The Last Santini Virgin. Maureen Child

don’t call me honey,” she snapped.

      Gina’s gaze drifted around the room. Five other couples seemed to be gliding effortlessly across the highly polished wood floor. No one else appeared to be battling constantly with their partner. “Do we have to argue our way through every lesson?” she whispered more to herself than to him.

      “No argument here, princess,” Nick said, bending his head toward hers and keeping his voice low, “as long as you admit that I’m the man and I’m supposed to lead.”

      Was he going to grunt and pound his chest next?

      “So,” he asked as the music swelled around them, “you ready now?”

      “As I’ll ever be,” she said.

      “Let’s get it done, then.” He paused, and she watched him listening to the music, catching the beat. Then he took a deep breath and threw them both into the deep end of the dancing pool. As they executed their first turn, he gave her a fleeting half smile.

      Lucky for her it was gone so fast, she thought as she silently acknowledged the thud of her heartbeat. Those occasional smiles of his were nerve-racking. No other man had ever affected her like this. And Gina wasn’t at all sure she liked it. On the other hand, there didn’t seem to be much she could do about it.

      The moment they’d been assigned to each other as partners, there’d been fireworks. Not the nice, safe, pretty ones you saw at choreographed Fourth of July shows. Nope, these were down-and-dirty, completely illegal, bottle-rocket fireworks. Hot flashes, brilliant light and a breathtaking sense of imminent danger.

      Gina gulped in a breath, pushed that thought right out of her head and concentrated on the present situation. The overhead fluorescent lights seemed to blur slightly as they danced. On the hardwood floor, the colorful shadows of the moving couples swayed and dipped as if there were another world beneath the floor and Gina and Nick, as well as all the others, were the actual reflections.

      “You know, we’re getting pretty good at this,” he murmured, and his voice rumbled along her spine.

      “Don’t get cocky,” she warned just before they stumbled slightly.

      He scowled at her. “A little positive thinking wouldn’t be out of line, here.”

      A little rhythm wouldn’t hurt, either, she thought, but didn’t say. Why was he doing this? she wondered for probably the hundredth time since being assigned Nick Paretti as a dance partner. She had a perfectly good reason for being there, of course. She loved dancing. At least she had until recently.

      But he was a mystery. A big, burly Marine, from his military-cut, black hair to the spit shine on his exceptionally heavy shoes, he just didn’t seem the type to sign up for dance class. Hand grenades, yes. Waltzes, no.

      Plus, he was way too good-looking for comfort. Black hair, piercing blue eyes, square jaw; a nose that looked as though it had been smacked once or twice—she could understand why—and a mouth that could curve into a mocking smile that practically curled her toes.

      Oh, my.

      The music ended, and Gina stepped back out of his arms. Instantly she felt the loss of him and told herself it meant nothing. She was simply used to the feel of him pressed against her.

      “That went well, I think,” their teacher, Mrs. Stanton, called from her spot at the edge of the dance floor. The woman’s bright-blond hair was swept back into a tight knot at the top of her head, and as she walked into the crowd of dancers, her full skirt swished and swirled around her knees. “Most of you seem to be progressing nicely,” she added, then shot Nick a look that was pure female admiration, and Gina wanted to kick something. “But, ladies, you must remember to trust your partner. The dance floor is not the place for a battle of the sexes.”

      “Hmm,” Nick wondered aloud. “You suppose she meant that one for you?”

      “Don’t you have to invade a country somewhere?” Gina asked sweetly.

      He laughed and shook his head.

      “Now, class,” Mrs. Stanton said as she walked back toward the small stereo set up in the corner, “the cha-cha.”

      “Oh, man…” Nick’s disgusted groan was just the thing to cheer Gina up.

      “What’s the matter, General? Scared?” she asked.

      “Sergeant. Gunnery Sergeant, as a matter of fact.” He gave her a glare. “I’ve mentioned it a time or two already.”

      She shrugged. “Like it matters.”

      “Lady,” he said, inhaling deeply enough to swell his already broad chest to massive proportions. “You are—”

      “Better at the cha-cha than you?” she said, interrupting him.

      He gave her a fierce scowl. “That’ll be the day.”

      “Why, General,” Gina said with a grin, “I do believe that’s a challenge.”

      “Take it any way you want,” he said, and reached out to grab her.

      “Oh, very smooth,” Gina taunted as he pulled her closely against him.

      “You know,” he said thoughtfully as he stared down into her eyes, “you’re the reason there is a battle of the sexes.”

      Gina put her left hand on his shoulder and slipped her right hand into his left. “Right. Gina Santini is the mother of all problems between the sexes.”

      “Not you personally,” he continued, and held her right hand a little tighter than necessary. “Women like you.”

      “Ah,” she said with a nod and a teasing smile, “women who don’t swoon at you warrior types?”

      He took a deep breath, blew it out again and asked, “Are we going to dance or what?”

      She batted her eyelashes at him and said, “I’m waiting for you. You’re the fearless leader, remember?”

      Grumbling under his breath, Nick started moving to the rhythm of the music. Gina concentrated on following his lead rather than trying to plot their course around the floor. She knew he hated the cha-cha, but she loved it. There was something about the way he held her for this dance. The way their hips moved against each other.

      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