The Daddy Dance (8 page)

“Give it a bit more gas,” Rye said. “You need to get up to forty.”

She wanted to yell at him, to complain that he had tricked her onto this dangerous stretch of road, but she knew that she should not divert her attention. She wanted to tell him that forty was impossibly fast, but she knew that he was right. She could see the black-and-white speed limit sign—she presented more of a danger to them, creeping along, than she would if she accelerated. She hunched a little closer to the steering wheel, as if that motion would give her precious seconds to respond to any disasters.

Maybe it was her concentration that kept her from being aware of the eighteen-wheeler that roared by, passing her on the left. One moment, she could dart a glance out at freshly tilled fields, at rich earth awaiting new crops. The next, a wall of metal screamed beside her, looming over her like a mountain. She thought that she was pounding on the brake, but she hadn’t shifted her foot enough; the pickup leaped forward as she poured on more fuel, looking for all the world like she was trying to race the semi.

The surge terrified her, and she shifted her foot solidly onto the brake. At the same time, the truck cut back into her lane, close enough that the wind of its passing buffeted her vehicle. Kat overcorrected, and for one terrible moment, the pickup slid sideways across the asphalt road. She turned the wheel again, catching the rough edge of the shoulder, and one more twist sent her careening out of control.

The pickup bucked as it caught on the grass at the roadside, and she could do nothing as the vehicle slid into the ditch at the edge of the road. Finally, the brake did its job, and the truck shuddered to a stop. Kat was frozen, unable to lift her hands from the wheel.

Rye reached across and turned the key, killing the idling motor. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.

“I’m fine,” Kat said automatically.
I’m mortified. I nearly got us killed. I’m a danger to myself and others.
“I’m fine,” she repeated. “How about you?”

Rye eased a hand beneath his seat belt once more. “I’m okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kat said, and her voice shook suspiciously. “I don’t know how that happened. One minute everything was fine, and then—” She cut herself off. “I could have killed us.”

“No blood, no foul,” Rye said.

Kat burst into tears.

“Hey,” he said. “Come on. You can drive out of this ditch. We don’t even need to get the truck towed.”

She nodded, as if she agreed with everything he said. At the same time, though, she was thinking that she was never going to drive again. She was never going to put herself in danger—herself or any innocent passenger. What if Susan had been with her? Or Mike, in his weakened state? What if, God forbid, Jenny had been sitting there?

She fumbled for the door handle and flung herself out of the truck. Rye met her by the hood, settling his firm hands on her biceps. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I can’t do this!” Her words came out more a shout than a statement.

“You’ve just been shaken up. You know the drill—back up on the horse that threw you.”

“I’m not a rodeo rider.”

“No, but you’re a dancer. And I have to believe that you stick with adversity on the stage better than this.”

She shook her head. This wasn’t dance. This wasn’t her career. This was—literally—life or death. She couldn’t think of working anymore for the day. “Please, Rye. Will you just drive me back to Rachel’s?”

He looked at her for a long time, but she refused to meet his eyes. Instead, she hugged herself, trying to get her breathing back under control, trying to get her body to believe that it wasn’t in imminent danger.

At last, Rye shrugged and walked around the cab of the truck, sliding into the driver’s seat with a disgruntled sigh. Kat took her place meekly, refusing to look at him as he turned the key in the ignition. The truck started up easily enough, and it only took a little manhandling to get it up the side of the ditch, back onto the road.

Rye knew that he should press the matter. He should make Kat get back behind the wheel. She had to get over her fear. If she walked away from driving now, she’d probably never return.

But who was he to force her to do anything? He was just a guy she’d met ten years before, a guy who lived in Richmond, who kept coming home to a little town in the middle of nowhere, because he couldn’t remember how to say no.

Kat
was the one who’d had the guts to leave for real. She was the one who’d gone all the way to New York, far enough that it had taken a real disaster to bring her back to Eden Falls. Not the piddling demands that his family made on him day after day.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. It had been a mistake to agree to renovate the dance studio. He was building his own life away from Eden Falls. He couldn’t let the first woman who’d caught his attention in months destroy his determination to make Harmon Contracting a success.

But he’d already done that, hadn’t he? He’d already roped himself into finishing that damned plumbing job. And repairing the ceiling leak wasn’t going to be easy, either. And he had a really bad feeling about what he’d find when he really looked at the hardwood floor.

He glanced over at Kat. What did Gran always say? “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He’d started teaching Kat how to drive, and he’d let her scare herself half to death. She was his responsibility now. It was up to him to convince her to change her mind. To find the nerve to get back in the truck—if not today, then tomorrow. Wednesday at the latest.

He barely realized that he was committing himself to spending half a week away from Richmond.

Kat hopped out as soon as Rye pulled into the driveway. She didn’t want to look at the weeds, at the lawn that was impossibly exhausted, even though it was only spring. “Thanks,” she said as she slammed her door, and she tried to ignore the hitch in her stride as her boot slipped on the gritty walkway.

Rye didn’t take the hint. He followed her to the front door, like a boy walking her home from a date.

Now, why did she think of that image? Rye wasn’t her boyfriend. And they most definitely had not been out on a date. Besides, it was broad daylight, the middle of the afternoon.

She opened the unlocked door with an easy twist of her wrist. Not daring to meet his eyes, she pasted a cheery smile on her face. “Thanks for all your help at the studio this morning. Everything’s coming along much faster than I thought it would.” She stepped back and started to close the door.

Rye caught the swinging oak with the flat of his palm. “Kat,” he said, but before he could continue, she saw him wince. He tried to hide the motion, but she was a dancer. She was an expert on all the ways that a body can mask pain.

