Tossing his coat on the couch, he met her with a flawless spin. “Let’s dance.” He grabbed her hand and twirled her from one arm to the other.

Mid-twirl, she caught her foot on a chair leg and tripped into his arms. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing, darling.” He launched her across the floor and pulled her back with one easy gesture.

She giggled like a thirteen-year-old. “I can’t dance. I’m all feet.”

“Are you kidding?” He placed her left hand on his shoulder and clasped her right in his. His other arm snaked around her waist. “You’re a pro.”

Horns blared as they stood, eye to eye, in the middle of his living room. His cheeks were as flushed as hers felt. He shifted his weight, and she swayed with him, joining in a gentle side to side rock.

He swiveled, bringing them closer to the spiral staircase. “Listen, I have this great idea for the ball. How about a Fabulous Forties theme? We’ll hire a swing band and everything. People can come in vintage clothes—maybe recruit professionals to lead the dancing—and you, my dear, will be the belle of the ball.”

Relaxing into the rhythm, she barked a laugh. “I’m way too tall to be swung.”

“Never.” With his gaze locked on hers, he glided them to the windows. “Some friends and I took swing dancing in med school. It’s not hard.”

She flashed to the brunette in the picture and tightened her grip on his shoulder. Richard was in her arms now. “Is there anything you don’t do?” Her voice dripped honey.

“Darling, there ain’t nothin’ I don’t do.” He urged her close.

So close his pager pressed against her hips. At least, she thought it was his pager. Did doctors still use pagers? She flicked her gaze downward. Apparently so. And with the next trumpet swell, she cut a rug.

He twirled her across the floor and back into his arms. “Don’t think. And, for God’s sake, don’t stare at your feet. Just feel the music.”

In a wine-hazy whirl, she spiraled, sure-footed and weightless. With a gentle nudge of his thigh—the slightest pressure on her back—he guided her through every step, making her believe, just for a moment, she could dance like Ginger Rogers. Surrendering to the dizzying rush, she threw back her head and closed her eyes, and when the music slowed to a quiet ballad, she knew she would follow this man anywhere. Up that spiral staircase if he asked.

Frank Sinatra crooned “My Sweet Embraceable You,” and Richard gathered her in his arms.

Heart pounding, she dropped her head onto his neck, and her cheek slid against the salty sheen of their exertion.

“This is what we call ‘slow dancing,’ ” he said.

“Oh yeah? Is that that what they taught you in med school dance class?”