The Boss and His Cowgirl(24)

“Oh. Nothing. Clumsy feet.”

She glanced up at him, her lashes fluttering, eyes glistening. Clay realized she wasn’t wearing her glasses and a part of him kind of missed their black-framed heaviness on her face. She must be wearing contacts—and looked extremely uncomfortable doing so.

“Do you want to take the contacts out and put your glasses back on?”

Georgie swallowed a sigh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

“No, I’ll be fine.” Her brow knit for a moment. “Why is that woman giving me the evil eye?”

With a casual twist of his head, Clay checked out the knot of people Georgie indicated by inclining her head their direction. In their midst stood a woman he knew well. Pearl Hudson, widow of the man whose seat Clay had taken in the senate, raised an eyebrow as she looked down her nose at Georgie.

And that pissed Clay off. Royally. While Mrs. Hudson was known as a Washington society maven, she was also known to be a complete snob. “Don’t worry about her, Georgie. That’s Pearl Hudson.”

“Senator Hudson’s widow?”

“That would be her. And she’s notorious for creating scenes. There are a few people here I need to speak to so we’ll just stay out of her way.”

“Easy for you to say,” Georgie muttered under her breath. “She’s not cutting you into bite-size pieces with her eyes.”

* * *

By the time dinner was announced, Georgie’s feet were killing her. She managed to keep a smile on her face and not stumble through the receiving line. She managed protocol with the president and first lady, the secretary of state, and the Malaysian ambassador and his wife. She managed to sink halfway gracefully into the chair Clay held for her. She navigated dinner conversation and the place settings for the six-course dinner, all without incident.

After dessert, the guests were herded to the other end of the hall and into the East Room. A small orchestra from the navy occupied a dais at one end. Then the music started. Dancing. No one mentioned dancing. The Texas two-step was beyond her. How could she manage the waltz?

Clay took her hand, his fingers warm and strong as they wrapped around hers. “Relax, Georgie. This is the easy part.”

No, no it wasn’t. She’d flunked this part of charm school, branded with a big, fat F for Fail. Fairly certain the whites of her eyes were showing, she reluctantly followed him toward the dance floor. The president danced with the Malaysian ambassador’s wife, while the first lady danced with the ambassador. After a few measures of music, others joined the twirling couples.

Stopping and facing her, Clay gathered her right hand in his left and placed his right hand against the small of her back. In time with the music, he stepped into her and she stumbled backward, her left hand automatically bracing against his shoulder. His right arm shifted and tightened, holding her close. He stepped again, this time to the side, then he stepped back, moving her with him.

“See? Not hard. One, two, three.” He smiled and stepped forward again, forcing her back. “Right foot back, left foot to the side, right foot together. Left foot forward, right foot side, left foot together.” He dipped his face toward her ear. “And remember to breathe, Georgie. That’s important.”

Was he laughing at her? She leaned back. He was smiling, and his eyes sparkled like cognac in leaded crystal, but he wasn’t mocking her. She breathed. And relaxed. He moved her around the room, and at one point, he leaned close again. His breath ruffled the stray strand of her hair that had escaped her careful chignon.

“It’s permissible to smile, too.”

Georgie laughed—loudly enough that heads turned. She curled her lips between her teeth and bit down, fighting the urge to hide her face against Clay’s starched shirt and tux jacket. When she looked up, he winked at her and twirled her out then back into his arms.

“See? Easy.”

“When one is handsome and accomplished, of course it is.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

She missed the next step but Clay was there to steady her. His expression portrayed genuine curiosity. Rather than the flippant answer hovering on the tip of her tongue, Georgie swallowed and considered. “Yes. You’re handsome. When you walk into a room, people notice. Women notice.” I notice, she wanted to yell.

“What makes me handsome?” Again, she caught a sense of curiosity rather than ego.

“High cheekbones. Strong jaw. Aristocratic nose. Your hair is...” How could she tell him that her fingers itched to comb through his perfectly styled hair to mess it up and feel its thick, silky texture against her skin. She’d give almost anything to see him with bedhead. “Your hair is dark and luxurious. Rich. And your eyes. How do I explain about your eyes?”