The Key by Pauline Baird Jones

a towel, then she twisted the top off a bottle of water and took a long drink, giving Fyn a lengthy look at the sweet line of her neck. As if she felt their interest, she looked their way. Carey waved at her to join them. She hesitated a moment, as if she weren’t sure he meant her, then crossed the short distance to their table.
    “Yes, sir?” Her gaze was the cool one that gave nothing away.
    Fyn didn’t like being on the receiving end of it.
    Carey pushed the spare chair out with his foot. “Park it.”
    It wasn’t really an order, but Sara said, “Yes, sir,” again and sat in the chair. Carey looked at Fyn, then kind of nodded his head, as if to say, there she is, ask her.
    Fyn saw Sara look from him to Carey, then back at him.
    “Is something wrong, sir?”
    Carey sighed.
    “Fyn was wondering if you dance. Foster ever let you sit one out?”
    Her lashes covered her eyes and she colored slightly. “Of course, sir.”
    Did she want to dance with him or was she only doing it because Carey told her to?
    “Just a minute.”
    Sara went and spoke with Foster. He looked surprised. Her chin up, Sara returned and held out her hand to him. As he led her two steps out, he felt…interest…ripple out from them, like a rock thrown in a clear pool. Her fingers clenched in his, the only sign she knew it, too. It was as if walking with him made her suddenly visible to them.
    The song was a slow one. He’d been watching enough to know where to put his hands: one at her waist, the other holding her hand. They began to move to the music. As she absorbed the music, he felt her relax, though she didn’t—or wouldn’t—look at him. He eased her closer, so their bodies brushed against each other as they moved. He could feel her pulse pounding where his hand touched hers.
    He liked holding her. It felt…right. Nothing had felt right in his life for a long time. He wanted to do like some of the dancers and wrap himself around her. He wanted her to look at him.
    He rubbed his thumb along her wrist and felt the pulse leap. Finally she looked up, probably to tell him to stop it, but he was waiting for it and pulled her against him. He felt the sharp intake of breath, but she didn’t pull—or look away.
    Too soon the song ended.
    “Thanks.” Her voice was cool as ice.
    He turned to walk her back to the stage, but Briggs stepped in their way.
    “My dance, I think,” he said.
    Sara’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
    He snapped his fingers, as if signaling Foster and then held out his hand for her. Fyn stepped back, wondering if they were going to do the song they’d done that morning, but the band started something a bit slower, and a lot smoother.
    At first no one noticed them except him, but then people started to step back, leaving them in sole possession of the floor. The steps they did were complicated and unsettling. It was like a chase, she’d retreat and he’d come after, then they switched with her pacing toward him. Sara was fluid and graceful and she never once looked away from Briggs.
    With his big feet, she probably didn’t dare.
    The cool expression on her face actually made her movements more…interesting. It was such a stark contrast to the heat that pulsed through the song and through them.
    Briggs had his hand at her waist and tipped her back so far her hair brushed across the floor as she swept around, then up again. Fyn didn’t know anyone could bend that far, that direction.
    When they finished, there was some clapping and a lot of wide eyes. Briggs led her back to the stage. She took her place behind her keyboard, the only sign she was aware of the interest they’d aroused, her slightly lifted chin and two spots of color in both her cheeks.
    No one came near him after that, which suited him just fine. Several times he thought Carey was going to ask him something, but each time he closed his mouth. Fyn noticed he started watching Sara, too. Fyn didn’t mind. Carey couldn’t…fraternize was the