Carry Me Home by Rosalind James Page A

asked, sounding a little distracted, or maybe just like a woman with a good buzz on. “No, really, he’s not the best news, Zoe.”
    “Yeah. A little late, aren’t you,” Cal said. “Good thing I was on the job. And darlin’,” he told Zoe, “just because he’s not wearing a ring, that doesn’t mean he’s not married.”
    “Look for the little dent,” Rochelle put in, fingering the spot where her wedding ring had been. “That means they pulled it off right outside the door. Or that band of white where their tan stops.”
    “Oh, now you’re helpful,” Cal said.
    “Hey,” Deke said, “maybe she was having a good time. Dancing’s not a crime, even with a lower life form like Greg. She wasn’t taking him out into the parking lot. Just dancing.”
    “Thought I’d filled up your dance card for the night, anyway,” Cal told Zoe. “I’m gone five minutes, and it’s all over? Did all our promises mean nothing to you after all? Have the flowers of spring all withered and died?”
    “What?” She stared at him.
    “What, don’t geology ladies have any poetry in their souls?”
    “Ah . . . no, I guess. You’ve got me there.” She was struggling not to smile. “And anyway,” she went on, doing her proper thing again, seeming to forget that she was in a yellow lace dress and purple cowboy boots, and that that dress had dipped a little lower, ridden a little higher, while he’d been gone. There was quite a bit of firm, warm bare thigh right there next to him, and some—not cleavage, but call it just the barest bit of a shadow, up above. Which he wasn’t looking at. Much.
    “Anyway,” she said again, sitting up straight and putting her shoulders back, running a hand through that hair, and distracting him for a minute, “who died and made you the boss of my body?”
    She got a muffled snort out of Rochelle and some frank goggling from Deke for that.
    “Well, now,” Cal said, “that’s a real interesting question. Let’s get you another beer, get you out on the floor for another lesson, and see if we can come up with an answer. I’ve got a step I’d like to teach you. Called the Sweetheart. And I think you’d look real good doing it.”

    “You know that thing I told you about the thumb?” he asked her when he’d got her on his hip and sashayed across the floor with her, then had twirled her back into place, her feet moving perfectly with his now, her eyes sparkling to the driving music and the beer and, he sincerely hoped, him.
    “I remembered it,” she said.
    “Yeah, I saw that. Good job. But I may have neglected to mention one little item.”
    “What’s that?”
    He danced her backward toward the band, lifted his hand briefly toward the stage, moved it down in a flat motion, then put his hand back and spun her as the song ended. He waited a minute, kept hold of her until the drums started in again, as steady and insistent as the beating of his heart, and the guitar commenced a slow, sweet wail.
    He didn’t start dancing quite yet, though. Instead, he ran his hand up her arm, right over the smooth skin, all the way to that thumb gripping his shoulder. He stroked his own thumb over it, felt the way it tightened on him, then loosened under his caress.
    “The thumb’s optional,” he told her. He took his time sliding his hand back to her shoulder blade, enjoying every bit of the journey. He looked down into her eyes, and he could swear they darkened. No question, the pink lips had parted a little.
    “The thumb . . .” she said, swallowing with an effort, because he could see her slim throat working. “The thumb stays. You want to dance close, I’ll bet you could find a volunteer.”
    “Tempting,” he said, even though it wasn’t, not a bit. “But I guess I’ll stick with you.”
    They danced like that, nice and slow, but not nice and close, until Wayne ended the song, shrugged behind Zoe’s back, and switched it up. Up-tempo again, Wayne grinning at Cal, then launching