Harmony (23 page)

Without a hat on, his richly hued brown hair glistened beneath the light of the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. He had a way of styling it that was careless, yet
utterly flattering to his sportsman physique. It was brushed away from his strong forehead; the wavy lengths that fell over his ears came to rest on his collar. The overall effect was disarming.

“I didn't want anything else until I heard the music on and saw you.”

She lowered her eyelids and tried to remain composed. She'd inadvertently shown him her true colors and now he was going to tell.

There were two things she could do. Plead her case—without going into any details of course—and hope he sympathized. Or outright fib. The latter seemed the surest way out.

“I can assure you,” she said in an unwavering voice, “I don't make a habit of dancing—fully clothed or in my unmentionables. In my defense, I was trying out a recording that a friend sent me. But I found it trite and dull as an old penny.”

“Didn't look that way to me.”

Unable to meet his eyes, which could penetrate her and bring her to destruction, she stared at the outline of a cigarette pack in his breast pocket, visible from a part in his duster.

“Well, it's true,” she reiterated. “I don't habitually dance. Not ever . . . rarely.”

His voice seemed to vibrate through her when he said, “You don't make a habit of much, but I seem to catch you doing more rather than less of what you claim you don't do.”

The heat of a blush spread across her cheeks. “You just think you're finding me up to no good. I can assure you—”

“Assure away. I'm not buying.”

A sinking feeling pitted Edwina's stomach. She was his sitting duck and he had enough ammunition to blast the decoy feathers right off her. She had to try to save herself. “On my behalf—that is, I don't really—on the contrary—” She could go no farther. What else could she say? She was trapped. A different tactic was in
order. “Ragtime does seem to be getting around, and to not give it a try would be quite close-minded. Don't you think?”

“You've got a pretty good flare for Joplin,” Tom commented. “A nice take on the double shuffle.”

Her gaze grew wide as the moon. She'd meant to distract him, but it was she who was distracted. She couldn't believe he was familiar with the popular artist. Tom Wolcott lived in a den. How could he know Joplin, much less a ragtime double shuffle?

“You know Scott Joplin's music?” she questioned, forgetting she was supposed to be throwing him off the scent. This was the first bit of compatibility they shared: music.

“I know Scott Joplin.”

His reply took her for a loop. He didn't imply that he knew the music; the implication was he knew
the man.

“Excuse me?” she blurted in disbelief.

“We grew up together in Texarkana,” he replied matter of factly. “Hell, when we were five, we watched the inaugural run of the Texas & Pacific come into town, and we said we were going to be one of those grimy-faced, cloth-capped, thick-glove-wearing men working for the railroad.”

“You're kidding me.”

“Am not.” The glimmer in his eyes was deadly serious. “We lived just two blocks apart. His folks had a house on Pine Street off of State Line Avenue on the Texas side.”

Dismissing her plan to draw him away from the fact that she'd been dancing, she slipped past him and sank onto the settee. Scott Joplin was her idol and now took priority in her thoughts—although she did remember to clamp her legs together before resting both elbows on her knees. Long hair fell over her shoulders, and she absently curled the ends of a piece around her forefinger. “Scott Joplin . . .” she whispered in awe. “I can't believe you know him—grew up with him.”

“Played in the sandy hills and spring mud holes. I
haven't seen him since we were thirteen. His father left them and his mother moved him and the other kids over to the Arkansas side.”

“Did he ever play for you?”

“I went to a few of his lessons. I didn't know squat about classical music, but he had perfect pitch and could remember any tune his teacher played to him.”

“My, my.” She spoke in a broken whisper, lost in thoughts of the composer. She forgot Tom stood in front of her until she viewed the tips of his boots.

“You've been figured out, Ed.”

Lifting her chin, Edwina unsteadily countered, “I don't know what you're talking about.” But she did. Too well.

