One Last Dance by Angela Stephens

good though. The door that led from the bedroom to the sitting room
beyond was closed.
    All of her clothes were out
there. She couldn’t just waltz out completely naked. What if he had guests? She
scanned the bedroom. He had to have something she could cover up with. Her eyes
lit on the rumpled pile of his clothes. Perfect. She pulled his boxers up over
her hips. They were much too big for her slender frame, but if she tucked and
rolled them... By the time she got them to stay up on her, they resembled short
shorts more than boxers.
    She found a button-down shirt and
pulled it over her head, relishing the feel of the shirt’s fabric on her
breasts.  The sleeves were still half rolled up. She repeated the tucking
and rolling process on them too. There, that was as suitable for company as she
was going to get without her clothes. She ran a hand through her mussed hair
and opened the door.
    The sitting room had been
reorganized, the rug unrolled and the loveseats back in place. There was no
sign of her clothes. Blood surged into Sophie’s cheeks at the idea of a maid
finding her pants and shirt and bra strewn all over the stylish room. There was
nothing she could do about it now, though, so she squared her shoulders and
turned toward the terrace, following her nose toward the heavenly scent of
coffee.
    “Good morning,” she said, smiling
at Henry. He sat at the cafe table, reading the newspaper. He was fully dressed
in a dark blue suit, minus the tie, and his hair was still slightly damp.
Sophie was an early riser. You had to be when you were a dancer. She wasn’t
wearing a watch, but she’d guess it was no later than seven, and here he was,
dressed for the day.
    He looked up at her, dark eyes
roving over attire. He didn’t smile, but she saw the slightest twitch of his
lips and the heat flaring in his gaze. It seemed he enjoyed watching her walk
in for breakfast in his clothes. She shivered with desire, plucking at the hem
of the shirt, which nearly reached her knees. “I hope you don’t mind. My
clothes seem to have disappeared.”
    “I don’t mind at all.” He
motioned her to sit. “And I apologize about the clothes. Regina sent them out
with the wash. I’ll get them back to you as soon as I can. In the meantime,
there’s something for you in the dressing room. But please, eat first.”
    Sophie spooned some mixed fruit
onto her plate and snagged a piece of toast while Henry poured her a cup of
coffee from the French press. She popped a bit of melon into her mouth, chewing
the sweet flesh slowly while she added cream and a bit of sugar to her cup.
“Thank you.”
    They sat at breakfast like that
for several moments—Sophie enjoying fruit and toast with her coffee, Henry
reading the paper. As she munched on a bite of toast, studying his handsome
face, she thought of the words he’d said the previous night and sudden
understanding broke over her. “Oh! It’s Italian .”
    He looked up from his paper at
Sophie, eyebrows raised. She flushed. “Last night. You were speaking Italian.
You said you were from Argentina. I guess I expected Spanish.”
    Henry nodded. “My mother’s mother
was Italian. She used to speak it with my mother, and I picked it up. I do
speak Spanish as well, from my father’s family. But I prefer the Italian
for...” He grinned, the dimple his cheek flashing. “You know, don’t you,
dolce?”
    Sophie licked toast crumbs off
her lip and wondered how long it would take her to get him out of that suit.
Suddenly he was standing beside her and touching her chin, drawing her face up
until she looked into his eyes. The obsidian depths sparkled with desire. His
thumb brushed her lip. He held out his other hand. Sophie took it, letting him
draw her up and into his arms. She slid her hands around his neck, pressing
herself against him, running her fingers into the hair at his nape. He leaned
down, brushing his mouth against hers.
    “Day dreaming about me already?”
He nipped at her lower