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couple nearby Lindy Hopping caught his eye. The Marine tossed the girl around his back, then flipped her like a hotcake. His feet swiveled and scooted and shuffled. He may not have been the smoothest swinger in the room, but the fellow could pass as Gene Kelly next to Morgan’s own less-than-snappy footwork.
    Inwardly, Morgan kicked himself. He should have taken notes instead of heckling his brother when their mother used to lead Charlie in the box step around the kitchen. Then he wouldn’t have wasted two songs mustering the courage to ask Liz to dance. Too bad he wasn’t as skilled with a dance partner as he was with a plow.
    “Hey, toots! How about a twirl?” The husky voice boomed from a few yards behind. No surprise, it was the same chief petty officer who had separated him from Liz, only now he was falling all over someone deliberately: the curvy blond singer appearing from a door by the stage. She swatted at the guy’s hands, but his groping continued until she gave him a shove. Turning to break away, she lost her footing and stumbled forward. Morgan’s arms swung outward, barely catching her.
    “Gimme a chance, doll face!” The Navy man staggered closer.
    She gazed at Morgan with big blue eyes. “Save me,” she pleaded in a whisper.
    His first instinct called for a harsh warning toward her inebriated fan, and, if that didn’t work, an invitation to step outside. However, based on stories he’d heard while at basic, Morgan knew better than to tangle with a superior of any branch. He’d have to get creative.
    “Excuse me, Chief.” He positioned his body to guard the singer. “But I promised my fiancée, here, a dance.”
    The man pulled his chin back over his neck. He scrunched his face like a bulldog being challenged. “Fiancée, huh?”
    Morgan straightened, inched a step forward. “Yes, sir. High school sweethearts.”
    The Navy man scrutinized the couple with his bloodshot eyes. His pulse visibly throbbed on the side of his head, bald as a billiard ball. Suddenly, he flared a grin and stuck out a swaying hand. “Well, congrad-julations!”
    Relieved, Morgan accepted the guy’s ironclad grip while leaning away from the smell of sweat and bourbon seeping from his pores.
    “Let’s go, honey bear.” The blonde latched onto Morgan’s arm. “They’re playing our song.” She pulled him free and towed him to the dance floor. The horn section, rocking in unison, blasted lively notes toward the high ceiling.
    With no sight of Liz yet, he took the singer’s hands. He did his best to spare her toes through the basic steps of a jitterbug. Thank fully, the tune ended within a few bars and the petty officer, though still in view, had about-faced. Seizing the opportunity to exit, Morgan released the woman’s hands.
    “Can’t leave me yet, Private.” She drew him back for the crooner’s ballad. “We didn’t finish our wedding dance.” Her arms wrapped around his neck, guiding him into a close sway.
    He swallowed a gulp of air. Obviously, city girls were bolder than the small-town gals he’d grown up with.
    “Miss, I’d love to keep dancin', but—”
    She peered at him with a seductive glint. “Oh, come now. I have to thank you for your help somehow. And you did promise me a dance.” A smile slid across her lips before she rested her chin on his shoulder. Just then, the petty officer shifted his stance to face them. Upon catching Morgan’s eye, the guy tapped an arm of the sailor standing beside him. “Hey!” they yelled raggedly, and raised their cups in a distant toast.
    Morgan lifted his chin in acknowledgment. For the singer’s sake, he’d wait for the song to end before leaving the floor discreetly—unless, that is, he glimpsed Liz’s chestnut hair, her heavenly face.
    “I’m Betty, by the way,” the blonde said.
    “I’m Morgan …McClain,” he said in pieces. His gaze hopped back and forth between the drunken bookends and the far corner of the dance floor, the exact spot