“You
are
hurt!”

“It’s nothing major,” he said. “My shoulder’s just a little sore from the seat belt.”

“Come in here!” She opened the door wide, leaving him no opportunity to demur.

“I’m fine,” he said.

She marched him into the kitchen, switching on the overhead light. “Go ahead,” she said, nodding. “Take off your shirt. I need to see how bad this is.”

Rye shook his head. He was used to his mother clucking over him like a nervous hen. His sisters bossed him around. And now Kat was giving him orders like a drill sergeant. From long experience, he knew he’d be better off to comply now, while he still had some dignity intact. He undid the top two buttons of his work shirt before tugging the garment over his head.

That motion
did
twinge his shoulder, and he was surprised to see the darkening bruise that striped his chest. The seat belt had done its job admirably, keeping him safe from true harm, but he’d have a mark for a few days.

Kat’s lips tightened into a frown. “Ice,” she said. She turned toward the pantry with military precision, collecting a heavy-duty plastic bag. The freezer yielded enough ice cubes to satisfy her, and then she twisted a cotton dishrag around the makeshift cold pack.

“I don’t think—”

“I do.” She cut him off. “Believe me, I’ve had enough bruises that I know how to treat them.”

He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about her body being hurt, her creamy skin mottled with evidence of her harsh profession. As if he were accepting some form of punishment, he let her place the ice pack over his chest.

“That’s cold,” he said ruefully.

“That’s the idea.” There wasn’t any venom in her retort, though. Instead, her hands were gentle as she moved the ice, as she stepped closer, maneuvering the bag until it lay right along his collarbone. The action shifted the midnight curtain of her hair, and he caught a whiff of apricots and honey. Without thinking, he tangled his fingers in the smooth strands, brushing against her nape as he pulled her close. He heard her breath catch in her throat, but she didn’t try to edge away. He found her lips and claimed them with his own, a sweet kiss, chaste as schoolkids on a playground.

“There,” he whispered against her cheek. “That’s a little warmer.”

The rasp of his afternoon scruff against her face made Kat catch her breath. Her entire body was suddenly aware of the man before her, aware of him as a
man
, not just a collection of parts that could be manipulated into an entire encyclopedia of ballet poses. Her lips tingled where he had kissed her, ignited as if she had eaten an unexpected jalapeno.

Without making a conscious decision, she shifted her arms, settling into the long lines of his body. She felt his ribs against hers, measured the steady beat of his heart. She matched his legs to her own, shifting her thighs so that she could feel the solid strength of him. He chuckled as he found her lips again, and this time when he kissed her, she yielded to the gentle touch of his tongue.

Velvet against velvet, then, the soft pressure of eager exploration. She heard a sound, an urgent mew, and she realized with surprise that it rose from her own throat. His fingers, tangled in her hair, spread wide and cradled her head. She leaned back against the pressure, glorying in the sensation of strength and power and solid, firm control.

He lowered his lips to the arch of her neck, finding the solid drumbeat of her pulse. One flick of his tongue, another, and her knees grew weak, as if she had danced for an entire Master Class.

Danced. That was what she did. That was what she lived for.

She couldn’t get involved with a man in Eden Falls—or Richmond, either, for that matter. She was only visiting; she was heading north as soon as she straightened things out in her parents’ home, as soon as Rachel came back to keep an eye on Jenny.

Kat steeled herself and took a step away.

“I think heat might be better than ice for my shoulder,” Rye said, a teasing smile on his lips. He laced his fingers between hers.

Those fingers!

Kat remonstrated with herself to focus on what was important. She freed her hand and took another step back. “Ice is better for bruises.” She couldn’t avoid the confusion that melted into Rye’s gaze. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I…” She wasn’t sure what to say, didn’t know how to explain. “I shouldn’t have let myself get carried away.”

Carried away. He hadn’t begun to carry her away yet.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, and this time he heard something that sounded suspiciously like tears, laced beneath her words. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m only here for a few… I can’t… I belong in New York.”

You belong here
, he wanted to say.
Right beside me
. And then he wanted to prove that to her, in no uncertain terms.

But he had no doubt that those words would terrify her. She’d be right back to where she’d been in the ditch—rigid with fear. Rye forced himself to take a steadying breath. To let her go.

“Go ahead,” she said after her own shaky breath. “Take the ice pack. You can give me back the towel at the studio, tomorrow.”

Rye shrugged, resigning himself to her decision. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

She’d forgotten a lot. She’d forgotten that she was here to help out her parents. Her sister. Her niece. She’d forgotten that she lived in New York, that she had a life—a
career
—far away from Virginia. “What?” she croaked.

“You have a broken computer in the back of my pickup truck.”

“Oh!” She hesitated, uncertain of what to do.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and she sensed that he was laughing at her. “I’ll take it down to the shop.”

She frowned, and her fingers moved involuntarily toward his shoulder. “But get someone else to lift it out of the truck.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said again, but the glint in his eyes said that he was anything but a respectful schoolboy. She showed him to the door before she lost her resolve.

As she heard the truck come to life in the driveway, she shook her head in disbelief. Obviously, she’d been traumatized by her disaster of a driving lesson. She’d been terrified by the thought of dying in a ditch, and the adrenaline had overflowed here in the kitchen. She’d been overtaken by the basest of all her animal instincts.

Well, there was nothing to be done but to rein in those physical responses. Goals. Strategies. Rules. She grabbed a notepad from the drawer beneath the phone and started to revise her schedule for finishing up the studio renovation, for getting all the class records in order for the new term. If she pushed herself hard, she could be out of Eden Falls in one more week.