Hostile Takeover, Hill, W [recommended books to read .TXT] 📗

the need to do so. “I was crying on the back-porch swing. You came out with a corsage of fresh forget-me-nots and roses, and a handkerchief. You told me any guy worth my time would always come to me with flowers and a handkerchief. One to make me smile, and the other to dry my tears, because a smart guy knows women need to cry as much as they need to laugh. It was good advice on judging which guys were worth my time.”

She touched the disk. “So I pressed three of the forget-me-nots, and a friend who likes making jewelry designed the collar and pendant.”

He paused in lifting his whiskey. Before he could respond to that startling statement, the waiter was there, asking for their order. “We need a few more minutes,” he said brusquely. When the waiter nodded, retreated, Ben leaned forward. “Marcie—”

“You sat on the swing with me, kept me distracted.” She was lost in the memory, tracing the edge of the wineglass. “Everyone else decorated the front yard with lights, turned on music. Any of the neighbors who wanted to relive their prom day were invited. There was food, dancing. It became a party. You and I danced. Do you remember?”

They were near Frenchmen Street, which meant there was always music in the air. He’d chosen a restaurant across the street from a hole-in-the-wall club renowned for local-band favorites. As a result they’d enjoyed the music while eating, but it hadn’t been so loud they couldn’t talk. Now she tilted her head, drawing his attention to the bluesy jazz piece playing. Giving him an infectious smile, she rose from the chair, tugged on his hand. “Let’s dance now. Just one song. I can’t believe I’m back in New Orleans. I’ve missed it so much here.”

He closed his fingers on hers, holding her in place. “Marcie.”

She leaned against his grip, trusting him not to let go as she swayed back and forth. “Are you worried about what people will think, us dancing on the sidewalk? Have you forgotten how to cut loose and have fun, Ben?”

He sighed, tossed down the napkin. Their outdoor seating was cordoned off with a painted iron fence hung with bright beads and fresh potted flowers. He delighted her by putting his hip on it, swinging over, and in the same motion, curled a strong arm around her waist and brought her over as well. He rolled her into an easy Cajun two-step, twirling her out and under his smoothly moving hands, taking her around his body.

She laughed out loud as he caught her hips, kept her in place as he stayed behind her, doing the footwork in tandem and out to the side, then bringing her back for the turns and the two-step basic again. It didn’t take much to get people in New Orleans to dance, so several couples joined them almost immediately.

Marcie reveled in the feel of his hands on her. She knew the steps, but not as well as he did, so she followed his lead. He more than met the challenge, directing her without hurry or hesitation, comfortable in that role as he always seemed to be. To the outside viewer, he was just a capable dancer, but anyone who had the craving in her blood as she did would see it, feel it.

She knew he’d picked up on her ploy, having him order the meal for them both, but he had no idea what it did to her, watching him assume command of a situation where her only preference was to trust his direction. And now, how he took control of her movements so easily…she was content to stay in this moment forever.

This man was meant to control and lead a woman in ways that would overwhelm her with pleasure, open the deepest wells of her heart, the places she was afraid to surrender. She’d put the white flag in his hands, happy to have him tie it around her wrists, binding him to her.

They did two songs, going from the Cajun two-step into the faster jig, improvising some freestyle steps that had them both laughing. It brought her heart in her throat. Ben hadn’t laughed during dinner, not once. Cass had mentioned he’d gotten more serious these past couple years. Marcie had seen it when she first stepped into his office, in his green eyes, the tighter set of his mouth. He’d always been the jokester of the group. But even then she’d known what they saw now, that sometimes it was more habit than true levity. Whatever demons plagued him, she hoped she was helping to push them away. She wanted to do it forever.

On those turns and brushes, she took full advantage, making sure his grasp fell lower on her hips than he intended. She worked herself in closer to his body, pressing full against it before she stepped back for the next turn. He was solid and strong, so sure on his feet, his large hands bringing heat and pleasure even in a casual touch. She was glad for the nature of dance itself, the way it let worries be set aside for a little while, allowing what both dancers wanted to come to the surface.

The band took a break, the club switching to a DJ. Recognizing the Jennifer Paige song Crush, she bit back a snort. Perfect timing.

It didn’t matter. Ben was a smart guy. Her feelings at sixteen wouldn’t have evolved and persevered this many years unless they were something else. The song actually illustrated the point, the lyrics suggesting the singer knew it was far more than a crush, that she was just trying to fool herself. Ben was probably doing the same, maybe even trying to convince himself he was the one suffering a crush now. She would love knowing that, that she was starting to be an inseparable part of his thoughts, the way he’d been of hers for so long.

Those two years of travel and staying away