37

As the last strains of “The Days of Wine and Roses” faded into the twilight, she removed her hand from Robert’s shoulder.

“I’d love to have another dance with you this evening,” whispered Robert as they walked off the dance floor together. His gentle hand on her arm guided her through the throngs of couples.

“Oh-kay.” But she hoped her dance card would be filled by a certain detective.

At their table, Val wore a bemused look. Stephen was still eating. Mike scribbled notes in his ubiquitous notepad, keeping his eyes glued on the paper.

She sighed. Just another work night for Mike. She’d managed to build this evening into way more than it meant to him. How stupid could you be? Robert nodded to everyone and asked Val for the next dance.

Val jumped to her feet as the band started a tango. “Great. My husband, the cardiologist, is still stuffing his face. If I wait on him, I’ll be waiting all night. I’m itching to get out there and show off my moves.”

“Now you’re in for it,” hooted Stephen at the look of mock horror that crept across Robert’s face as he recognized the tune and its sultry beat.

Val grabbed Robert’s hand and pulled him out onto the dance floor. “I intend to get my five hundred dollars’ worth.”

Mike jammed the notepad into his jacket. “So do I. Or the department’s money, that is.” He grabbed her hand. “Shall we, Miz Monaghan?” Dragging her out of her chair, he propelled her onto the floor.

“I don’t know how to tango.”

“All I know is, they say it takes two,” he drawled.

With a suddenness that stopped her breath, he dipped her.

As he led her in the formal dance sequence, she had several simultaneous thoughts: (1) Mike had done this dance before; (2) thank God Claire had foreseen this kind of situation when she hemmed her dress; and (3) where had this Cherokee mountain boy learned to tango so well?

“If I haven’t said so lately, I like your friends.” He arched his brows. “Makes a nice change from the psychopaths and drug-crazed killers I usually get to spend Friday nights with.”

She was having trouble talking and concentrating on her steps at the same time. “They decided to like you once they were sure you weren’t going to charge me with murder.”

He held her hand in a vise, and under his expert guidance, she did a twirl under his arm. It was a maneuver made possible by his six-foot, four-inch height. She smiled at the sheer pleasure of the movement.

“Don’t smile,” he growled, low in his throat. “The tango is meant to be fierce and passionate and intense.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, puh-leeze. Where did you learn to dance like this?”

“My niece, at the School of the Arts in Winston, majored in dance performance. You wouldn’t believe the number of dance recitals I’ve attended over the years. Not to mention,” he said with a sheepish expression, “that I watched a YouTube video all day per Brooke’s long-distance instructions to brush up on my cotillion skills.” He dipped her again and lunged over her with a menacing glare.

“Well, stop it.”

He brought her back to eye level. People were starting to stare, amused. Val grinned over Robert’s shoulder. Robert, when he turned, did not.

“You’re making a spectacle of us. I thought the word was inconspicuous?”

“Can’t help it.” He negotiated a tricky move. “Some of us are born to dance.”

Alison laughed loud enough to be heard over the orchestra. Heads turned in their direction again. She blushed but continued to chuckle when she regained her breath.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much. It felt good. Correction, Mike always made her feel good. And alive.

Tugging at her hand, he pulled her off the dance floor and into a shadowy alcove under an enormous Southern magnolia. Away from the lights and the people, the distant, muted music created its own ambience.

Her pulse staccato-stepped. “Mike, what are you doing?”

Faintly, she heard the music wind down to a stop.

He gave her a wolfish grin. “I’m dancing with the prettiest girl at the party.”

She quivered, but not because she was cold. “The music has stopped.”

He pulled her toward him. “Didn’t notice. How about dancing a little shag?”

“You know how to shag?”

Mike broadened his chest. “Hey, I may not look that smart, but I did attend college in North Carolina. Who doesn’t learn to shag in the Carolinas?”

Her lips parted. “What about the music?”

“We’ll make our own.” He sang a stanza about Carolina girls.

Repressing the urge to laugh, she let him lead her through the familiar 1-2-3, back 2-3, rock step.

“You don’t like my singing?”

Actually, he had a nice, if rusty, baritone. No need to let him know it, though. Would go straight to that large, already oversized ego.

