Circumstances, he told himself, and turned her back and around in a butterfly swing. The circumstances almost from the moment they’d met had been uneasy. That was bound to affect the way he felt when he looked at her—when he thought of her. And he thought of her, Cliff admitted, more often than he should; he looked at her less often than he wanted to.

Living with her for the past few days had given him the odd sensation of having something he hadn’t known he’d wanted. There was something just a little too appealing about waking each morning with her warm beside him, about coming home to Maggie and her music. It would be wiser, much wiser, if he remembered those differences between them. No real common ground, he told himself again. But when she whirled into his arms, laughing, it was as though he’d been waiting for her.

The first few dances were a blur of color and sound and music. Maggie let herself go, realizing it had been weeks since she’d felt this free of tension and trouble. She’d danced in trendy clubs with celebrities, twirled in ballrooms with royalty, but she knew she’d never had as much simple fun as she was having now, following the caller and the fiddle.

As she turned to her next partner, she found her hand gripped by Stan Agee. Without his badge and gun, he might’ve been an attractive athlete in his prime. For a reason Maggie couldn’t analyze, she tensed immediately on contact.

“Glad to see you’re out, Miss Fitzgerald.”

“Thank you.” Determined not to give in to the mood, she smiled, lifting a hand to his shoulder as he began the spin. She caught his scent, the familiar department-store cologne, but it didn’t soothe her.

“You catch on fast.”

“It’s wonderful. I can’t believe I’ve missed it all my life.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cliff spinning with Joyce. The tension wouldn’t dissolve.

“Save out a dance for me,” he ordered before they whirled back to their original partners for the next step.

The moment he touched her, Cliff felt the rigidity of her muscles. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” It was nothing, Maggie told herself, because she couldn’t explain it. But now, as she swirled and turned from one pair of arms to another, it came to her that each time she danced with someone, she might be dancing with a murderer. How was she to know? It could be anyone—the real estate agent who’d sold her the house, the butcher who’d recommended the pork chops only the day before, the postmistress, the bank teller. How was she to know?