One Last Dance by Angela Stephens Page A

lip. She looked at him through her lashes, unable to
stop the flush of her cheeks from deepening.
    “Since our first dance at the
studio. That night, when I went home...” She trailed off, unable to confess the
scope of her dream.
    “And was I as good as you
imagined?”
    She slapped at his chest, but
laughter bubbled up her throat as well. “Better, actually. It turns out my
imagination is severely lacking.” She fiddled with his lapel. “What about you?
Did you think about me?”
    Henry squeezed her tightly
against his chest, leaning down to nibble her earlobe. “I went home that night
and relived that dance in my head several times. Although, in my version, your
assistant never came in and interrupted us. I kissed you, like I’d wanted to.”
    She sighed as he slid his mouth
back to hers and kissed her, deep and sweet. When he lifted his head she
smiled. “I’m torn between finding that charming and upsetting. I was imagining
you naked.”
    “Do I seem like the kind of man
whose fantasies end at a kiss?”
    Sophie took in a quick breath.
“Well, it’s romantic that it started there then.”
    He leaned down, rubbing his lips
against hers. “Ma tutto comincia con un bacio, dolce.”
    “What does that mean?” she
murmured against his mouth.
    “It all begins with a kiss.” His
tongue emerged to tease at her lips. Sophie melted against him, clinging, as he
explored her mouth. His kisses were as addictive as any drug. He gave her one
and she immediately wanted more. When he lifted his head, she stood on tip-toe
to chase his lips, sucking the full lower one between her teeth.
    “I like it the first way better.
Remind me to thank your grandmother.” She tugged playfully at his lapel. “You
make it sound almost as if she raised you.”
    A door might as well have slammed
shut, Henry’s hot gaze went cold so quickly. His arms tightened the slightest
bit around her, and then he let her go and stepped back. “You should probably
go. I have meetings all morning.”
    He was checking his watch,
gathering up the cell he’d left on the table. Anything but meeting her eyes.
“Henry?” Sophie’s head throbbed with the sudden change in his tone. Was this
what whiplash felt like?
    Henry glanced up at her quickly,
gaze barely touching her face before darting back down to the cell phone’s
display screen. “The dressing room is through the bedroom. Regina put a dress
in there for you. I’ll meet you downstairs in the foyer.”
    She watched him disappear around
the terrace corner, mouth agape. What had just happened? Clearly, he didn’t
want to talk about his family. But he’d gone from playful and affectionate to
cold and distant so fast her head was still spinning. She was still trying to
adjust emotionally as she stepped into the dressing room.
    Sophie barely noticed the opulent
bathtub. Normally, she would have admired it and possibly filled it with warm,
soapy water so she could soak for hours. But Henry had made it clear that it
was time for her to go. She found the dress he’d mentioned hanging from an
armoire above her shoes.
    He’d taken them off her. She knew
it. At some point during the night, Henry Medina had slipped off her high
heels. It was a tender gesture completely incongruous with this sudden shift to
an all-business demeanor. He was acting as if they’d shared a cab, not a night
of soul shaking passion. Bewilderment settled over Sophie as she tugged the
soft fabric of the dress down over her head.
    In other circumstances she might
have marveled at the perfect fit, the way it bared her slender arms, hugged her
breasts and hips, and flared dramatically down to her knees. She might have
admired the bold pattern. It would be a good dress to tango in. But she filed
all that away for another time, hastily pulling it on and slipping into her shoes.
Her hair-tie was gone.
    Had Henry slipped that off her
too? Did he run his fingers through her light hair, watching her as she slept?
Sophie sighed. Who