He twirled her through an elaborate pretzel move. His left arm around her shoulders, his right hand holding hers, he led her in a half circle step-kick maneuver before returning to the basics. She giggled.

Ignoring her, he belted out a faster-paced tune about “Kokomo” and something to the effect of getting there fast and then taking it slow, alternating between a froggy bass and a clear-as-a-bell falsetto.

She laughed right in his face as he pulled her toward him at the 1-2-3. “This is ridiculous. What are we doing?” She stopped laughing at the look on his face in the moonlight.

His eyes met hers, traveled to the vicinity of her lips, and then meandered back to her eyes once more. “What are we doing, Alison?”

She fondled the necklace at her throat. “I . . . I don’t know, Mike.”

He tightened his hold. “What do you want us to do from here on out, Alison?”

She moistened her lips. “I don’t know that, either.” She craved the touch of his lips upon hers. Wanted it badly, but longing warred with fear.

He tilted her chin, his thumb caressing her jawline. “Why are you so afraid?”

Dropping her gaze, she studied the toes of her shiny shoes. What was she afraid of? Mike? the “us” part? or herself?

Maybe all of the above.

Cupping the sides of her face in his hands, he drew her face toward his own. Stopping just short of her mouth, he allowed her the chance to pull away if she wanted.

Instead, her arms slid up his back, and she pressed him toward her, closing the gap. Her lips parted. His mouth descended.

As the stubble of his five o’clock shadow scrape against the smoothness of her cheek, their lips touched and fused. Incredible sweetness like a barely remembered dream. A tenderness. She moaned.

And on her part at least—this shocked her to the depths of her soul—a hunger. Not for anything necessarily physical, but for so much more. A realization of what she now only glimpsed might be possible with this man. She deepened the kiss, and he made a sound in the back of his throat.

He pulled away first, leaving her skin suddenly and achingly cold. She shivered and brought two fingers to rest against her now bare lips. Feeling bereft of him, she blushed, thinking of her forwardness. So not Alison Monaghan.

She was pleased to note he seemed to be having as much trouble as she was in regaining his breath. They stared at each other, unsure what to say or do next.

He opened his arms, and she came, resting her chin against his shoulder. He ran one hand underneath her hair against the back of her neck, cradling her. “I need to tell you—”

Tensing, she saw Bill and Linda Lawrence arrive.

“What?” Mike asked as she squeezed his shoulder.

“They’re here.” The spell broke.

He swung her around so he could get a better view. He snorted. “Bonnie and Clyde? Give me a break.”

“How arrogant and appropriate considering their eventual fate.”

“Don’t make me search you for a weapon, Miz Monaghan.” He grinned. “Although in that there getup, I have no idea how you’d conceal a firearm.”

That was as backhanded a compliment as she’d ever heard. Typical Mike. Eloquent he was not. But she was finding his other attributes more than made up for his lack of a silver tongue.

“No worries.” She stepped out of the circle of his arms. “I’m more than content to leave the fireworks to you.”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that. Real-life police work isn’t like the TV shows with guns ablazing.” He steered her toward their table. “Best definition of police work is ‘days of absolute boredom followed by moments of sheer terror.’ I hope for the best but train for the worst.”

She and Mike rejoined Robert, Val, and Stephen at the table. Robert scowled. Val smiled, implike. “Where’d you two wander off to?”

Mike motioned toward Alison. “Keep an eye on this one. I need to have a quick chat with Mrs. Walston.” He jerked his head over to where Ginny Walston, regal in a bustled lavender silk dress, stood alone, scanning the crowd.

Alison bristled. “I don’t need a keeper.”

“Sure you do, honey.” Val picked at the strawberry trifle Stephen handed her.

Robert started around the table to her. The band played another gentle waltz. Uh-oh. How would she handle—?

“Mind if I steal your partner for one teensy dance?” Winnie, in a sheer white Greek toga that complemented her Greek heritage, slipped out of the darkness between Alison and the approaching Robert. His smile never disappeared completely, although it wavered.

“Not at all.” She bit back a smile, wondering if Professor Dandridge in his tell-all book about Weathersby realized the Greeks had, in “History According to Winnie,” settled Weathersby and America long before the English colonists.

