“Listen,” he began, his back still to me. “I know I told you I don’t give a shit what the town thinks—and I don’t—but I can’t ignore the victims any more. They keep piling up. Cholly. His daddy. Bev…Mama.” He sighed long and hard. “Anyway, I’ve been chewing on somethin’ since I left the cemetery. And…um, with all that’s been going on, I figure the only way I can protect the folks I care about is to clear my name. The town won’t leave them alone otherwise.” He slowly turned to face me. “So in light of what you did for me and Cholly today—well, if you still want my help, you got it.”

My shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh, God. Really?”

“Yeah.” He gave a resigned nod and gripped both ends of the towel hanging from his neck. “In fact, I’m working on an idea, but I gotta make a few calls. You can come by my house tomorrow at five. I should have somethin’ by then.”

That I finally had someone on my side made me want to weep. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I gushed.

He leveled a palm. “Hold up. There’s nothin’ concrete—”

“No, no, that’s fine. I’m just happy you’re—” I cupped a hand over my giddy smile. “I swear you won’t regret this.”

“I’m sure I won’t.” He pulled a stick of gum from his pocket and tore off the foil. “When we’re done, nobody will doubt my innocence. Not even you.”

That last bit nipped at my heart. “Trace?”

“What?” he asked folding the gum into his mouth.

My tongue got stuck the moment our eyes latched, yet in my mind, the words flowed with ease.

He’d come to my office in lieu of calling. He’d apologized for doubting my honesty. He’d confessed that he’d resented my testimony, even though he didn’t want to admit it to himself.

With his life on the line, he’d refused to let his attorney cross-examine me. Would a guilty man do that? Would a murdering psychopath put a girl’s welfare above his own?

No, but a hero would.

Yes, I had a bad memory, but the sweet boy I’d grown up with didn’t murder anyone.

That sort of evil just wasn’t in him.

“Well?” he prompted, chewing his gum.

I pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Okay, I need you to understand what I’m up against. How difficult it is for me to trust you or anyone. Especially since I don’t even trust myself.” Shaking my head, I glanced off. “When I think about all I’ve either suppressed or forgotten, I get…nauseous. No lie. But you want to know what really makes me sick? My family. I’ve known them my entire life, so I should be able to trust them, right? But I can’t because they’ve done nothing but lie to me. And after today, I’m convinced they have a secret agenda.” I paused for a beat. “But you don’t.”

His hard expression flatlined. “Shannon….”

“No, I want you to hear this. It took a lot of courage for you to come back here. Especially given the backlash you’re facing. All you wanted was to live your life and you didn’t care if the town thought you were guilty. You only cared if I did.” I nodded. “I totally get that now. So, yes, I trust you and I’m sorry for doubting your word. I know you didn’t kill Mother.”

He was silent for a long moment.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, uncertain. “If you trust me, why’d you flinch when I tried to touch you the other day?”

Talk about coming out of nowhere. “It-it wasn’t you.”

“That’s funny, seeing how I was the only one there.” A shadow crossed his face. “You did the same thing in the limo.”

“I know, but honestly, it’s not you. I think it has something to do with Mother—with the abuse. It’s a reflex action. I’ve had it since she died.”

The tension around his eyes eased, but skepticism still shaded them. “Is that the truth?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He eyed me for a languid moment. Then, without another word, he grabbed my purse, tugged off my coat and tossed them. After that, he went for the sound system and punched some buttons. A couple moments later, an old song, Terence Trent D'Arby’s “Sign Your Name” oozed from the speakers.

Uneasiness squeezed my stomach. “W-what are you doing?”

“Skipping down memory lane.” He cranked up the volume and spoke over the bass. “Recognize that?”

“What are you doing?” I repeated, warily.

“I taught you cha-cha and salsa on this song. For that contest you entered. You did a solo. Remember?”

As if I could ever forget. Back then, Trace danced rings around some of the professionals on TV. He was self-taught. A natural. So when he agreed to choreograph a routine for my junior high talent show, I’d rejoiced. Every day during spring break, he’d instructed me with such patience and skill that, although Eddie Gray’s little sister Nina won the competition, I placed third—a solid achievement for a girl with three left feet.

Those endless hours of dancing were intense, yet I’d never had so much fun, never felt so alive and free until Trace. Only in his eyes, I was just a silly girl with a crush. Never once did he give me reason to believe otherwise, but that was then and this was….

Unease ballooned to panic. “Um, it’s late. I’d better go.”

“Not so fast.” He angled around and extended a hand. “May I have this dance, Miz Bradford?”

“What? No.”

“Why not?” He crooked a brow. “You scared?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Then prove it.” He moved his body in time with the pounding rhythm. “Dance partnering is one of the truest expressions of trust, and you trust me, right? Or were you just blowing smoke up my ass?”

I tore my eyes from his gyrating pelvis. “No, but—”

“Good. So let’s dance.”

SHANNON

____________________________

I’d scarcely opened my mouth to protest again, before he’d hauled me to the dance floor. He took me into his arms with a commanding, yet gentle tug.

Though he towered over me and several inches separated his naked chest from my chin, the heat radiating from his body hit me on full blast. He smelled of soap, male intensity, and a dangerous unknown.

A shiver sliced through me once he propped my left hand on his bare shoulder. His skin was like raw silk pulled taut over hot steel. Bracing his large palm along my back, he threaded the fingers of the other with my free hand.

“We’ll start with the basics and work our way up,” he said, leaning in to speak. “We’re doing cha-cha first, okay? Left foot side, right foot back. Got it?”

I gave a stilted nod as he began.

“No, not with your heel. Step with the ball of your foot,” he said. “Yeah, like that. And one—two—three—cha-cha—one—two—three—loosen those hips. Stop slouching and hold the frame. Head up. Shoulders back. Outstanding.” Less than a minute into it, he did an underarm turn. “Good. Two—three—cha-cha—ouch.”

“S-sorry.”

He squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Remember, you’re the plane, but I’m the pilot. Stop steering and let me lead. When we’re out here, your body belongs to me.” His confident gaze captured mine. “This is about trust, okay?”

I nodded, trying to ignore my pounding heart. Trust wasn’t an issue when I was young and naïve, but now? To surrender control, even for something as trivial as a dance, was against my nature. Yet if I wanted to gain his trust, I had to give mine unreservedly. So I yielded, surrendering to him little by little, and once he’d taken full control, the change was extraordinary.

We began to move as one.

Where he led, I followed, easily reading his body language—be it a look, the angle of his shoulders, or the pressure of his touch. All these and many other nonverbal prompts conveyed where and how he wanted me. And every time I pleased him, he’d flash a grin that transformed his face. His smiles were so rare that when he gave them, the contrast was stunning.