Page 129 of Without a Clue

Incredible.

Even the staff members dance.

“Want to dance, Pip?” I feel the press of Nash’s hand on mine and look over.

There are approximately two male guests in a room of hundreds of ladies (not counting Ricky, who is currently inspecting an insect climbing up the wall), and one of them—the one who before all this I’d have wanted more than anything, more than Michael even, in my heart of hearts—is asking me to dance.

I feel his hand squeeze mine. “C’mon,” he whispers, and I feel the heat creep up my spine.

“You don’t dance,” I say.

“When I’m in a room with the most beautiful woman in the world, I dance.”

Nash Eyre is two people: a suspect on paper, and this.

The most wonderful man in the world.

And yet.

“It’s a terrible time.”

“Horrible,” he agrees.

“We shouldn’t be doing anything for ourselves at a time like this.”

“Or ever again, most likely.”

“But I guess . . .”

A tiny smile creeps up my lips.

Fine.

I’m the worst “investigator” in the world. I’m dancing quite possibly with the enemy. But I can’t help myself.

“One dance.”

Nash grins as his fingers curl around mine and he leads me to the dance floor.

He’s quite a bit taller than me, pulling my posture straighter as I reach up and around his neck. His hand pulls around my waist, and for several seconds, we fall into a shuffling rhythm around the room.

Then suddenly his hand pushes me gently away at the waist, his other hand holding tight to mine, and before I know it, I’m spinning and stepping sideways as we shuffle in the opposite direction.

His hands gently receive and release me a dozen times, this way and that in rhythm, and before I know it there are gentle swoops and smiles going around the room. Watching us.

It’s effortless movement.

Somehow I step and glide around in ways I’ve never known before.

The tune drifts into a slower beat after one particularly energetic chorus, and Nash’s hands receive me back into his arms one final time, and this time don’t let go.

I’m breathless, I realize, with a mix of surprised euphoria and movement.

There’s a little smile at the curve of his lips, put there, I’m guessing, by the feel of me clinging to the collar of his shirt with one hand and gripping his hand tightly in the other. His head dips toward me as we shuffle, his hat forming a sort of curtain separating us from the rest of the world.

I’m almost standing on tiptoes to be closer.

Him dipping down, me rising to meet him.