Gallant to a fault, Robert offered Winnie his arm and gave Alison a regretful look. “Next time,” he mouthed over his shoulder.

With Robert’s back turned, Alison gave an audible sigh of relief.

Stephen cleared his throat and mentioned something about seeing a former patient of his before sidling off.

“You should take a load off those fancy gold slippers of yours”—Val dipped her spoon deep into the layers of the trifle—“and try this. If it was chocolate, it’d be sinful.” She licked the spoon. “Now wipe that moonstruck look off your face—I expect mega details tomorrow—and help me eat this before I lose control and gain ten pounds I don’t need and you do.” She held out an extra spoon.

Reaching for it, Alison felt a tiny tap-tap on her shoulder.

Ivy stood, hands on hips, glaring, her hoop-skirted brown taffeta dress swaying from the abruptness of her motions. “Instead of partying like a teenager, I expect my staff and the board members to supervise the tours our real guests with the deep pockets expect of the true star of this evening.” She swept a dramatic hand across the broad expanse of the house behind her, “Weathersby.”

Before she or Val knew what was happening, Ivy grabbed her by the exposed tender flesh on the back of her arm and tugged her along toward the house. Val rose to her feet, but one foot got caught in the lower rung of the chair. She half fell into the rest of her trifle. “Ali!”

She looked over her shoulder and shrugged as Ivy prodded her like a herd of cattle along the path. “Tell Mike I’m in the—Ow!” Ivy pinched the back of her arm. “I’m coming, Ivy. Stop pushing me around.” And for once, glad of her nine-inch advantage, shook herself like a wet dog free of Ivy’s grabby little hands.

Once inside, passing by the dining room, she got a hurried glimpse of a formal painting of Prudence Weathersby, wife of the creepy-eyed Oliver, and realized Ivy had styled her hair and dress in direct imitation of the first Weathersby matriarch. A Victorian lace cap topped Ivy’s brassy curls. Ivy’s garnet earrings and a silver locket glimmered in the multifaceted crystal pendants of the 150-year-old chandelier.

Something tugged at her memory, but before she could capture it, Ivy yanked on her sleeve, propelling her deeper into the house, past the gaggle of guests strolling through the dining room and parlor. They headed for the older, pre-Revolution part of the house that led to the modern kitchen area. Overhead, taffeta rustled and floorboards creaked.

Ivy tightened her half-fingered, lacy-gloved grip on her arm as she stopped at the base of the stairs. “As for you . . .” Her sallow complexion glowed in the vibrancy of the electrically converted wall sconces, her great, golden green eyes gleaming.

“There she is, Henry. Safe and sound as I told you.” Ginny appeared from the connecting door of the docent area with Henry Dandridge on her arm. He was in full turn-of-the-century splendor.

Releasing her hold on Alison, Ivy let out an exasperated breath.

His hand trembled on the silver-headed cane he carried. “Ivy? I didn’t know where you’d gotten to.”

“I’m working, Henry.”

“When are we going to do the dance we’ve been practicing? I’ve been waiting for hours.”

Ivy pulled at Henry. A brief tug-of-war ensued. “After my speech welcoming everyone, Henry. A few more minutes, I promise. I’ll get you some punch.” She patted him on the back and glared at Ginny. Ginny glared back.

Alison shivered, realizing how cold she was. The air-conditioning must be roaring, and she’d left her wrap on the back of her chair.

A long shadow fell between her and the others. Mike stood on the threshold separating the antebellum addition from the colonial portion of the house. Her wrap hung like spun gold from his fingers. A frown creased his forehead.

“Thought you might need this.” He panted, as if he’d been running.

Had he been tailing Ginny?

Alison reached for the stole.

Ivy’s gaze ping-ponged between Alison and Mike. “Perhaps Ginny can help me instead, by encouraging our guests in the house to gather by the dance pavilion for my welcome address.”

“And the Mayor’s.” Ginny stroked the rose-tinted cameo pinned to the antique lace edging her pale throat with her forefinger as if soothing a fractious child.

Ivy narrowed her eyes to slits.

Ginny’s ginger kiss curls on the top of her forehead—reminding Alison of a picture she’d seen once of the doomed Empress Alexandra Romanov—quivered with a strange vibe. Was Ginny inebriated again?

