The Wrong Man (Alpha Men 3)

Still, whatever this was, it clearly wasn’t his scene, and he tore his gaze from Lia and took one backtracking step before he was spotted. A little old lady with a walker beamed at him and, with more speed than he would have believed possible, came up to chat.

“Hello there, are you our Lia’s young man? She’s never brought a boy to our afternoon soirees before. I’m Alison Bryson. I hope you’ll save a dance for me.” She stuck out her hand, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he took her palm in his. He smiled down at the lovely old girl and bent at the waist, lifting the back of her hand to his mouth to drop a kiss onto her paper-thin skin.

“Enchanted, I’m sure,” he purred, and she giggled girlishly. “My name’s Sam, and I’m always happy to dance with a beautiful woman.”

“Silly boy,” she tittered. “Aren’t you the charmer?”

A few of the others drifted over and introduced themselves, avidly interested in Sam, wanting to know if he was Lia’s “gentleman friend.” They were a friendly and cheerful group and couldn’t stop lauding Sam’s “sweetheart.” She was such a “dear thing” with a “kind heart” and a “gentle spirit” and a “wonderful pianist with very talented fingers.” Sam didn’t know about the rest of it, but they were spot on about her talented fingers. He suppressed a shudder at the inappropriate memory of her hand tightening around his . . .

“—member?” Sam blinked, reddened, and shook himself before focusing on the dapper gentleman decked out in a neatly pressed three-piece suit and a white fedora.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he apologized.

“I asked if you were willing to become a member of our Sunday night poker club,” the man, Bertie, repeated patiently. Obviously used to repeating himself in this half-deaf crowd.

“Uh? I’m not too . . .”

“You do play, right?”

“Of course, but I probably won’t be in Riversend for very long.”

“You won’t? What about our Lia? You’re not the love-them-and-leave-them type, are you? That doesn’t sit right with me at all, young man! She’s a good, decent girl.” The man looked seriously affronted at the thought of Sam abandoning Lia.

“We’re not—”

“Brand and I are just friends,” Lia’s voice intervened, and Sam had never been more grateful for an extraction from a volatile—potentially hostile—situation before. “I’m helping him while he recovers from his injuries. He got stabbed saving his girlfriend from an attacker.”

Oohs and ahhs followed that revelation, and the crowd pressed in around him, wanting to know more. He sent a panicked look at Lia, whose lips quirked in amusement before she clapped her hands like a schoolteacher bringing a disruptive class to order. She moved to the piano and plucked one of several binders up from the top of the instrument.

“Why don’t we start?” She looked down at the binder. “I’m taking requests from Set B today.” Her words definitely distracted them, and she smiled and mouthed you’re welcome at Sam before sitting down in front of the old upright piano in the corner. The requests came thick and fast, and she grinned before settling on “Moon River.” Lia was right; her playing was passable at best. She hit the occasional wrong note, and it reminded Sam of the dance classes his mother had insisted he attend when he was a boy, but it was good enough to dance to. Soon all the debonair silver foxes present were approaching their giggling, coquettish ladies and requesting the “honor” of this dance. It was so sweet it practically gave Sam a toothache, but at the same time, he couldn’t help finding the entire scene poignant and charming.

The women outnumbered the men, and the few ladies who were left without a partner watched the dancing couples wistfully. Sam spotted Alison Bryson huddled among the wallflowers and made his way toward her.

“I believe this dance is mine,” he said with a bow. The corny gesture was worth it just to see her face light up. He gathered her frail body into his arms, maintaining a polite distance between them, and slowly, mindful of the fact that she had to dance without her walker, waltzed her around the floor. It was awkward with her limp and his cast, but they fared quite admirably despite that.

Lia played song after song. The sheets in Set B ranged from “Fly Me to the Moon” to “Great Balls of Fire” and even “Hey Ya!” by Outkast. The seniors loved it. She watched Brand surreptitiously as he made his way from one wallflower to the next, and by the end of the hour every woman present had had at least one partnered dance. At one point, with one of the livelier songs, he’d divided his attention between three different partners at the same time.

Lia didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t Brand throwing himself into the experience so wholeheartedly. She’d expected reticence, surliness, possible lurking in the corner . . . instead he’d been the life of the party, and by the time they left he’d promised Bertie he’d be the fourth at this week’s poker match, begged Edith to bake one of her famous chocolate mousse cakes for him, oohed over Alison’s pictures of her grandbabies, and allowed at least five of the seniors—that Lia had seen—to sign his cast.