Magnificent Lover

LOVER

Karen Toller Whittenburg

Chapter One

Are you waiting for someone special to dance with, or will I do?

It was the smoothest line Meg had heard yet at any of the singles’ dances she’d attended, and she lifted her chin to view the speaker. He was tall, broad shouldered, and dark — the best-looking man she’d seen all evening. All day, in fact. Probably all week, as well, but the light in the Silver Dollar Cowboy Bar was dim, and she didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

That depends, she said. How well can you salsa?

His smile was slow and easy and roguishly disarming beneath the thick, dark moustache that shadowed his upper lip. Can’t say I’ve ever tried to salsa, definitely not to country western music, but I’m game if you are.

Meg wrinkled her nose in indecision as she listened to twanging guitars and a honky-tonk piano belting out a sad accompaniment to the singsong hum of conversation in the room. Then she shook her head and gave him a saucy smile. Perhaps we should stick to the tried and true two-step.

What? Don’t you have any sense of adventure?

If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.

He laughed, a husky, rich laugh, and pulled out the chair beside her. Do you mind if I join you? We’ll sit this one out and…. He hesitated, glanced around the crowded, hazy interior of the club, narrowed his gaze onto the five-member band, and then turned to her with an apologetic shrug. I was going to say we’d wait for a snappier tune, but I don’t think tonight’s band can get that snappy.

Meg smiled in response, even as she wondered why he’d chosen to sit with her.

That was easy enough to answer, she thought with a rueful glance around the bar — there were no other available chairs. That had been one of the funny things about this particular job assignment. In every crowded club she visited, there always seemed to be an empty chair next to hers. Regardless of how many men she danced with, regardless of how much she did or didn’t enjoy herself, the chair remained unoccupied.

On occasion, of course, someone joined her, but never for long, and Meg had since decided that she unconsciously projected a "Thanks, but I’m not interested" attitude. She wasn’t interested — except in keeping her job with the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce.

And on nights like this one, she wasn’t so sure about that.

You’re too pretty to be sitting on the sidelines, he said in a lazy, flirtatious drawl that matched the look in his very dark, very attractive eyes. What’s wrong with the men in this room? You should be dancing.

That was easy for him to say, considering that, salsa or country waltz, he could have been dancing with her rather than sitting beside her.

The men are outnumbered three to one. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? she asked dryly.

Another laugh. A softer laugh. I haven’t noticed anything tonight — except you.

Oooooh. He was slick. Meg widened her eyes for a better look at this charm school graduate. He was definitely attractive, and a bit older than she’d first thought. Mid-thirties, she decided, thirty-six at most, although he looked younger. His dark hair was neatly styled, and although it was a little long for her taste, it was fashionable nonetheless. He had well-defined dark brows. Eyes the color of rich chocolate – her weakness – deep, dark, and full of temptations. Angular jaw. Swarthy moustache, which was a little unusual these days.  But it suited him, somehow, and she couldn’t quite imagine him without it.

And, even in the dusky light, she could tell he was muscular and athletic. And tan.

Tan? Meg thought suspiciously. This early in the summer? Probably spent his lunch hours lying nude in the golden heat of a tanning booth. Not a terrible image by any means, but still….

He was overdressed, too. Not many men would wear a conservative navy blue suit – no matter how well-tailored – to the Silver Dollar Cowboy Bar.

Are you impressed?

Meg blinked. Truth to tell, she was impressed, but not in the way he probably thought. Impressed? By what?

By my good taste, of course.

Now, really. That was a little egotistical even from someone in a singles’ bar. She offered him her coolest smile. I know nothing about your tastes, good or bad.

He lifted his brows teasingly. "Don’t you think I’m sitting with the prettiest woman in the room?"

She laughed then, reluctantly, a soft, melodious release of the tension that accompanied situations like this. Do I look like the type who would argue with insincere compliments?

It wasn’t insincere, but I’ll admit I didn’t expect you to blush and stammer out a thank you.

And what if I had?

He shrugged. Oh, I’d have danced with you once, but not more than that.

Meg pressed her lips lightly together and wondered what made this guy think he was so desirable. Why, he probably couldn’t even salsa. Which was for the best, anyway, since she had no idea how to do it, either. She liked to dance, but she definitely preferred a different atmosphere and a less liquored-up crowd.

So far every man she’d danced with had had two left feet or had a lousy sense of rhythm.  With her luck this man, smooth as he was, probably had both. Don’t put yourself out on my account, she said easily. If I concentrate, I can work up a blush and a stammer.

Too late. My interest is already caught.

That wasn’t hard.

Oh, don’t underrate yourself. He leaned toward her, and she caught the scent of his cologne — a subtle, tantalizing, and expensive fragrance. In this crowd, you stand out like a rainbow in a cloudy sky.

Meg glanced ruefully down at her very new, very blue Lucky jeans that she’d bought specifically to keep from standing out in this country western  club. Boots and a red western-style shirt were supposed to complete the uniform, but something had given her away.

She’d tried several times to tell her boss that she didn’t fit into the singles’ scene, but he had remained unconvinced. We need to be able to promote all the various entertainment clubs available for singles in the metropolitan area, he’d said. You’re single, so you find out the best way to do that.

So here she was, finding out.

A rainbow? she asked, looking dubiously at the amusement in the man’s dark eyes. Don’t tell me –  you’re a salesman.

He looked intrigued, but not surprised, by her comment, and she let her imagination fly. A salesman, she repeated with a nod of affirmation. You sell economy cars in Dallas. She tilted her head to one side, considering. Or grass in Lubbock.  Something along those lines, right?

I try to sell my clients’ point of view to the judge, he said easily, and leaned just a bit closer to her. I’m an attorney here in Tulsa. What about you?

