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Just as suddenly as the sharpness came to his eyes, it turned to a glinting humor. His mouth quirked in a near-smile. “Someone out there is a very lucky man.”
His low-pitched voice was lazy and warm, but it was the absence of a drawled delivery that caught Cat’s ear. “You don’t live in Texas, do you? Where are you from?”
“The Dakotas, originally.”
Her glance went to the glossy black of his hair, its length neatly trimmed. Curious and way beyond being conscious of it, Cat reached up and traced a sharply defined cheekbone with her fingertip.
“Are you part Indian?” she wondered, idly liking the sensation of his warm skin beneath her finger.
“Quarter Sioux.”
“With gray eyes?” she murmured idly.
“There are some who claim Crazy Horse had gray eyes.”
“Really.” Cat found herself once again trapped by his compelling gray eyes.
It was suddenly impossible to look anywhere else but into them. Needs too long repressed began surfacing, leaving Cat little room to question the judgment of her actions. She ached to be held, to feel a man’s arms around her.
“Tell me, Dakota,” she whispered, feeling oddly breathless, “do you dance?”
“You mean, other than a war dance?” he murmured, a faint glitter of amusement in his eyes.
She laughed with a reckless enjoyment of the moment that she hadn’t felt since Repp died. “Or a rain dance, or a sun dance,” Cat added, carrying his thought further. “Just a plain and simple dance, that’s all I want, Dakota.”
But it wasn’t really all she wanted.
“I think I can manage that.” He took the margarita from her and set it on the bar next to his long-necked beer bottle.
Spell or attraction—whichever it was—Cat readily surrendered to it when he shaped his hand to the small of her back and guided her onto the dance floor. The song was a slow one, an old standard that mirrored too closely her feelings, except she had no ribbons that he could take from her hair. It was already down, lying against her shoulders. She closed her ears to the song’s words and turned into his arms.
She slid a hand onto the slope of his shoulder and felt the banding of solid muscle beneath the white fabric of his shirt. His arm circled the back of her waist. It was the first time in months that a man’s arm had gone around her for a reason other than comfort and sympathy. The warm sensation of it nearly dragged a moan from her throat. Until that moment Cat hadn’t realized how much she had craved a man’s touch.
He didn’t draw her close to him. To Cat, it was like being thirsty and given only a small sip of water. Wanting more, she moved closer, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder. The enveloping warmth of his body heat was like a healing fire, restoring awareness to senses that had been numbed by grief’s pain. Eyes closed, she began to notice the mix of scents clinging to his skin: the heady fragrance of aftershave, the clean smell of soap, and his own earthy odor, all tinted with traces of bar smoke and liquor’s sweetness. She felt the brush of his legs against hers as they moved to the music, her hand clasped in the smoothness of his while she listened to the strong, solid beat of his heart.
His hand tightened their grip on her fingers. He tipped his head down, the warmth of his breath fanning her cheek. “You never told me your name.” His low voice rumbled from someplace deep inside him.
“Cat.” Her answer was instinctive and honest. Instantly Cat knew she didn’t want an exchange of names. Names led to a discussion of backgrounds and family histories. The man was a stranger to her; she wanted to keep it that way. Drawing back, she tilted her head up to look into his smoky gray eyes, then took the truth and twisted it. “Maggie the Cat, that’s me.”
Amusement glinted in his eyes, giving them a quicksilver gleam. “The one on the hot tin roof?”
For the blink of a second, Cat didn’t make the connection. Then she laughed at the irony of her choice. When
she had innocently paired her name with her mother’s, she hadn’t given a thought to the character in the Tennessee Williams play. But she remembered her now—how very sensual she had been—and how very desperate and frustrated, aching to love and be loved, and denied that need. It seemed singularly appropriate.
“That is exactly the one I am,” Cat declared in a suddenly reckless mood. “You would have recognized me straight off if I’d been wearing my slip.”
“Ah, yes, the famous slip,” he said with an easy nod. “I knew something was missing.”
“That’s it.” Her glance drifted down to study the lazy curve of his lips.
His mouth was close, close enough to kiss. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted that and more, much more. She wanted all that the fates had denied her with Repp. Rising on her toes, Cat leaned closer until only a centimeter separated their lips. Her breath mingled with his and shallowed out, the sensitive surfaces of her lips tingling with the nearness of him.
“Should I be looking over my shoulder for Paul Newman?” When he spoke, she felt his lips form every word, though they barely touched hers.
“Silly,” Cat whispered. “You are Paul Newman.”
“Is that why I have the feeling I’m being seduced?” This time he made deliberate contact, touching her lips in a brushing nuzzle.
