Infinityglass (Hourglass 3)

“Locked.” Hallie looked around before stepping in front of the lock. I heard a swish and then a little click as she pulled one of the doors open.

“What did you do?”

“You don’t want to know.” She tucked her hand in her pocket. “Come on.”

She let the door close behind us, and we stood in silence as I took it all in.

A ballroom. A row of windows dressed in golden velvet draperies was divided by a small, simple staircase with four steps. The late afternoon sunlight blurred the edges of a windowed doorway that led to a wide gallery overlooking Orleans Street.

Hallie couldn’t take her eyes away from the chandelier hanging in the center of the room.

“Are you going to stare, or dance?” I asked.

“Only if I dance with you.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.” I felt a little hectic.

“If you want to see me dance, I’m going to do it in your arms.”

“Too shy to dance by yourself?” I said. “Afraid, maybe?”

“No. Why?” She raised one eyebrow. “Are you going to double-dog dare me?”

“If I have to.”

“Dance is personal.” Hallie always had excellent posture, but when she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, the dancer in her took over. Breathtakingly beautiful. “It’s the only time I get to be free. I don’t perform very often, and a cage or a stage in a dance club doesn’t count.”

“You … wear clothes when you do that?”

“You’re really dropping judgment on me right now?” She knew I was teasing. I could tell by her smile.

“No. I’m doing everything in my power not to picture it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should,” I said. “I could pass out. That would be embarrassing.”

“You’re a terrible tease.”

“I know. I’m not sure how to approach this.” I’d have been more comfortable trying to figure out how to hack into the pope’s e-mail.

“You can start by shutting up and putting your arms around me. Take my hand in yours. Put the other one on the small of my back.”

“According to online surveys, the small of a woman’s back is one of the places she most wants to be touched.”

“You touch me there all the time. Do you read a lot of surveys about where women like to be touched?”

“Um.”

“Where are some of the other places?” She met my eyes dead on. “If you think I’m going to let this go, you’re so, so wrong.”

“Clavicle.”

“And?”

“Crooks of elbows. Backs of knees. Nape of neck.”

“You’re leaving out some really obvi—”