Either you were born with the ability or not. Like racing. Like math. Like risk-taking and neatness. Some things are not learned, they are programmed into the genes. Mick Churchill, no surprise, was a natural dancer. He moved to the beat as if the music flowed through him, inches away from her, in charge of his body. And hers. With just his gaze he touched every inch of her, winding a path from her eyes to her toes and taking lots of dangerous detours in between. All making it much more difficult than it should have been to dance in high heels. But more fun than any dance she could remember since the time she was nineteen and she and Daddy won a rockabilly dance contest at a bar in Martinsville. She twirled around at that thought, her back to Mick for a second. Instantly, large, warm hands landed on the bare skin of her waist, swaying her a little left and right. “Slow dance,” he murmured in her ear. Was it? The beat plummeted to something much more like a ballad, and Shelby closed her eyes and leaned back, completely hypnotized by the strength in his arms, the solid man’s body fitted to her back.
