He loved her. The moment he heard her heels strike the hard wooden floor in three staccato pistol cracks, she shot him through the heart with her eyes the color of black coffee.
When she danced with him, he did not think of the dance. He thought of her--muscled skin under smooth red satin--she was the dance.
He felt her, hot and slightly damp in his arms, the smell of her like the smell of earth after the rain.
He loved her, but her coffee eyes looked everywhere except into his.
He didn't care. As long as he had dollars, he had the dance. He had her.