Page 43 of Open Season

Daisy felt he could have been a little more gracious, considering the entire episode was his fault anyway, if he hadn’t grabbed her, as if he had the right to pull strange women down onto his lap, then none of it would have happened. A touch indignant, she opened her mouth to tell him so, but abruptly a tall form materialized by her side and a deep voice said, “I’ll keep her away from you.”

And just like that, willy-nilly, Chief Russo picked her up much as he had the last time she was here and carried her, not outside, but onto the dance floor.

“You are just like a heat rash,” she said irritably as he set her down.

One eyebrow rose in query. “I bother you?” He took her right hand in his, set her left hand on his shoulder, and put his arm around her. “Dance.”

“You turn up everywhere.” Automatically she followed his lead to the slow rhythm of another Elvis song. The band was very big on Elvis tonight, though perhaps this wasn’t the same band that had been here the week before.

“Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

“Out of trouble? Out of trouble?” She tilted her head back and glared at him. Even though she was wearing heels, she still had to look up. As Todd had pointed out, Chief Russo was a big bruiser. “Thank you for getting me out of here last week, but other than that, you’ve been the cause of all the trouble I’ve had.”

“Don’t blame me. I wasn’t the one buying a year’s supply of rubbers. Used any of them yet?”

Words failed her. Or rather, polite words failed her. She thought of several she wanted to say, but was afraid God would strike her dead if she did.

He grinned. “If you could see your face . . .” His arm tightened around her and he swung her in a circle, forcing her to cling to his shoulder. Somehow she ended up much closer to him than she had been before, closer than she had danced with any of her other partners. Her breasts brushed his shirt, she felt the slide of his hip, and his legs moved against hers. They were—my goodness, one of his legs was between hers.

A rush of heat caught her unprepared. She felt as if she were melting on the inside, softening, her bones losing their stiffness and her muscles their tension. It was the most peculiar sensation, but also the most beguiling.

“Chief—”

“Jack.” His arm tightened a little more, as if insisting she use his name.

“Jack.” She really was melting. She was all but lying against him now, her feet still moving, following his lead, but he supported most of her weight. “You’re holding me too close.”

He bent his head so his breath fanned her ear when he said, “I think I’m holding you just right.”

Well, he was, if he liked melty women. And perhaps her protest had been more pro forma than sincere, because she wasn’t making any effort to pull away. It felt too good to lie against him, the softness of her body conforming to the hard contours of his. Her breasts were slightly flattened against his chest, and she liked it. She liked it a lot. To her bemusement, she found herself reveling in the hard strength of the shoulder under her left hand, in the warmth of the arm around her waist. Warm . . . God, yes, he was warm. His heat and musky scent enveloped her, making her want to rub her nose against him.

She wanted to rub her nose against Jack Russo?

The shock of the thought gave her the strength to lift her head. He was watching her with a strangely intent expression; he didn’t look stern, but neither was he smiling.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice unaccountably low.

He shook his head. “Not one thing.”

“But you look—”

“Daisy. Shut up and dance.”

She shut up and danced. Without the distraction of conversation she started sinking against him again. He didn’t seem to mind, though. If anything, he gathered her even closer, so close she could feel his belt buckle against her stomach.

That wasn’t all she could feel.

Her mind was still reeling from the realization that she could feel the chief of police’s penis when the dance ended and the band swung into a lively little number about Bubba shooting the jukebox. Jack grimaced and led her from the floor, keeping a tight grip on her as he maneuvered his way through the crowd to a spot near the back wall, almost behind the band, which was probably why there were a couple of empty seats there. He all but plunked her in one, looked around at the scurrying waitresses, and said, “Stay here. I’ll get you something to drink. What do you want?”

“Ginger ale with lemon, please.”

He grinned and shook his head, then left her there while he waded into the throng around the bar.

Daisy, in a slight state of shock, stayed. Perhaps she was even more naive than she’d suspected, because he didn’t act as if there was anything unusual in his partner feeling his penis while they danced. Maybe that was why people danced together. But she hadn’t noticed any other penises when she danced, just Jack’s.

She would never again be able to think of him as chief.

She had no idea how long he was gone, because she was lost in her thoughts. As luck would have it, no one asked her to dance until she saw Jack approaching, a beer in one hand and a glass of sparkling ginger ale in the other.

---