I’m not an attorney here in Tulsa. Her smile was cheeky, although she didn’t know why she was bothering to flirt even on a superficial level with this dance-hall Lothario. In fact, I’m not an attorney anywhere.

His answering smile was dryly indulgent. What are you, then?

A rainbow. As the band swung into a fast two-step, she tapped out an impatient rhythm against her denim-clad thighs and turned a wistful gaze toward the dance floor. She wanted to dance, even if the music left a lot to be desired. Even if he stepped on her toes, dancing was preferable to sitting on the sidelines, flirting with a smooth-talking, wildly attractive Tulsa attorney. Maybe we should try dancing.

He rose and extended his hand. Then by all means, let’s dance.

Meg placed her hand in his and was halfway to her feet when there was a discordant twang and the music abruptly stopped.

She sank back into the chair, half-relieved at the interruption, and lifted her shoulders in an oh, well, maybe next time gesture of resignation.

He sat beside her again, but retained possession of her hand. We’ll wait for the next song.

We will? She slipped her hand safely back into her own lap where it belonged. Maybe I’ve promised the next dance to someone else.

There’ll be another. And another after that. His arm moved around the back of her chair as he leaned closer. Who knows? We might still be dancing when the sun comes up.

The twist of her mouth betrayed her skepticism. When the sun comes up, I’ll have been sound asleep for hours.

Not a very romantic ending for a Friday night.

Romantic?

Meg hadn’t associated that word with her nights – or mornings, for that matter – in a long time. The past two years of her life had been marked by uneventful routine. Taking care of the kids. Keeping up with the housework. Going to the office. Dating on and off — mostly off in the last couple of months — but nothing to get excited about.

Luckily, she liked things that way. I don’t have time for romantic endings, she said. Or beginnings, either. My life is busy enough already.

Then what are you doing here?

Polishing my conversational skills and hoping to dance with someone who knows how.

The amusement in his eyes deepened. Don’t tell me there are people here who don’t know how to dance?

She decided that slow smile he had really could be devastating to a woman’s good intentions. Under the right conditions. Surely you’ve already discovered that for yourself.

No, actually, I haven’t.

Someone bumped the table, and out of necessity, Meg shifted her chair closer to his. Lucky you. She slid her feet forward and nodded toward the toes of her borrowed and slightly uncomfortable, cowboy boots. When I arrived tonight, there were no scuff marks on these boots.

He bent his head to observe the evidence, and Meg took the opportunity to observe the thickness of sable hair that grazed his shirt collar. It hinted of a tendency to curl, and it was in need of a trim. She liked that, although she didn’t know why.

You’ve been choosing the wrong partners. He placed his feet next to hers. Notice — no scuff marks.

Her brows arched upward in surprise. He was wearing shoes — real, honest-to-goodness shoes.  Nice ones.  With a good shine.  And in a room overpopulated with authentic and well-worn cowboy boots, that distinction was hard to ignore. Until this minute, she’d thought the club’s policy was No cowboy shirt, no cowboy boots, no admittance.

That doesn’t prove anything, she said. Obviously, you’ve been sitting out most of the dances.

You’re right. I’ve been working up my courage to ask you.

Which was blatantly false, Meg thought. He had too much confidence in himself for courage to be an issue. Have you? she asked doubtfully. Why?

Her playful skepticism irritated him, but Jesse wasn’t sure if it was because she refused to be charmed or because her flippant attitude paralleled his own. I’m not sure. Why don’t you tell me?

What makes you think I would, even if I could? She turned her smile away from him.

An electronic squeal reverberated through the sound system as the band prepared to launch into the next melody. He reached for her hand. I believe they’re playing our song.

She hesitated, and Jesse decided that if she didn’t stand up within the next ten seconds, she could remain on the sidelines until every last wallflower wilted and went home. That was also a plan he was considering for himself, although he’d bet Greg he could manage to stay until eleven o’clock if it killed him.

I believe you’re right, she said as she stood and slipped her hand into his. It isn’t a particularly snappy tune, but then that may be too much to expect from tonight’s band.

Jesse didn’t know about that, but he did know that she’d already exceeded his expectations.

Admittedly, he hadn’t had high hopes for the evening, but as he guided her toward the dance floor and turned her into his arms, he recognized a stirring attraction.

She wasn’t very tall—he could have rested his chin on the top of her head—and he guessed she was probably about five foot four or five inches. She was slightly built, slender, but full of soft, round curves. She was definitely a woman who possessed seductive maturity and confidence. She didn’t look much older than twenty-five, but because of her self-assured manner, Jesse speculated that she was closer to thirty. She fit easily against him, not too close, certainly not as close as he might have liked, ad yet he was glad she maintained that respectful distance.

The music became a clear and distinguishable waltz, and she surprised him by blending step to step with him. Her hair was muted gold, streaked with lighter strands, and it curled attractively around her face and fell almost to her shoulders in a cascade of waves. Occasionally, a wispy strand brushed his cheek, tantalizingly soft and gently fragrant. He was tempted to draw her closer, but he thought better of the idea. He’d never had much luck with blondes, and yet something about this one made him consider trying again.

Greg, of course, never had much trouble with women at all, no matter what color their hair. During their law school days, it had always amazed Jesse how easily Greg combined the study of law with the study of women. But then, Greg had never been particular about how or where he scored. That thought made Jesse wonder — not for the first time that evening — why he’d let Greg drag him to this club in the first place. As partners in a law firm, he and Greg got along fine, but when it came to women, how and where to meet them, and the care and treatment thereof.

You waltz very well for a man in a business suit.

He looked down into the laughing green eyes of the woman in his arms and wondered why her remark grated against his usually even temperament. Thank you, he said in the same light, flirty tone of voice she’d used. "You make