Marry A Man Who Will Dance. Ann Major

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      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—”

      Through it all, Roque stared at her. Only at her.

      “—all that messy yellow hair. She doesn’t look like a border saint to me—”

      “—there’s too many of them—”

      “—shouldn’t help them—”

      “—overrunning us—”

      “—her work at the colonias was just her excuse to get away from Josh so she could sleep with all those other men—”

      Roque’s aquiline features hardened.

      Her own nerves clamored as if every cell in her being was tuned to him. Only to him.

      She was pregnant…with his child…again. And he knew it.

      He wasn’t a powerless boy from Mexico, the despised son of his evil rich white father anymore.

      Jet had the towel around Ritz’s arm now and was squeezing. “It’s just a scratch. You’ll be fine in a minute.”

      “Thank you,” Ritz whispered brokenly. “I—I think I need to go upstairs and lie down.”

      “—didn’t shed a single tear at the wake,” came the unstoppable Mrs. Beasley.

      “I did, too!” Ritz whispered. “When I was chopping onions…for Mother Evans’s caviar.”

      Just then Roque’s dark, masculine eyebrow flicked upward in sardonic mockery.

      “Shh,” Jet said.

      “I promised Josh I would cry. That’s why I chopped….”

      “It doesn’t matter,” Jet said, pulling her gently away from the others.

      “No…not that way…” she pleaded when Roque stepped in front of them.

      But it was already too late.

      “I’ll take it from here,” Roque said, blocking their path. His jaw was square, his fierce eyes dark emerald. The cut on his cheek blazed.

      Everybody held his breath, but anyone who expected a scene was disappointed. Jet stepped meekly aside. And Ritz let herself be led by Roque Blackstone upstairs to her bedroom.

      Not even Irish attempted to rescue her.

      The minute they were in her room Roque closed the door, his eyes zeroing in on the pile of slashed strips of black fabric scattered messily all over the floor and then on her open suitcases spread across her bed.

      Ritz went white. Why hadn’t she thought? She should have directed him to any other room. But she’d been too upset to think.

      Roque knelt and lifted a scrap of black wool and then another of silk and waggled them beneath her nose. “What the hell is going on?”

      “Nothing.” She took a breath. “While you amuse yourself, I’ll go brush my teeth.”

      Next he leaned across her bed to finger a lacy bra and a pair of sheer panties that spilled out of her suitcase. “Nothing? Taking a trip?”

      Her cheeks heated. “Give those to me!” When she tried to snatch her panties from him, he held on, stretching the elastic.

      “Nice panties,” he said. “Fit for a princess.” He let them go with a snap.

      “I—I…went to the closet to hunt for a black dress…to wear today,” she began in a rush, wadding her panties, throwing them at her suitcase.

      “Really?” he drawled even as СКАЧАТЬ