“Watch out,” Hunter smiled at Sinclair, pulling her with his fingers, then pushing with the heel of his hand. She moved to the right, then the left, then backward, then into a turn. And she stumbled.
“Again,” said the instructor, and Hunter started over.
She got it right. Then nailed it again.
After four times through the pattern, Hunter altered the ending and caught her by surprise.
“Hey,” she protested.
“Stick with me. It’s boring if we never do anything new.”
“We never do anything at all, anymore,” she muttered under her breath.
He didn’t think he could have heard her right. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
He switched her to a cuddle position. He leaned down, intending to murmur in her ear. She wanted to flirt? He was there.
“Head high,” the instructor called.
Hunter corrected his posture and caught her smirk.
He went back to the basic pattern, then changed it up, then whirled her through an underarm turn, her skirts flaring around her knees.
“You are absolutely gorgeous,” he whispered.
“Thank you,” she said on a sigh. “But I’m tired of being gorgeous.”
The song faded to an end.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She fingercombed her hair. “Restaurants and dances and fancy clothes are all well and good. But I want to kick back. Maybe hop into sweats, watch a sappy movie and cook something for myself.” She pouted prettily. “I miss cooking.”
“I don’t miss cooking.”
“That’s because you’re spoiled.”
“I’m not spoiled.”
She looked pointedly around the big, mirrored room. “We’re having a private dance lesson.”
The music started, and he took her into his arms once again, not fighting his feelings so much anymore.
“That,” he said as he squared his shoulders and checked their lines, “is because
She seemed to contemplate his words as the notes ascended. “That is also true.”
Hours later, Sinclair glanced around at the huge arched windows, the kitchenette and the overstuffed leather furniture. “All this time you’ve had a kitchen?” she asked Hunter.
Hunter set two grocery bags down on the marble counter in the small kitchen alcove while Sinclair checked out the other rooms.
“Jack likes nice things for Kristy,” Hunter called.
“Kristy doesn’t need a four-person whirlpool,” Sinclair called back. “I’ve been camping with that woman.”
“The whirlpool’s nice,” said Hunter, meeting Sinclair in the main room.
She trailed her fingertips along the leather-accented bar. “So, you basically traded me in on a whirlpool and a veranda?”
She’d missed him.
She’d lain awake at night wishing he was there beside her. It would be nice to make love, sure. But she also wanted to feel his warmth, hear his breathing, even read the morning paper side by side.
“Don’t forget the microwave,” he said, and picked up one of the hotel phones, punching in a number.
“Well, then. No wonder. I can hardly compete with a microwave.” She kicked off her high-heeled sandals and eased up onto a bar stool, arranging the gauzy skirt around her legs. She’d had fun dancing tonight. It seemed as if it was finally coming together. She was reading Hunter’s signals, and she found herself looking forward to meeting him on the dance floor at the ball.
Of course, she’d have to dance with other people. But she’d savor the moments with Hunter, even though it would signal the end of their personal relationship. She couldn’t see them spending much time together once they were back in New York.
She tried not to feel sad about that. Instead, she gazed at him across the room, taking a mental snapshot of his relaxed posture and smiling face.
He spoke into the telephone receiver. “I’m looking for some ladies’ sportswear.”
Sinclair turned her attention to the gilded mirror and the assortment of liquors behind the bar. In the meantime, she knew how to make a great mushroom sauce for their chicken breasts, if they had…there it was. Calvados brandy.
She slipped down and padded around the end of the bar. She doubted she could compete with the chefs who must cook for Hunter, but she’d give it her best try.
“Ladies’ sweatpants,” said Hunter. “Gray.”
Sinclair grinned to herself, snagging the bottle of brandy. As he’d done so many times, he was giving her exactly what she’d asked for.
“Maybe a tank top?” He looked at her, and she nodded her agreement.
“Size small,” he said while she headed for the kitchenette, scoping out the few cupboards for dishes. They were going to have a relaxing evening. Just the two of them. She hadn’t felt this relaxed in weeks.
“Great,” he said into the phone. “No, that should do it.”
“A baking dish,” Sinclair called, finding plates, silverware and glasses.
Hunter relayed the message.
“Oh, and a pot,” she said. “With a lid.”
“One pot and one lid,” Hunter said into the phone. Then he looked to Sinclair. “That everything?”
She nodded, closing the cupboards and removing the groceries from the sacks.
“Thank you,” Hunter said into the phone. Then he hit the off button.
“Wine?” he asked Sinclair.
“You bet.” She’d worked hard today. In fact, she’d worked hard all week. Glamming up was no easy business.
“Red or white?”
“You pick.”
“Mouton Rothschild,” he decided, retrieving a bottle from the wine rack and snagging the corkscrew from the bar top.
“What’s the occasion?”
“You,” he said, slicing off the foil cover. “In gray sweatpants.” Then he twisted the corkscrew.
“If that doesn’t cry out for a fine beverage, I don’t know what does.”
“Me, neither.” He popped the cork and poured the dark liquid into two wide-mouthed wineglasses. Then he carried them to the counter where she was working.
“Know how to make a salad?” she asked, setting out lettuce, tomatoes, peppers and cucumber.
“Nope,” he answered, sipping the wine.
“Know how to eat a salad?”
“Of course.”
She opened a drawer, pulled out a chopping knife and set it on the counter. “Then wing it.”
“Hey, you were the one bent on giving up luxury.”
“And you get to help.”
“I bought the sweatpants,” he grumbled.
“Don’t forget to wash everything.”
Hunter stared blankly at the assortment of vegetables. “Maybe I should call the chef.”
“And how would that be a home-cooked meal?”
“He’d be in our home while he cooked it.”
Sinclair pulled in her chin, peering at him through the tops of her eyes. “Shut up and start chopping.”
“Okay,” he agreed with a tortured sigh. “It’s your funeral.”
She removed the butcher’s paper from the chicken breasts. “You can’t kill me with a salad.”
