Seduced by Stratton (The English Brothers Book 4) (8 page)

Though Stratton wasn’t entirely inexperienced, he hadn’t actually been with a woman physically in the two years he’d been pining for Amy. He hadn’t wanted to be with anyone. But now his body surged with his thoughts of Valeria, hot and cold beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead as he swelled behind his boxers. He was attracted to her. Totally and completely attracted, and it wasn’t going to go away, damn it.

A new thought entered his mind, and he groaned as he reviewed it. It was easy to chalk up these new feelings to attraction, but he wasn’t
just
attracted to her. He liked her. He liked spending time with her. He liked that she was smart and interesting and said unexpected things. He liked that she forgave him quickly for his clumsiness. He liked that she memorized parts of
Five Easy Pieces
and that her favorite Nicholson movie was
The Shining
. She was intriguing and kind and, if he was really being honest, he was excited to see her at four o’clock today. And he hated that he felt like that.

Because Amy was just going to keep getting hurt over and over again until someone wiled her away from Étienne, and he had appointed himself that person.

He whipped the covers off his body and stalked to his dresser, jerking open a drawer and pulling on workout shorts. He grabbed a T-shirt from the same drawer and threw it over his head. If he couldn’t talk himself out if his budding feelings for Val, he could at least punish himself with a brutal workout and be too tired by evening to be anything but perfunctory.

***

As the hands moved closer and closer to four on the studio wall clock, the butterflies in Valeria’s tummy multiplied exponentially. Part of her was sorry they hadn’t been able to talk last night, because she was very curious and anxious to settle her debt to Stratton. But another part of her was grateful that they hadn’t been able to talk, because it meant that she’d see him again today. Three days, three visits. At this rate, she was going to start getting used to him.

“Step, one, two. Step, one, two. Very nice, Mrs. Kramer.” Valeria hummed the “Tennessee Waltz” as she squeezed between the couples on the dance floor, straightening arms and stopping to demonstrate the steps when her dancers were getting off-track.

As she reached the other side of the room, she caught her reflection in the wall mirror and paused to push a flyaway curl back into her French braid. She didn’t look bad—black heeled dancing shoes, black tights, black long-sleeved leotard, and a deep purple shirred-hem dance skirt. Her hair was cooperating for once, and she’d put on some light makeup after lunch. The outfit was slimming, if not colorful, and that’s all Valeria cared about, because if Stratton arrived even a few minutes early, he’d see her without the benefit of her parka or the darkness of a theater.

As though her thoughts had somehow conjured him, he walked through the door of the studio at that very second.

There are some moments in a woman’s life that are arresting, that she will review for the rest of her life in slow-motion. Moments that she will recall in vivid detail when she’s an old lady. She’ll still feel the wild flutter of her stomach, remember the way her heart raced and clamored, how she gasped softly, and how her eyes glazed over with aching longing while the corners of her mouth spread into a pure and undiluted smile of appreciation. And Valeria realized, standing across the room from Stratton English, that she was experiencing such a moment.

He was mouth-watering. He was panty-dropping. He was like some movie star who would have ousted Robert Redford or Paul Newman from the marquee. He was hotter and infinitely more beguiling than anyone she’d ever seen, with his burnished blond hair catching the dying sun from the front windows.

And his blue eyes were searching the studio for her.

For her.

She’d never seen Stratton in jeans. The three times she’d met him, he’d been wearing a suit and tie. Not today. The straight-legged denim hugged his hips and muscular thighs, bunching around his brown loafers at the bottom with slightly frayed edges. She raised her eyes, running them greedily over his chest in a fitted grey Columbia T-shirt before alighting on his face, which stared back at her with amusement. Suddenly she realized
the whole room
was staring back at her with amusement. She didn’t know how long ago, but the song had ended, and every eye in her class was looking back and forth between Valeria and the handsome stranger who had her so enthralled.

She cleared her throat, walking briskly through the couples toward Stratton.

“Hi,” she said as she approached him.

His eyes flicked down her body and then up again. “Hi.”

“Can you give me a few more minutes?”

He grinned and nodded.

Turning around, she smiled at the nine elderly couples on the dance floor who made up her three o’clock Ballroom Social Class.

“We have time for one last dance,” she said. “Mrs. Conway? Your choice.”

“Oh, dear,” said the violet-haired lady, her hand fluttering by her throat. “My choice? Well, oh, I don’t know.”

Valeria moved to the CD player, knowing exactly what song to choose, because Mrs. Conway always chose to dance the foxtrot after a few minutes of hemming and hawing. Turning around, she caught Mrs. Conway grinning at Stratton. “Well, I guess I could foxtrot . . . if your handsome friend would be my partner.”

Valeria’s eyes shot open with surprise as she watched Stratton lean forward from the wall where he’d been leaning lazily. His head cocked to the side as though he hadn’t heard her correctly, but Gladys Conway continued to beam at him. Valeria’s heart clenched with something very, very inconvenient when Stratton fixed his face into the most charming smile she’d ever seen and held out his hand, stepping toward Mrs. Conway.

“It would be my honor, madam, if you’ll forgive the rustiness of my foxtrot.”

Mrs. Conway tittered as the other older ladies clapped their hands appreciatively, giving Stratton devoted smiles. Valeria turned back to the CD player and pressed play, winking at Mr. Conway as he extended his hand to her.

I’ve got you under my skin. I’ve got you deep in the heart of me.

Valeria couldn’t help glancing askance to check out Stratton smoothly leading Mrs. Conway around the room, and if seeing him in jeans had knocked her on her ass, seeing him dancing graciously and gracefully with an older lady made her heart ache with longing. Whoever it was that owned Stratton’s heart, Valeria
hated
her.

