Marry A Man Who Will Dance

She fought to look anywhere but at him.

Impossible.

She winced and had to hold herself in check when she saw that there was blood on his cheek and that he was limping a little.

A dozen voices interrupted Mrs. B.

“What’s Blackstone doing here?” Irish, Ritz’s father’s foreman, demanded almost savagely.

Roque’s green eyes never left her.

Ritz felt as if electric currents vibrated in the air around her.

When she stiffened, the lines under his eyes tightened imperceptibly.

His skin was so brown. Everybody else was so white.

“Excuse me,” she whispered to no one in particular, desperate to get away from him and everybody else’s prying eyes.

A waiter held up a platter of lobster and pink salmon on a bed of parsley and offered to make her a plate. The fishy odor made her throat go dry. Hot little salty drops popped out on her forehead.

She couldn’t breathe. “No…please…just…take it…back to the kitchen…anywhere…”

She fought the urge to be sick and then bent double.

The last thing she saw was Roque. His swarthy, piratical face went white and his green eyes brightened with fierce concern. Then he rushed to help her.

“No…no….”

Tight spasms sent the contents of her stomach roiling up her throat.

The shock of his warm fingers at her waist made her forget everything else.

“Don’t touch me!”

“You okay?” he rasped.

Her cup and saucer smashed to the floor.

She tried to stand up and spin free of him, but his hand locked on her arm like a vise.

She expected his nastiest, most mocking smile.

The tenderness in his rough voice took her breath away as he dabbed at her mouth with his bandanna. His black hair fell in wild disarray around his shoulders.

“Are you going to have a baby?” His voice was raw; his glittering eyes stark and naked.

No. No. Just say no.

But she couldn’t. All the lies she should have shouted died in her throat.

“So it’s mine.” Again, his eyes met hers squarely, honestly.

“No. Of course not.” She fought to loosen herself from his bruising grip.

“You owe me the truth—this time!”

Still, she could only stand there, mute, agonized.

Finally, she pushed against his chest, but the more she fought, the more like steel his hands and arms and huge body became. She kicked at him and lost her balance, the leather sole of her shoe sliding on the polished floor.

Her hand hit the parquet floor before he could catch her. A sliver of china slashed her arm. Blood pooled.

Somebody screamed.

A woman.

Surely not her.

Then why was everybody staring at her? And why was Roque’s brown face spinning like a carved god’s in the midst of Josh’s shocked friends?

“I’ve got you now,” he said gently. “You’ve cut yourself.”

Livid red dribbled from her arm onto his brown hand and then to the white china chips. He lifted her to her feet.

Jet and Irish, dark figures in black, raced through the fascinated throng of mourners.

“—darling! Your coffee cup—” Somehow Mother Evans and Irish deftly pushed Roque aside.

“—shattered it!” Jet said.

“Your arm! Oh, dear!” Mother Evans began to fuss. “And you were sick again…Your dress!”

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Irish said, examining her arm, and although he was a cowboy, he would be the one to know.

Jet took over. “Socorro, get me a towel.”

And still, Mrs. Beasley couldn’t stop.

“—Josh was a gardener, grew all his own roses. She cut every one for the funeral, and then forgot to put them in water and let them wither—”

“—too bad she couldn’t be faithful—”

“—big money—”

“—hers. Keller money, you know—”

“—thought they cut her off—”