Come Dancing by Leslie Wells Page A

we walked until we found Rick.
    “Mary Jo made a reservation at Odeon,” Jack said, picking up a pair of sunglasses from the seat. “Did you have an okay time? I lost sight of you there for a while.”
    I didn’t want him to think he had to babysit me. “It was interesting. I noticed a high toupee-to-heel ratio.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The balder the guy, the taller the girl. Or the more made-up and manicured.”
    Jack laughed. “You’re ruining me for nail polish, you know.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He took my hand and held it up, indicating my unvarnished nails. “I used to like it. But now when I see it on women, it seems kind of fussy.”
    An image of my mother’s many vials of polish came to mind, haphazardly spread around her dressing table, the dried spillage sloppily chipping off the sides. “I never thought it looked good on me.”
    “You look nice natural.” Jack kept my hand in his, resting on his thigh. Slowly he traced my palm with his thumb and smiled at me. So many sensations were darting through my body, I felt faint. Get a grip, I told myself. I tried to focus on the back of Rick’s head.
    Rick pulled up at the restaurant and Jack put on his shades. The maitre d’ motioned us to the front of the line—“Good to see you again, Mr. Kipling”—and ushered us to a burgundy banquette. The room had a cozy deco feel, circular hanging lamps dispensing a warm glow. The staff seemed to have it down to a drill; get him in fast before people recognized him.
    “Enjoy your dinner,” the maitre d’ said, handing us menus. Jack didn’t even glance at his. “I always get the filet mignon,” he said to me.
    A waiter approached with a bottle of champagne, and Jack tapped his glass against mine. “To getting out of that place in one piece. Somebody said you were talking to Patrick.”
    “He came up to me and I wished him happy birthday. Then he informed me that it wasn’t really his birthday.”
    “That’s Patrick, always got to be correcting people.”
    “I think he was trying to trip me up speaking French.” I took a few deep gulps of champagne, which was even more nose-tickling than the kind at the party.
    “He thinks he’s so suave with his languages.” Jack looked miffed.
    “Well, he speaks it like a prissy schoolgirl.”
    Jack burst out laughing. “I’m gonna tell the guys.”
    “Oh no, please don’t tell anyone I said that.” I could just imagine if Patrick got wind of it; he’d dislike me even more than he already seemed to.
    “Just Sammy, then; he’d get a kick out of it.”
    I toyed with my butter knife. “Why wasn’t Sammy invited tonight?”
    “Patrick’s got his knickers in a twist about something.” Jack drained his glass and poured more for us both. “Where did you learn French? Did you spend time over there?”
    “I had a great teacher in college, Proffe Deborah. She was so elegant; she had these chic red glasses, and every day she wore a silk dress with high heels.”
    “Seems like you were impressed,” Jack commented.
    “I was infatuated with her. I wanted to be her. She was … everything my mother wasn’t. I was heartbroken when she and her husband moved to Cleveland. Anyway, that’s how I learned French.”
    I took a bite of my flounder as Jack refilled our flutes. The champagne was having a relaxing effect; I’d never known it was such a nice fizzy drink.
    “Maybe you can teach me some. Languages always came hard to me.” Jack looked at me with lowered lids, his dark eyelashes brushing his cheek. I lost my train of thought for a minute, thinking how nice it would be to trace those lines on either side of his mouth with my finger. Or my tongue.
    “In fact, why don’t you pay me a compliment in French? It always sounds so sensual.” He raised his eyebrow suggestively.
    “Okay, but I’m not going to translate it.”
    “Fine, I just want to hear how it sounds.”
    Feeling a little tipsy, I gazed at his eyes that I could so easily melt into.