“You look like a thundercloud, Val,” said Chet Conway, his wrinkled face grinning mischievously. “How about I cut in so you can have your young man back?”

“Oh, no! That’s not—”

She was too late. Mr. Conway had already maneuvered them over to Stratton and Gladys. He tapped Stratton’s shoulder. “Trade my girl for yours?”

Stratton, who’d been chuckling at something Gladys was saying, looked over at Valeria. His eyes twinkled as he released Mrs. Conway and held out his hand. “Of course.”

I’d sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near.

His hand closed around hers as his palm landed confidently on her back. Unbelievably, since she was the teacher, her hand trembled as it landed on his shoulder. Probably because it was the same shoulder where she’d buried her head last night at the movies. He pulled her closer before they started moving, and she could barely drag in a deep breath. Even when she’d kissed him goodnight after Mulligan’s or sat next to him in the empty theater, he hadn’t
held
her. Now that he was, nothing had ever felt quite so amazing.

“I—I had no idea you could dance,” she said as he led her around the room without a single misstep. “And so well too.”

“Simon West’s School of Dance. We all went.”

“All five of you dance like this?”

“Alex and Weston are smoother than I am. Fitz less. Barrett’s crap, but he knows the steps.”

His fingers adjusted and readjusted against her back, pulling her a little bit closer before pushing her into a natural, then reverse, turn. As she returned to him in a whoosh, her breasts pressed against his chest, her nipples instantly pebbling through the flimsy material of her leotard, and she wondered if he could feel them through his T-shirt. When she looked up at him, his eyes had darkened almost to black, so her guess was yes.

In spite of the warning voice that comes in the night . . .

He stared at her so intensely she felt nervous, words suddenly tumbling from her mouth in a rush. “I can’t picture Barrett dancing.”

“Really? Isn’t he the ‘The Undisputed Master of the Universe?’” he asked her, his features relaxing into an amused grin.

Her eyes flew open. “How did you know we call him that?”

“Daisy told Fitz.”

“Traitor!”

He chuckled. “Do you have a crush on my older brother, Valeria Campanile?”

“No,” she answered honestly, staring up at him, letting her eyes say what her lips couldn’t:
I have a crush on
you
, and it’s growing wildly every second you hold me in your arms.

His brows furrowed, and his eyes suddenly hardened and stopped flirting. He turned her again, careful to keep the distance of the dancing pose when he spun her back into his arms, and to keep his eyes focused over her shoulder. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from his face, watching the tense clench of his jaw and tight purse of his lips.
She
stood between them— Stratton’s mystery woman. Valeria could feel her there between them and was surprised by the vehemence of her resentment.

Don’t you know, little fool, you can never win . . . but I’ve got you under my skin.

Her eyes burned with ridiculous tears as the song wound down, and when it finally ended, Stratton gave her a tight smile before letting her go.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” he said softly.

She tilted her chin up with the remaining shreds of her pride.

“Fine.”

***

As the door closed behind him, Stratton heard Valeria clapping and praising her students before turning off the music. He stood against the wall just outside the studio, closing his eyes in frustration and trying to ignore the fierce beating of his heart.

He shouldn’t have danced with her.

When Mr. Conway tried to cut in, he should have yelled “No!” and whirled Gladys away. Instead, now he knew what it felt like to hold Valeria in his arms, to feel her soft curves and rigid nipples flush against his chest, to watch her eyes soften as they stared back at him with yearning. And, damn it, he’d loved every second. Until he hadn’t. Until he’d thought of Amy—pictured her red, weepy eyes after a disastrous date with Étienne—and guilt had overcome him.

Be stronger, Stratton!

“Bad day?”

Stratton opened his eyes to see a young, dark-haired man, about his age, coming up the stairs. He shook his head. “Nah. Just—”

“Bet it’s about a girl,” the man said in a singsong voice, tilting back his baseball cap and letting his toolbox plunk to the floor at the top of the stairs. “Always about a girl when a man looks like you.”

Stratton shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m all turned around.”

“I get you. Take the girl in there.” The man gestured to the studio door with a flick of his chin. “I been sweet on her my whole life.”

“Valeria?”

“Yeah. You know her?” He answered his own question before Stratton could. “Sure you know her. You taking lessons with her?”

“No.”

“Here to pick up your granny?”

“Uh, no.”

The man’s eyes narrowed just a little, and some of the chatty warmth left his tone. “But you know Val?”

“Yeah.”

The man crossed his arms over his chest, darting a glance to Stratton’s as though assessing an opponent. “She the one that’s got you turned around?”

The studio door opened, and a stream of older couples poured out into the small hallway, reaching for coats hung on hooks to the left of Stratton. The young, dark-haired man stood stock still despite the hubbub around them, staring at Stratton distastefully.

“Thanks for the dance, handsome,” said Mrs. Conway, and Stratton turned from the man and smiled at her.

“It was my pleasure.”

“You and Val looked real good together,” she said, winking before heading down the stairs beside her husband.

The rest of the couples gave him similar compliments before trudging down the stairs in their boots and winter wear, chatting cheerfully as they exited onto the sidewalk.

“So, you were dancing with Val?”

“Yep.”

“And now you’re waiting for her?”

“Yep.” He held out his hand. “Stratton English.”

“
Stratton English
?” the man replied, mocking his name.

“And you are?”
“Not named after a fucking tea.”

Stratton gave him a hard look before shaking his head. “Okay. I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here. Val and I are friends. We’re
just
friends. I helped her out with some financial stuff, and she’s going to help me out with . . . something too. I’m not
with
her. I don’t even—”