The Last Santini Virgin

Uh-oh. Better not go there.

They executed a turn, and she silently admitted that her generation was missing a lot with all of the wild, contortionist dances that were so popular now. There was so much more to be said for the closeness of ballroom dancing.

Too much, really, she thought as she felt Nick’s pelvis move against her. Fires stirred within and she closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, she met his gaze and saw flickers of heat shifting in his eyes. One of his hands dropped to the curve of her behind, and Gina would have sworn she felt the brand of each of his fingertips.

“Much better, Sergeant and Gina,” Mrs. Stanton called out as they cha-cha’d past her.

Gina automatically stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.

“Teacher’s pet,” Nick mumbled with a brief smile.

“Delinquent,” she muttered.

“How’d you guess?”

“What?”

“That I was a delinquent when I was a kid.”

Was he serious? He practically had Bad Boy stenciled on his forehead. “I’m psychic.”

“Too bad you’re not a tall psychic,” he said.

Five foot five wasn’t exactly an amazon, but she didn’t qualify for kids’ ticket prices at the movies, either. “I’m not short,” she told him. “You’re abnormally tall.”

“I’m only six-four, which is hardly Godzilla.”

“Depends on your point of view.”

He blew out an exasperated sigh. “I wasn’t trying to start World War III,” he complained. “I’m just saying I’m getting a crick in my neck looking down at you.”

“Well looking up all night isn’t a picnic, ya know.”

Ridiculous to argue over nothing, but it was certainly safer than concentrating on how he was making her feel. Their hips moved against each other again, and Gina flushed, her body awakening to the closeness of Nick’s.

Was dancing supposed to be this sexy? Nick wondered as he pressed Gina even closer to him, hoping as he did so that she couldn’t feel the arousal tightening the fit of his slacks. She felt so small, so defenseless in his arms. Yet even as that thought entered his mind, he wanted to chuckle. Gina? Defenseless? Yeah, like a hungry tiger.

This tiny woman was able to give as good as she got, and he’d found himself almost looking forward to their three-times-a-week shoot-outs. She had a smart-alecky, completely kissable mouth, a compact body that curved in all the right places and a head harder than his.

All in all, just the kind of woman he’d be interested in if he was looking for a woman, which he wasn’t. Now he supposed most men wouldn’t be captivated by a woman who argued anything at the drop of a stick. But Nick had been raised in a good old-fashioned Italian family, where love was measured in octaves reached while yelling.

His mother had told him once that arguments were the spice of married life. And if she’d been telling the truth, then his folks had had one spicy marriage for the past thirty-six years. He smiled to himself as memories crowded into his brain. His two brothers, his parents and himself, seated at the dinner table, arguing about politics, religion, history or even, on a slow day, who was stronger, Superman or Mighty Mouse. The Paretti house was loud, but it was happy.

The cha-cha ended, and the couples on the floor slowly stopped, turning toward Mrs. Stanton, awaiting instructions. Nick dropped Gina’s hand, then curled his own fingers into a fist so he didn’t notice how empty his hand felt without hers in it.

“That’s all for tonight, everyone,” the teacher said.

He ignored the shaft of disappointment that sliced through him. Two hours passed mighty damn quickly in this place.

“But I want you all to think about something,” she went on. “The Bayside Amateur Dance Competition is next month, and we’ve been invited to enter three couples from our class.”

A ripple of conversation rose up and then faded as Mrs. Stanton continued. “Next week I’ll be selecting the three couples who will represent my little dance school, so do your very best, and good luck to you all.”

He caught the excited gleam in Gina’s eyes.

A competition?

In public? Oh, he didn’t think so.

Two

Once class ended, Nick walked outside, barely listening to Gina’s stream of chatter. He kept envisioning himself dancing in public. And those mental pictures were enough to give him chills.

Hell, the whole reason he was taking these classes was because of what had happened the last time he’d danced in public. It was at last year’s Marine Corps Ball. In front of everyone. In a flash he remembered it all.

A crowded room, hundreds of people and him, dancing with a major’s wife. Or rather, trying to dance. She’d cajoled him into it, and he’d reluctantly given in. But as the dance had gone on, he’d almost relaxed…until the moment he’d spun her. Somehow she’d slipped free, and he’d watched, helplessly, as she’d sailed directly into the punch bowl.

Nick swallowed a groan at the memory and quickly pushed the rest of it aside. He really didn’t want to remember the crash of the punch bowl, the splash of liquid, the major’s wife’s screech or the image of the poor woman sitting on the dance floor drenched in ruby-red punch.

Instead he clearly recalled the meeting he’d had a week later with the major.

“You cost me about $250, Gunny,” the officer had said. “It seems even a talented dry cleaner can’t get red punch out of ivory silk.”

Standing at ease, but certainly not feeling it, Nick offered, “I’d be happy to pay to replace the dress, sir.”

“Not necessary,” the Major told him as he stood up from behind his desk and walked around to stop just inches from him. “But I suggest you make sure this never happens again.”

“It won’t, sir,” Nick assured him. “I’ll avoid the dance floor at all costs.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Sir?”

The Major perched on the edge of his desk, crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “You know as well as I do that ‘attendance is expected, and body movement at these things will be noticed.’”

Nick winced internally. The Corps couldn’t order a man to show up and dance, but they managed to get the point across, anyway.

“So before you toss some other poor woman into a punch bowl, I suggest, Gunnery Sergeant,” the man said in a low growl, “that you learn what to do on a dance floor.”

Panic, clean and sharp, whistled through him as he realized what the officer was telling him to do. “You can’t be serious, sir. Dance lessons?”

The other man stared at him for a long minute before asking, “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Nick groaned tightly at the memory before tucking it into a dark corner of his mind. Hell. He had to be the first Marine in history to have been ordered into a dance class. Well, technically not “ordered.” He’d been “suggested” into it. He would much rather the Major had sentenced him to a few thirty-mile hikes. Or had him transferred to Greenland.

But, no. That would have been too easy a punishment.

Instead Nick was stuck practicing to be a second-rate Fred Astaire. And, oh, man, what his friends would say if they knew what he was up to. For weeks after the punch bowl incident, he’d put up with the teasing, the jokes, the near-constant barrage of abuse from his friends. Hell, if they ever found out that he was actually taking ballroom dance lessons, they’d never let him forget it. As for dancing in a contest? He’d probably have to resign from the Corps just to get some peace.