“You have ketchup on your chin.”
Her cheeks flushed as she saw the amused smile curving his mouth. She reached for the napkin in front of her, but Travis intercepted her hand. He picked up the napkin and dabbed at her chin, his dark hair tickling her nose as he leaned forward. His shampoo smelled like cherries. A very feminine scent for such a masculine man, yet it made him all the more tempting. She breathed deeply, hoping to brand the aroma into her brain, so that the next time she ate cherries she’d think of Travis.
“There. It’s all gone,” he said, pulling back.
Her nose ached at the loss of his scent. God, was it possible for a nose to ache?
“So, should we go to the hospital tomorrow and try to track down this mysterious surgeon?” Travis asked, acting as if the intimate moment they’d just shared was nothing.
The thought of discussing this mystery, the past, didn’t seem so appealing any longer. “Sure,” she said noncommittally. Her ears perked as the sound system in the bar began playing a loud Rolling Stones number. She smiled. “I love this song.”
Travis looked surprised. “Really?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t look so shocked. Aren’t I allowed to like rock music?”
He grinned. “Sure. But I always took you for a soft ballad girl.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Travis.”
His eyes took on a smoldering light. “Which only makes me want to get to know you better.”
She almost gulped, and the fire she saw burning in his eyes was so hot, her body temperature began to rise.
“Do you want to dance?” he said suddenly.
This time she did gulp. “To this?”
“Why not?”
He wanted to dance with her? But dancing required physical contact. It required bodies meeting, thighs skimming, hands touching.
Before she could answer, Travis was standing up and taking her hand. Her knees felt weak as she followed him onto the dance floor. They were the only ones out there.
Oblivious to the other patrons in the bar, Rachel allowed Travis to wrap his arms around her. “This is a fast song,” she murmured.
“Sounds like a slow one to me.”
Deciding to play along, Rachel tentatively lifted her hands to his shoulders as he pulled her close. The second she felt him, heat seeped through her body. Every inch of him was muscle. Solid. Hard. His chest. His legs. His hands rested just above her buttocks, drawing little circles over the thin material of her top.
It felt…nice.
With a sigh, she pressed her head against his shoulder and let him lead. She’d never danced with a man before, never had the urge to, but swaying there with Travis felt wonderful. Her eyelids fluttered closed and for a moment she allowed herself to forget. She forgot about her childhood, her sister, her pain. Nothing existed. Only Travis. It was incredible. So incredible to let it all go.
“Gage?”
The loud male voice jarred her out of her reverie. She opened her eyes and almost collapsed when she saw the familiar face.
“Frankie?” Travis said. She noticed his eyes looked a little glazed, as if he were just as affected by their dance as she was.
Frankie Delacorte grinned. “I knew it was you. I was standing over at the bar and glanced over, and I thought, hey, that’s Travis Gage.”
Rachel heard the slurring of Frankie’s voice and suspected he’d consumed more than a little alcohol tonight. She wished she could crawl into a hole and disappear. Frankie Delacorte had been a linebacker on their high school football team, a friend of Travis’s, she knew. Although fifteen years had passed, the man was as beefy as ever, tall and broad, only he now boasted an impressive potbelly.
“It’s good to see you,” Travis said casually. The edge to his tone told her that Frankie Delacorte was the last person he wanted to see. That only confused her, as she’d always thought Travis and Frankie were close.
She shifted so that all Frankie could see was her profile. He hadn’t seemed to recognize her yet and she prayed that he wouldn’t. Back in high school, Frankie had been a jerk, the first person to taunt her and Carrie about their mother. He’d once humiliated the sisters in front of the entire school, when he’d called them trash in the cafeteria and thrown his lunch at them.
“Who’s the fox?” Frankie teased, stepping toward Rachel.
With reluctance, she turned to face the man who’d once made her life miserable.
His eyes widened, his jaw looked about to hit the floor. “Rachel Foster?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s me,” she said lightly, hoping the conversation would end there.
But it didn’t.
“No kidding. Fast Foster! I didn’t even recognize you.”
Fast Foster. The awful nickname hit her like a spray of bullets, causing her eyes to sting. No, she would not cry. She would not give this jerk the satisfaction.