‘Don’t be defeatist,’ she scolded.
‘I’m a realist.’
But it seemed that Sally had no plans to give up on him.
‘Let’s look at this another way, then.’ Tapping a finger against her lips, she watched him thoughtfully. ‘Let me see. You’re a wine connoisseur. Why don’t you think of the waltz as a fine red?’
His eyebrows arched with bemusement. ‘How is that supposed to help?’
‘Imagine Diana Devenish as some kind of exquisite Cabernet Sauvignon—rich and complex, yet mysterious. You give her a swirl and admire her finer qualities, including her fabulous legs, and all the while you’re careful not to spill a drop. You take the wine slowly, savouring every sip as it glides smoothly down your throat. Except you’re gliding along the dance floor instead!’
Logan grinned. ‘That kind of works for me. I’ll give it a go.’
Once again, she stepped towards him, took his hand and assumed the dancing position. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand at her bra line and tried to ignore her tantalising, silky-soft skin. Sally was amazing. Fancy likening the waltz to wine. But it worked. He could picture it. How many intriguing layers were there to this girl?
‘OK, let’s glide, Logan.’
Drawing Sally in, Logan glided. One, two, three. Strong, soft, soft. She was light and graceful in his arms and, as they whirled, he caught wafts of her enticing, tormenting perfume. And somewhere, in the midst of it all, he gave up worrying and let go, giving in, at last, to the moment, to the flow of the music.
Sally was probably right. Dancing was like drinking fine wine. He certainly longed to know how she tasted, couldn’t shake the feeling that she would be one of those rare finds, imparting a surprisingly delicious aftertaste that left him wanting more.
Yes, he definitely wanted more, wanted Sally’s slender curves pressed more closely against him, wanted her soft lips—
Logan stumbled. ‘I’m so sorry.’
In the next breath he realised that his stumble hadn’t been caused by his own inadequacies, but by Sally, who had stopped dancing and was now slipping out of his arms.
Flushed and trembling, she stood with her hands buried in the folds of her skirt, not looking at him.
‘That—that was very good,’ she said. ‘You’re really getting the hang of it.’
‘You’re a very good teacher,’ he assured her and he might have added more compliments but, watching her intently, he realised that something was wrong. Very wrong.
How had this sudden change happened? Why? Had he held her too tightly? God forbid she’d sensed the direction of his thoughts.
She still wouldn’t look at him and she had completely lost her sparkle. Clouds had arrived to cover the stars.
‘That’s probably enough for one night,’ she said.
What could he do but agree?
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I really appreciate your help.’
One corner of her mouth lifted into a sadly wry smile, then she turned and crossed the room and switched off the music and the silence seemed to echo in the big empty room.
‘And now I must pay you,’ Logan said.
‘Oh, no.’ Sally’s hands rose to stop him. ‘There’s no need. I’m happy to do this—but I’m not a professional.’
He cursed himself for handling this so clumsily. ‘I’m going to need more tuition before the ball.’
She nodded unhappily.
‘Perhaps I could take you to dinner in lieu of payment.’ It was an idea that had just come to him and he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. ‘After all, you’ll be giving up your evenings.’
Eyes fixed on her clasped hands, Sally continued to look unhappy. ‘I don’t think dinner’s a good idea.’
‘Why ever not?’
She looked up then and her blue eyes shone with an unnatural intensity. ‘It would be too much like a date.’
‘And that’s a crime?’
‘You’re my boss, remember?’
‘Well, yes. That’s…true.’ Logan scratched his jaw. Somehow, his original plan to keep business and pleasure apart no longer made any sense. He was quite sure that he and Sally should have dinner together. The sooner the better. ‘Let’s keep Blackcorp out of this. You’ll be sacrificing your evenings to help me. Surely I owe you one dinner.’
Chin lifted, Sally answered him with a long and challenging stare. ‘Isn’t there someone who might object if we had dinner together?’
‘I can’t think of anyone.’
Her eyes widened. ‘What about the white roses women?’
‘The who?’