“Of course.” Alison reached for Mike’s arm, glad to escape the house and get out into the warm April air with its music and company.

At their unoccupied table, a waiter handed her a fluted glass of bubbling liquidity from the tray he balanced on his shoulder. Curling her lip with distaste, she set it beside her plate.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Mike refused one for himself. “You don’t drink?”

She laughed, a mirthless sound. “Not likely I’d ever want to with a raging alcoholic for a mother.”

He pursed his lips. “I never drink, either.”

She tilted her head, a question on her face.

“I know the stereotype about the hard-drinking cop, but like you, I have genetic reasons to avoid it like the plague. Alcohol was my dad’s solace before the mine caved in and killed him. My older sister drank herself to death before she was thirty.”

She was about to comment on their shared misery, but there was a sudden lull in the music as the mayor and Hilary mounted the small platform and approached the podium. Val, Stephen, and a partnerless Robert rejoined them at the table. As the closest table to the house, Ivy gently steered Henry into an available seat at their table.

Hilary directed the wait staff to ensure everyone had a drink in hand and offered a toast to honor the long and worthy history of Weathersby, to the mayor, and to the fair city of Raleigh. Applause spattered the night.

Erica and Todd stood at the edge of the circle of light behind her. She didn’t see Ginny. Winnie plopped herself, chiffon all aflutter, into an extra seat.

“Alison?” Winnie whispered across the table. “I know I was late with my travel reimbursement form, but I’ve,” lowering her eyes to the tablecloth, “overextended my credit card this month. How soon do you think you could have a check ready for me?”

Seriously?

Was she never off the Weathersby clock?

“Sorry, Winnie. I meant to take care of that today, but last-minute crises for the ball took my day. I promise to have it for you first thing Monday.”

Winnie frowned, her full lips in a pout, “Well, if that’s the best you can do, I suppose I’ll have to wait for Monday.”

And to Alison’s dismay, Natalie loped up and put a predatory arm on first Robert and then Mike. Mike brushed her off like a worrisome wasp.

She smiled her man-eating tigress smile at Alison, leaned back, and said for Alison’s ears only, “How you keep all the eligible men by your side, I’ll never understand. But then, I forgot,” she laughed. “As we both know, Frank was prone to wander.”

Clenching the sides of her dress in her fists, she turned her back on Natalie. She’d read a verse from Ephesians about anger. She repeated it silently.

Twice.

Robert snagged a passing waiter and commandeered a glass of water for her. He was, she’d noticed, an observant and thoughtful man. Was Robert for real, as Claire would say? Or, too good to be true?

The mayor called everyone’s attention to the small fireworks display set up by the professionals who oversaw the city’s annual Fourth of July show. The crowd gasped at the sudden burst of sound as a rocket with its white tail of smoke flung blue, red, and white diamonds of light into the night sky. Everyone turned as one entity, eyes gazing heavenward, at the next spectacular display of spiraling blue pinwheels and flashes of white.

At the conclusion, the crowd burst into applause, and Ivy stood at the podium. Henry sat where he’d been left, clutching the head of his cane with his head sunk forward over both hands. Waiters moved about gathering empty glasses or refilling others upon request.

Ivy did her bit for Weathersby, thanking the honored guests assembled, explaining future plans for expansion, and encouraging hearty donations while members of the board roamed through the crowd collecting premailed donor pledge envelopes.

The envelopes were deposited with Bill and Linda, seated at a small table to the left of the platform. Mike stood with his feet spread even with his hips, tense and at attention. He never took his eyes off Bonnie and Clyde while they recorded the entries in an accounting log by the glow of the hurricane lantern at their table.

Robert and, unfortunately, Natalie returned to their table.

“Thirsty work collecting money for our worthy cause.” Natalie grabbed for her glass on the table, but it had been taken away. She swiped one of the two glasses gracing Alison’s place and not the one filled with water.

“Since you don’t appear to want this, I’ll help myself.” Throwing her head back, the dark feather in the cloche hat bobbed. She downed the contents in one swift gulp. Natalie plunked the goblet on the table where it gave off a tiny crystal ping.

Natalie gave a nasty laugh, low in her throat. “But then, I seem to make a habit of that, don’t I Alison, of taking what should belong to you.”