“Do something!” she murmured in the ear of Carrigan.
He met her eyes with a cold understanding.
“You’ve just seen Maurie Gordon?” he asked.
“You’re dancing wonderfully,” she pleaded, “but do something new.”
“Do you know the Carrigan cut?”
“I’ll try it.”
“It’s a cross between a glide, a dip, and a roll. Take three short steps, then take a long, draggy slide to the left—and let yourself go.”
The trombone started an upward flourish. They followed it, running forward. She began the draggy step to the left—and then let herself go. How it was done, she could not tell, but somehow he took her weight in the middle of the step, and they completed a little dipping whirl as graceful as the lilt of a seagull against a flurry of wind.
A gasp of applause broke out around them. The dancers veered further off to allow room for these beautiful new maneuvers. And Jacqueline, dizzy with the joy of conquest, saw the set, white face of Dolly Maxwell. It was the golden drop of honey in the wine of victory. The music stopped, but the rhythm still ran in her blood.
Carrigan’s rather coldly curious stare sobered her.