She couldn’t feel her feet. Didn’t know any longer what song was playing, what the beat was, what steps they were using. And didn’t care. He filled her senses-all of them-with his body, his hands, his heat, his smell. When she swallowed, she could taste him. With her eyes closed she could see the smooth flesh beneath her fingers. Her skin tingled, prickled and caught fire, as if with a raging fever. And yet she shivered.

He murmured something she couldn’t hear as his arms shifted subtly, further enfolding her. Everywhere they touched, she could feel his heat flowing into her…and hers into him. It’s only dancing, she thought. But her heart hammered, drowning thought. Her throat moved convulsively. She felt parched…famished. The warm, moist hollow at the base of his throat tasted like manna from heaven; the tapping of his pulse against her lips was like the patter of raindrops on her thirsty soul…

Troy felt her lips move on his throat, and his stomach clenched. The muscles in his back tightened as he arched, drawing her body into his. She lifted her arms and slid her hands upward to meet behind his neck, kneading and stroking the taut cords, inviting them subtly to relax…let go. He could feel her breasts pillow against his chest, feel the pebbly brush of the nipples as if there were nothing but sweat between them. His thoughts began to flicker like a malfunctioning fuse.

With one of the last flares of lucidity before reason deserted him completely, he realized that his fingers were tugging at the silky knit fabric of her top, unconsciously seeking a way to the greater softness that lay beneath. His hands tightened, then grew still. He thought, What am I doing? What in the hell am I doing?

The inside of his chest felt as if an avalanche were taking place there. He cleared his throat and rumbled, “Looks like our food’s…uh, maybe we’d better go eat before it gets cold.”

There was a pause, during which he thought about saying, “The hell with it,” and walking out of there with his arm wrapped possessively around her and her body plastered up against his side, and not stopping until they were locked inside one of the rooms at the Moanin’ Springs Motel. He thought about it, with all the healthy male impulses in his body yelling “Yeah!” and egging him on.

It was hard saying no to those impulses, especially since they hadn’t had much to yell about lately. He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to, either, if just then she hadn’t let her breath out in a long, slow sigh and pulled back from him just enough so he could look down and see the fall of dark hair across her pale forehead, the blackbird’s-wing arch of her eyebrows, the shadows her lashes cast across her cheeks. Just enough to remind him who it was he was holding in his arms. Who it was he’d been on the verge of making love to in the middle of a crowded dance floor. Enough to make him feel dishonorable and ashamed. Hell, he was supposed to be rescuing this woman, not seducing her.

They walked back to their table in awkward silence. Charly felt intensely aware of her body’s shape, its every nerve, fiber and flaw, its every movement, pulse beat and tremor. She was certain he must be, too, certain he could see how wobbly her legs were, how flushed her cheeks, how quick her breaths, how jerky and uncoordinated her hands.

And I don’t care, she thought. I don’t care!

She felt angry and thwarted, like a child who’d just had a much desired toy cruelly snatched from her hands. For a few moments, out there on that dance floor, she’d felt safe, happy… oblivious. For those few minutes in Troy’s arms, she’d felt no pain. Felt nothing except the most elemental impulses of hunger, sexual need, desire. She wanted to go back to that place where the universe consisted of his body and hers and thought was an enemy, banished to the remote edges of consciousness. She wanted to go back there and, if at all possible, stay forever.

“Looks good,” Troy commented, pulling back his chair. Obviously such thoughts and desires were far from his mind.

Damn Boy Scout, Charly thought as she gazed with disgust at the plastic basket before her, at the hot dogs nested there in waxed paper, smothered in onions and that noxious chili. She resented them-and him-with a passion that made her stomach burn. I can’t eat this, she thought. I can’t. She sat down and instead picked up her half-empty bottle of beer and drank.

Naturally Troy was already tucking into his hot dogs with good-ol’-boy gusto. It was such a revolting sight she couldn’t tear her gaze from him. Avidly she watched his supple fingers cradle and manipulate the bun and lift it gently to his mouth…watched his lips open and his teeth come down…watched his lips come together and the tip of his tongue appear to steal a morsel of chili that had stayed behind, leaving them glazed for a tantalizing moment before he touched them fastidiously with his napkin. And she thought about how they would feel…his lips, his teeth, his tongue. How they would feel on her lips. How they would taste on her tongue.

