Page 2 of Sweet Spot

“My Amira. Care to dance with an old fool?”

“You’re neither, Ed, as you well know. I’d be delighted.”

They danced in an open embrace, chests apart, movements slow, but it was the camaraderie, the shared understanding between them that made the connection unique, one steeped in affection and respect. She had learned more about life than tango from Ed, and that in itself was good enough.

Thanks to her parents, her interaction with men was minimal. Functional at best.

Taking lessons with Alejandro and Tilda had been one of the few places she had a chance to mingle with the opposite sex. She was able to form friendships with straight men for the first time since graduating university. All the male friends she had acquired through fashion school were gay. Lovely, handsome men, but not at all interested in de-flowering her.

“Your dancing is divine, Amira. Why are you wasting your talents on boring men like me?”

She completed a giro, turning slowly, allowing his back to make the necessary adjustments.

“You’re a treasure, Edward. I happen to enjoy our dances together.”

“As do I. But maybe in time another man will catch your eye and your heart. And you can find yourself a true partner, your equal. Like I did my Penny.”

Edward’s tale of his much-loved wife surrounded her. They had met at a tango lesson when both were shy of eighteen. Back then dancing tango was still a past time that was kept behind closed doors. They had married two months later and stayed that way until her death five years ago.

“Find a man who can dance, Amira, and your heart will shine as bright as the moon. Trust me, men don’t like to share their love. Or their women. Especially when you dance the way you do. An angel!”

Laughing, she guided him back to his table once the set was over. Her desire to improve had been driven by the dark, assessing gaze of a man she didn’t even know.

No sooner had she sat down that another dancer approached.

When supper was served a few hours later, Amira stood back and scanned the crowd yet again. She looked at the clock at the far end of the hall. It was past 10. He still hadn’t arrived.

Leaving her untouched supper on the table, Amira accepted Gus’ offer to dance, grateful for the distraction. The barrel-chested man was always jolly, and tonight was no different.

“Aaamiiiiiraaaaa,” he sang. “Did you know there was a song about a beautiful princess called Amira? It was before your time.” He chuckled, swinging her around in his arms.

“You tell me this every time we dance, Gus.”

“Ah, I’m old. I can’t remember.”

She adjusted her center, given that he was a good head shorter. When a vals tanda came on, she breathed a small sigh of relief. Dancing a milonga with Gus was a health and safety violation. The man only knew one speed. Fast.

Vals or not, he was still a whirlwind. She caught brief glimpses of other dancers before concentrating on maintaining her axis. With some men she could float across the floor, lost in the embrace, but with Gus she maintained her vigilance.

“There’s a sadness in you.” He narrowed his eyes.

Amira shook her head. “No sadness.”

“No? You calling ol’ Gus a liar? I see it in those pretty brown eyes.”

With every step around the floor, Amira’s heart sank. She didn’t want to think about returning home. To her parents’ home. Alone. That she still lived with them was embarrassing enough, but at twenty-five, not having a boyfriend was just plain sad. Even in her parents’ culture, she should have been married by now.

She repressed a shudder. A dutiful marriage was her idea of hell.

She didn’t want to return home to another cold—

Her heart slammed in her ribs. The familiar spread of fire burned through her body, fanning out against her cheeks.

A pair of dark, assessing eyes caught her own.

The joy radiated through her, a lone candle in the dark night. Suddenly alive and deliriously happy, Amira fought to control her breathing. But with each rotation around the floor, their eyes met. Watching him, watch her, had heightened her arousal.

He was immaculate in a dark suit and crisp white shirt. His tanned skin spoke of Mediterranean seas, of sandy Arabian deserts. Of desire.