Improper English by Katie MacAlister Page A

will pass on your invitation. I don’t dance.”
    “Neither do I, not very well anyway, but anyone can bossa nova.” I grabbed his hands and dragged him toward the corner where there was a free spot. “It’s easy! Come on, how many chances do you have to bossa nova on the stairs? Live a little, Alex! I promise you it won’t kill you.”
    He frowned at the others, laughing and dancing and having a good time.
    “I don’t—”
    “But now you do,” I said, squeezing his hands and explaining quickly how the dance worked.
    His scowl got blacker as I let go of his hands to dance a little circle around his unmoving body; then he gave a martyred sigh, tossed his satchel on the steps, and grabbing me by the hips, swept into a perfect bossa nova.
    It was heaven, sheer heaven. Alex was a marvelous dancer. For a man who professed to not dance, he was grace personified, moving with me in a manner that Philippe hadn’t, moving as if he were part of the music, the rhythm flowing from him until it swept over me. It was very sensual and definitely started my motor running, but I took a quick look at Isabella and demanded that my motor turn itself off. Motors seldom listen to threats, however, a fact that might have caused difficulty once Alex pulled me so close we were almost rubbing on each other, but his action served as an effective dampening device once I realized that he was flirting with me. In front of Isabella!
    He danced with me for the duration of the song, never once cracking a smile, but I swear I saw a little flicker of enjoyment in his emerald eyes. I alternated between anger that he was such a cad he’d act in this manner in front of his girlfriend, and a familiar sense of failure. It seems like I always end up at the wrong place at the wrong time. As the song ended, I took a step back from him, praying the bout of self-pity welling up inside wouldn’t make me cry in front of everyone.
    “See?” I said as I took another step back, trying to force a light note into my voice. “You survived the ordeal.”
    His eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t an ordeal, Alix. Why do you do that?”
    “Do what?” I asked, scooting around him and dashing up the stairs.
    He shot a look over to where Isabella was dancing with Philippe, then grabbed his satchel and started up the stairs after me. Damn it! Didn’t he see she was watching him? “Put yourself down in that manner.”
    I shrugged, anger swamping the self-pity. So he wanted to play games. The old “make Isabella jealous with Alix” game, eh? Been there, done that, won’t do it again.
    “Self-preservation. I’m aware of my flaws. I just bring them up before anyone else can,” I snapped, wishing with one breath he’d just leave me alone, and hoping with the other he would tear off our clothes and make mad, passionate love to me. Right there on the landing.
    Alex grabbed my arm as I started toward my flat. “Why do you think I would insult you like that?”
    His spicy cologne coiled around me, sinking effortlessly into my pores, kindling fires deep within me, but it was the slight look of hurt in his eyes that was my undoing. That and the memory of Isabella’s cool, possessive smile during lunch when she spoke about him.
    “You bastard,” I snarled, and shoved him backwards. He staggered back, surprised by my attack, but started toward me with a look that should have dropped me where I stood. I spun around and stormed toward my open door.
    “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he bellowed.
    “What’s the matter with me?” I yelled back, loud enough so Isabella, coming up the stairs behind him, would hear. “I have no intention of being the third sideof a triangle, Detective Hot Pants. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find a hammer so I can beat some sense into this stupid CD player!”
    I closed the door with more force than was strictly necessary, and jerked the CD player’s plug out of the wall.
    “I won’t cry, I won’t cry, I won’t