“Better eat up,” Troy urged between mouthfuls.

She pushed the basket away with a shudder. “I’m not hungry.”

He shook his head. “Come on, now, you’ve had a long day. You need your strength.”

Having already dispatched his first hot dog, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, then his fingers, dropped the balled-up napkin into his basket and pushed it aside. Then he reached over and picked up one of her hot dogs and held it toward her, cradled in both of his hands. “Okay, now, open up.” His eyes smiled into hers.

He really does have the most beautiful eyes. It was Charly’s only thought as she gazed into them, lips parted, barely breathing. She could have sworn he wasn’t touching her, and yet everything she’d felt on that dance floor came flooding back-the heat and heaviness, the pounding pulses and shimmering nerves-as if she were still in his arms. She opened her mouth slowly, half-mesmerized, and took a bite and chewed without tasting. A lump formed in her throat that had nothing to do with hot dogs.

Something warm oozed down her chin. He caught it with the back of his finger, then wiped the spot clean with the ball of his thumb, laughing softly, intimately. And she laughed, too. How could she not?

“Good girl…ready for another? Yeah…” The words came from the back of his throat, like something erotic crooned in humid darkness amid tumbled sheets. Her own chuckle was a husky counterpoint, part of the same duet.

She put her hand on his to help steady the dripping hot dog and leaned forward to take a bite, while he braced his elbows on the tabletop and bent his head toward hers. It was a small table; his face was very close to hers, so close she could feel his warm, moist breath when he laughed. It was strange, she tasted nothing, her chest felt tight and crowded, her belly coiled and pulsed as if aliens had taken up residence there. And yet when the last bite of the hot dog had been swallowed and the last dribble of chili dabbed from her lips, she was sorry.

“There, now,” said Troy, leaning back and reaching for his own basket once more, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She shook her head and groped for her bottle of beer, lifted it unsteadily and drained the few swallows that were left. Troy asked her if she wanted another, but she shook her head. He told her she should eat her other hot dog. She muttered, “No, thanks, I’ve had plenty.” Plenty…and not nearly enough.

What in the hell was wrong with her? It seemed that when he was close to her, touching her, she was fine-more than fine. She was every dopey cliché you could think of-higher than a kite, drunk as a skunk, dizzy as a baby on a swing. And the minute he left her she felt…like this. Lousy. Like a baby, all right, a baby woken up too soon, wobbly and cranky and ready to cry at the drop of a hat. I don’t know how much more of this I can take, she thought.

She watched while Troy polished off the last bite of his second hot dog and washed it down with what was left of his beer. When he said, “Well, if you’re not gonna eat that, you ready to go?” she nodded. He pushed back his chair and stood up, and she noticed that he didn’t try to help her with hers, or take her arm, or anything that might have brought him into close contact with her again. Miserable and disappointed, she wondered if he was deliberately avoiding it.

He noticed that she was looking around for a rest-room sign, and leaned over and murmured, “I think I saw them up front, when we came in.”

She muttered, “Thanks,” and pushed ahead of him through the maze of tables.

The women’s rest room was deserted, but reeked of cigarette smoke. The glimpse Charly caught of herself as she slipped into a stall was something of an eye-opener to her. She looked like pure hell-bloodshot eyes in a pale, bloated face, hair hanging in lifeless strings, clothes that looked as if they’d been slept in-no wonder Troy didn’t care to get close to her. Who could blame him? She probably didn’t smell all that great, either.

It felt good to wash her face and hands. Of course, there wasn’t much she could do about her hair-or anything else, for that matter. Her purse had vanished, and she supposed all her luggage was still in the trunk of the rental car, wherever that was. She would have to see about that tomorrow. Tomorrow. There were a lot of things she was going to have to see about…tomorrow. Like that other famous Southern belle before her, she pushed the thought ruthlessly aside.

It was while she was mopping herself dry with paper towels that she noticed the vending machine on the wall-the kind that dispensed tampons and condoms. She knew most public rest rooms had them nowadays, but she’d never paid any attention to them before. This one she couldn’t seem to take her eyes from.