“You like Joplin. You like to dance rag. So what?” He began to slip out of his duster, and she grew expectant.
Oh, goodness. He'll blackmail me now.
A tussle on the sofa in exchange for his silence. “I don't know why you think you have to hide it, but what the hell. I won't tell anyone.” The duster dropped to the back of the settee, and he held out his hand for her. “Come on.”

“Come on?” she blurted. Heaven help her, he expected her to take him to the bedroom. “I . . . um . . . I . . .”

“What's the matter, Ed?”

Heat consumed her, and not of the passionate kind. More like the panicking kind. She hadn't expected things to go this awry. But even in the chaos, a spark of triumphant conquest flashed through her. He must find her alluring.

“Let's see what you've really got, honey baby.” He grabbed her hand when she didn't put her palm in his. She shot to her feet and came precariously close to having her breasts crushed against his chest. In a low voice that sent a shiver across her arms, he murmured, “Put the recording back on and I'll show you how a real ragger dances with his girl.”

Relief and astonishment clashed within her.
He wants
to dance.
If she refused him . . . he might change his mind about not telling. . . .

Gulping, Edwina walked on stiff legs to the Victrola and cranked the handle. Tom came up to her and took her hand, then positioned her in the middle of the room. As soon as the first notes came through the big trumpet, he began to move with the rhythm of the beat. At first in step, then clapping his hands.

“Right in line,” he called.

She knew that phrase meant to follow his lead. He stepped forward on his left foot, took another with his right to close in, then lifted the weight on the right and stepped left. This was a classic two-step, and she was amazed that he knew it.

Very hesitantly, she moved parallel to him. This could be a trick . . . a plan to undo her completely. She had to be cautious.

“Walk into it,” he said, then orchestrated a turn that left his back to hers. She was to do likewise until their backs met. In a move that surprised her, he hooked his elbows through hers and took her dipping first left, then right.

A jolt of unbridled sensuality shot through her at the touch of his muscled back to her shoulders. With each move, sinewy cords rippled, and she felt the power in his body as it skimmed hers. She held herself stiffly and unyielding.

“Relax,” Tom urged. “Relax . . . relax. Have fun.” His tone blended with the musical notes. She wanted to do as he suggested, but she feared ulterior motives.

“Why is it you want me to dance?” she asked with a hard-fought effort not to show her skepticism.

“Because it makes you happy.”

Oh . . . how right he is. How could he tell?

Tom lunged right and took her with him, her forearms still hooked through his elbows. Tight biceps held her and controlled which way she moved. She couldn't have gotten away from him if she wanted to. The question was, did she want to? Not really. . . .

Ludie had been a flawless and patient dancing teacher. When they'd linked arms or stepped into a waltz position, his muscles had been as pliant as putty. He had been a man of books, not of the outdoors, so he'd had no hard body definition. His hands had felt like a diaper flannel—smooth and soft. Tom's were rough and calloused, the fingernails too short but clean. Dancing with him was like being partners with bendable steel that had all the right moves.

Staying with the fast tempo and the compromising position, their backsides bumped with each body drag.

Edwina should have put a stop to the music. Frolicking with Tom in her home, in her underwear, was dangerous. More than dangerous—catastrophic. She knew
she
would never breathe a word. But Tom . . . if he told . . . she shuddered to think. She could always deny everything. It would be his word against hers.

“Break it down.” He let her elbows go and stepped right sideward for a count, then brought his leg in for a left close.

On the second count, she gasped with surprise as he executed a pivot and a forward shuffle. His foot landed smack between her own, his knee brushing against her inner thighs. The silk of her robe parted and the belt slipped free of its satiny single tie.

Before she could catch her breath, he put firm hands on her waist and swung her in the air in a circle. Just as quickly, he set her back down.

By now, the kimono's tie lay on the rug and Honey Tiger swatted at the end.

Slender fingers attempted to keep the wrapper together as Edwina asked, “W-what do you call that?” Wisps of hair fell across the sides of her face, but she couldn't brush them back without giving up her hold on modesty.

“The happy-go-lucky.” He tipped a mock hat at her and swaggered in a circle while waving his right hand. “I figured a hot shot like you would know it.”

