The Ballroom junkie in me strikes again. This time, we take a look at how Jessie’s parents got together on that magic dance floor.

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Archiving permission granted.

THE REAL ADVENTURES OF RACE BANNON

Synopsis: Boy meets girl, girl gets…

"SWEPT OFF HER FEET"

by Eric R. Umali

It was late. Very late. Race Bannon raked his fingers through his short white hair. The pile of forms on his small desk went out of focus, so he rubbed his eyes and shook out the cobwebs in his head. Race leaned back in his chair.

He was sitting in the living room of his family's Chicago apartment, catching up on the paperwork for his latest case. Rubbing his eyes again, he glanced at the clock. 2:35 AM. He yawned sleepily.

One of the bedroom doors creaked. He straightened. "Estella?" he whispered.

The door opened more. In the shadows stood a tiny red-headed figure, clad in a pink flannel nightgown and clutching a stuffed tiger close to her.

"Jessie? What are you doing up, Ponchita?" he asked, using the pet name for his six-year-old daughter.

"I couldn't sleep," she said meekly. Race sighed. Terrorists, kidnappers, you name the bad guy, he could handle them. But a kid who couldn't sleep? *Help!* his mind cried.

"How about we get you back into bed, and... I'll tell you a story."

"Goody!" she said happily, and went back into her bedroom. Race followed her in, and tucked her snugly under her She-Ra bedsheets.

"What do you want to hear?" he asked, reaching for the old copy of Mother Goose that Estella's parents had given them.

"Tell me a story about you and Mommy," she replied.

*Oh, great,* he thought, *a story about me and my wife that's G-rated, huh?* After a few head-scratching moments, he decided.

"Ponchita, did Mommy ever tell you about how she and I met?"

"Uh-uh. But she said that you... um... threw her off her feet."

Race smiled. "Swept her off her feet. Okay, then. Once upon a time..."

**********

Paris, the city of lights, the city of lovers. If there's anything that says romance, it's Paris. But romance was the last thing on Race Bannon's mind that night. He stared in the mirror, attempting to straighten his bow tie. The tuxedo he wore was well tailored, especially where it concealed the bulge of his shoulder holster. He was on his way to an Embassy party, and, as usual, he was late.

Giving up on the tie, he slipped on the shiny patent leather shoes that he had broken in until they were almost glove-soft. His dancing shoes, he called them. Grabbing his overcoat, he rushed out the door. He caught a taxi on the curb and tipped the driver plenty to get him to the embassy in record time.

His current CO was standing at the door. "You're late Bannon. Get inside," he said brusquely.

Race nodded and went in, checking his coat before finding his way to this table. He was seated with a number of people he didn't know, and the seat beside him was empty. *Good,* he thought, *I'm not the latest.* He started into small talk with the retired consul to his left.

After a few minutes, he turned again towards the door. His jaw dropped. Standing there, in a beautiful burgundy velvet dress stood the most stunning woman he'd ever seen. She had fiery red hair cut fashionably short, framing her face, and even from this distance, he could see her emerald green eyes sparkling. *Please be sitting here.*

The woman glanced at her place card, then approached Race's table. When she arrived, Race was barely able to breathe as he stood and held out her chair. She sat down.

"Estella Vasquez," she said.

Race pulled himself out of her eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"Estella Vasquez," she repeated.

"Oh, yes. Roger Bannon." Race took her proffered hand and kissed it gently. She blushed.

Introductions and small talk went around. Race found himself entranced as Estella described the archaeological excavations she'd be working on later that week. Not by the subject, but simply by her voice. As usual, he skirted around her questions as to his own occupation.

Dinner was excellent, if a little sparse by Race's standards, and he was pleasantly surprised to find that Estella shared his appetite. After a few dull speeches, the band began to play and couples began to congregate on the dancefloor.

After a few minutes, Estella turned to him. "You don't happen to Tango, do you, Mr. Bannon?"

Race gave a quick prayer in thanks. He'd never been this glad he'd been made to take dance lessons for the sake of social gatherings like this. "Why yes, I do, Ms. Vasquez, but please, it's Roger." He paused. "Actually, my friends call me 'Race'."

She smiled, and his heart skipped a beat. "'Race'," she said, rolling the "r" a little, "I like that." He took her by the arm and led her to the dancefloor. Race gathered her into a basic dance position, but she quickly moved into a more advanced one. Her left hand was against his back, right under his shoulder, fingers straight, palm parallel to the floor. The "karate chop" hold, his instructor had called it. In response, he corrected his right hand, bringing it further around her, the base of it against her spine. He was acutely aware then of how low the back of her dress was, as the hand rested against smooth bare skin, not velvet. Race settled into his knees, and she lowered with him. Their position brought them close enough feel the other's breath on their cheeks.

The staccato rhythm of the Tango carried them forward. Race began with a few elementary steps, moving to the side, and in continuous curves around the floor. He moved into more advanced steps, opening her away from him, twirling her. He brought her to shadow position, and she leaned the length of the back of her body against the front of his.

She whispered in his ear. "Do you know any Tango Argentino?" she said breathlessly. In response, he leaned closer, their foreheads nearly touching. His steps became smaller and smoother-- the more tender, more passionate *salida*. He guided her towards the center of the floor, so they could more easily stay within a small space instead of the constant traveling. He led her into the *ocho*, swiveling her back and forth. Her foot flicked up, and around his calf. He did the same. She followed through the intricate footwork without thinking, taking her cues from his shifts of weight and subtle pressure from his right arm.

The music faded. Estella stared into Race's eyes. "You are an amazing dancer, Race."

"Only because of the partner."

Before she could reply, a new song began. It was a romantic Latin beat, slow and sensuous. Race brought Estella to him again. "Bolero?" he asked.

"I only know a little," she replied.

"Don't worry."

He took her into the larger, more open hold of the Bolero, his left hand and her right low, near their waists. Race led her into the smooth, sweeping steps of the basic movement, their bodies rising and falling as one, the way dance was meant to be. Again, he started with easy steps, turning her under his arm. He then led her to his side, as they took curving walks around each other. His hand traced down her back, just above the skin.

He brought her close again, rocking his weight forward. The step turned them up and over. Estella was leaning forward, into him, their faces an inch apart and their hands above their heads. They brought them down slowly, and he pushed her away. Estella stepped away, then was pulled back. She spun right into his arms.

Race turned her to shadow again, his breath filling with the smell of her perfume. He let her out again, only to gather her into his arms once more. He turned and lowered her, as she brought one leg up, her foot tracing along his leg.

The music was long over for everyone but them. Without a word, Race pulled her up to him and kissed her. She returned it with passion.

***********

"… And they all lived happily ever after."

Race shook himself from his reverie. To his dismay, he found Jessie sitting up, her green eyes wide instead of shut tight and sleeping. "Wow," she whispered.

"Oh, Ponchita, you've got to go to sleep now, okay?"

She reached her arms out to him. "Show me how to dance, Daddy."

He sighed. She looked so much like her mother. And he couldn't resist either of them. He picked his daughter up and held her off the ground with his right arm. He put their hands into a sort of dance position and twirled her around the room for a while. Soon, he tucked her in again. She yawned.

"Goodnight, Daddy," she said as he kissed her forehead.

"Goodnight, Ponchita."

Jessie held up the stuffed tiger. "Tommy, too."

"Goodnight, Tommy." The little girl hugged the tiger close and drifted off immediately. Race turned to find Estella in the doorway.

"You certainly know how to sweep a girl off her feet, Race."

Race smiled and immediately swept Estella off her feet and carried her away.

THE END.