Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [104]
“I’ve wanted to dance with you for months.”
“Too bad my dancing skills will probably disappoint you.”
“The only disappointment is acting as if dancing with you is a chore for me, Mercy.”
Shoot. That was really sweet. “Dawson—”
“Just keep smiling. And let me lead, will ya?”
Let him lead? Damn man always took the lead.
Wrong. You always take point and expect him to follow.
So yeah, I let him lead . . . but just this one time.
Dawson knew his way around the dance floor. Every muscle in my body was rigid as curious couples joined us. His nearness caused a disjointed sensation inside me. I felt like one of those magnets—both repelled and attracted.
“Relax,” he muttered.
“I am relaxed.”
“Right. You’re strung tight as a new barbed-wire fence.” He pulled me closer. “You look great tonight.”
“Hey. You’re not supposed to say stuff like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because this Fred-and-Ginger routine is all for show.”
“Not for me it isn’t.”
My face heated. “Dammit, Dawson, knock it off. This is not the time or the place—”
“Tough shit. I’ll say whatever the hell I want, and you’ll suck it up and smile.”
“Channeling your inner caveman?”
“You bring out the best in me, Sergeant Major.”
“I think you mean beast.”
Dawson chuckled. “That, too. So you’ll damn well listen to what I have to say while I have your undivided attention.”
“Or what?”
“Don’t push me, darlin’. If you’ll recall, I push back. In fact, I almost said screw it and snuck back to your cabin last night. Hell, I’m such a masochist, I looked forward to you pulling a gun on me as foreplay.”
That comment shouldn’t have made me smile, but it did.
Encouraged, he traced the ball of my thumb joint up from the inside of my wrist. The move was lazy, teasing, and seductive as hell. My heart and my feet stumbled simultaneously. I caught myself and hissed, “Stop it.”
“Not a chance.”
When he switched directions on the dance floor, his mouth grazed my ear, and he murmured, “I miss you.”
I stumbled again. My cheek brushed the smoothly shaven section of his throat between his jawline and his collar. I fought the temptation to lean into him and bury my lips in that vulnerable fragment of skin just to see him shiver.
“I’m winning you over with my caveman tactics.”
A statement. Cocky man. I laughed softly.
“I miss hearing you laugh as much as I miss touching you.”
About two seconds before my hormones took control, I snapped back to reality. Tactics. This was all a stupid political ploy, and I was falling for it. “If you’re spewing this lovey-dovey crap because you think it’ll show the voters your softer side with the competition—”
Dawson stopped in the center of the dance floor.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“What I said to you doesn’t have a fucking thing to do with the election, and you goddamn well know it.”
Geneva had been right; this’d been a bad idea. “Will you please stop screwing around? People are staring.”
“Let ’em stare. I don’t care.”
I did. “What do you want?”
“For you to admit that you’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”
“Fine. You’re right, I have no freakin’ clue how to handle this, okay?”
“This . . . meaning . . . what?”
“You know. This.” I gestured at the scant space separating us. “Personal stuff.”
“At least you’re acknowledging there is personal stuff between us.”
“You know there is, dumbass.” I tugged on him until he started to move again. “But the only reason we’re here, dancing cheek to cheek, is because of the damn election. So can we please keep focused on that?”
“For now.”
I broke eye contact with him. “I hate that people are gawking at us like we’re a circus act, dissecting our every move.”
“Get used to life in the public eye.”
Great.
As we spun and glided, I swore they’d chosen the longest song in the history of the world. Maybe if I stumbled, I could fake an injury and escape.
Dawson would just pick you up and cart you off like the last time he found you lying in the middle of the road with a twisted ankle.
Like I needed that reminder of another instance of his caveman tactics.
“How long is your buddy Anna