Whenever he used that challenging tone on her, she
forgot reason. Now she also forgot she wore nothing more than cambric and a dressing robe. Suddenly, it didn't matter that Tom might tell all of Harmony she was a dancing fiend. She'd take the chance. Pride was at stake here. She certainly didn't think of herself as the cat's meow when it came to improvised steps and gestures, but she knew a trick or two.

Demureness was temporarily abandoned as her hands rested on her hips. With a shake, she rid the hair from her eyes and narrowed her stare on him. “Crazy bones,” she shot back with defiance. “On the two count—clockwise.”

She waited a few beats until the tempo was just right, then began to shuffle in the designated direction. From the slow steps Tom took to her lead, she didn't think he knew it. She was sure after she abruptly pivoted to counterclockwise and slammed into his chest.

“What are you doing?” she blurted, taking a hop backward.

“Following you.”

“You followed the wrong way.”

His fingers raked through unruly hair. “Then start over. I'm with you this time.”

Black-stockinged toe tapping to the syncopation as she gave no thought to the gap in her robe, she began the dance again. This time when she turned, Tom did so also on the same measure. Six counts later, she was in the lead again.

She shifted into a pattern of low positions that were interrupted by cross-kicks with right and left legs alternating. Pretty limber herself, she could get her leg up fairly high—high enough to kick Tom in the chops if she wanted to.

“Jesus,” he muttered behind her.

Smiling, she called over her shoulder, “Crazy bones.”

Her shoulders loosened and she let herself sway in time.

“You do the pigeon wing?”

Tossing back, “Do birds fly?” she went into a step
that was a half shuffle, half stamp. His hands encircled her waist as he matched her step for step.

Inhibitions gone, Edwina allowed herself to enjoy the harmony of moving as one to the upbeat piano notes filling the parlor. The secure grip of Tom's fingers around her middle sent a volatile current through her. Filled with a strange inner excitement, she couldn't stop smiling. She felt blood rushing from her fingertips to her toes. At this moment, she couldn't remember how Ludie danced. Tom Wolcott outshined any memory of Ludie she had.

“Hop it down front and doodle back.”

She did as Tom directed.

Just as the music reached its fevered pitch, Tom snapped his fingers and she turned.

“Time for the end.” He laid a hand on her shoulder and on her waist, taking a swing position. Copying him, she let her head fall back as he whirled her around in a fast circle.

“Put the nippers on,” he called. His hand fell off her shoulder and slid down her arm to her wrist. She didn't know what the nippers were, so she didn't grasp onto his hand like she should have. Reeling backward, she stumbled and fell out of his reach—but not before his fingers snagged the cuff of her wrapper. As she spun away from him, she slipped right out of the geisha sleeves of her kimono. The backs of her legs hit the chair Mrs. Plunkett favored, and she landed on the cushions.

Her curls cascaded around her cheeks and on her shoulders; she blew them off her brows with a pant. Drawer-clad legs apart in a thoroughly unladylike pose, she pressed her shoulders into the chair's tassel-decorated back. “What's the nippers?”

Tom stood over her, his own hair untidy. He leaned in and put both hands on the chair arms to trap her. The steady pound of her pulse skipped a beat. She thought for sure she was doomed. He'd now tell her that he'd gotten her just where he wanted her, and her life would be over . . . ruined.

“Handcuffs.” The simple word barely registered. “You lock on my wrist and we spin around with the nippers on—like we're handcuffed together. Haven't you ever been on the whip end of a skating line?”

“Not in years,” she managed to reply through a tight throat. Perhaps he was just buying time . . . toying with her like Honey Tiger did with the occasional mouse she found.

With Tom's exertion and sweat came the heightened scent of bayberry. He leaned in closer, and she could almost taste his lips against hers. She didn't slink farther down in the chair and try to envelop herself in its plump cushions; she remained where she was . . . waiting expectantly for something that never came.

“Let's try it again.” His suggestion melted through her and clarity rose to the surface.