Invitation to a Waltz — Beverly C. Warren

A SEDUCTIVE INVITATION FROM AN UNLIKELY SUITOR PROVES VERY TEMPTING TO LAURA, IN SPITE OF HER RESISTANCE...

Though Laura Bickford's romantic desires were kept well in hand by the memory of a wounded heart, her imagination chafed her with thoughts of becoming as antiquated as the rare treasure she cared for at the Brooklyn Museum. It was thus a sympathetic teaming of her heart's quiescent passion and her mind's disciplined aptitude for work that prompted her to accept a commission to catalog and photograph the paintings in a prominent artist's mansion on an island in the St. Lawrence River.

Although initially absorbed by her work, Laura is progressively enchanted by the island's native splendor and splendid natives -- two men in particular. One is a debonair yacht designer whose unabashed ambition strikes a responsive chord in Laura. The other is an enigmatic caretaker. His unseemly arrogance, out of all proportion to his position, is oddly coupled with a devastatingly charming manner. In spite of herself she falls in love with this mysterious man, whose turbulent nature she knows even less than she suspects.

When his true identity is revealed, Laura is led a fool's but ultimately a lover's chase, away from the island the through the chic salons and country houses of Manhattan's art world elite.

He applauded, the sharp clap echoing through the room, but his smile was diabolical, masking the grimness in his eyes. “You think me brutish? Barbarous?
“Yes!” she cried and turned her back to him, her feelings torn asunder. A distorting anger was quickly replacing her former embarrassment.
“And I suppose that polished, debonair Kevin Courtney is more to your liking. Ambition to match ambition,” he sneered tauntingly…
As she neared the door, his hand closed around her upper arm, sending waves over the surface of her skin…
She summoned every bit of strength she had and tried to wrench her arm free, but his hand held fast. His other broad hand snatched the radio from her and put it back on the side table, taking her with him. He turned it on and hearing the strains of the waltz continuing, turned the volume so loud that sound reverberated throughout the ballroom.
“Now, Miss Bickford, we shall see just how crude I am.” He pulled her to him roughly, staring smugly into her amber eyes, then whirled her off to the lilting rhythms of the Strauss opus.