hell that Harmony's voice would come back inside his head. Tell him what to say to make Lucy see.

But Harmony's voice had been absent since the night he'd pulled Lucy against him in that warm, silky water.

“You'll fall in love,” he added doggedly.

Lucy gave him a long look that had shrill alarms sounding somewhere inside his head. But she just shook her head again, threw away the paper towel she'd bunched in her fist and began unloading the rest of the grocery sacks. “Not everybody gets to have what you had with Harmony.” Her voice was low. She turned and opened a cupboard, stowing a box of fancy crackers inside it.

“So what's that mean? You don't even look? You get betrayed by a cheating scumbag and you think that's the end of the line?”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “I'm pathetic, but not that pathetic,” she muttered.

“You're not pathetic,” he said impatiently.

She turned and looked at him again. “Then what am I?” Her eyes were bloodshot. Fierce. “What
do
you see when you're with me, Beck? You don't even have to answer. Because I already know. You see a woman who wants you. But that's all you see because you buried your heart with your wife!”

His chest hurt. “She was my life.”

“And ballet was mine.” She turned away from him again. Dashed her hand over her cheeks. “Just…go away. I should never have gotten into any of this with you. As you've said, we're not even friends.”

Nor were they lovers.

Which made him wonder what in the hell they
were
because he damn sure couldn't get her out from beneath his skin. For that matter, he wasn't even sure how she'd managed to get there in the first place.

“What is it, then?” he pushed. “Pride? You think being this—” he gestured “—ballet master is beneath you?”

“No!” Her hands flew out to her sides and temper entered her eyes. “Good ballet masters are worth their weight in gold!” She exhaled. “I'd have better hours and thanks to my smart agent years ago, the company's contractually obligated where my pay is concerned. It doesn't matter what I think about it anyway. That's the world I know. And that's the job that's waiting.”

“Only if you take it,” he said again.

“And what else would I do?” She grimaced. “Ballet isn't as profitable as your architecture firm obviously was. I do have to earn a living!”

“So teach,” he said abruptly. “You're getting enough practice with Shelby and her little crew of friends that show up here every day.”

But again she shook her head. “I can't stay here.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because of
you!
” Her lips clamped together. She looked even more annoyed. More frustrated. And there were tears in her eyes again. “Because of you,” she repeated huskily after a tight silence that he couldn't even attempt to fill.