Gothic, she heard her Aunt Delilah saying.
He looks Gothic.
Gritting her teeth, she corrected that part of her brain that clearly had a Heathcliff fetish.
He. Does. Not. Look. Gothic.
“Of course not,” she scowled.
“I suppose that’s a relief. Because you, Ceci Rivers, treat this world like a kind of hourglass that you turn over at will whenever it pleases you. So, I can’t even say what a good girl is where you’re concerned.” He paused and leaned in. This time his breath made her shiver. “Or a bad one, for that matter.”
She tossed her head and shook her shoulders to shatter that shiver. “This is such a stupid conversation,” she huffed. “And you are not behaving like yourself.”
“Who am I behaving like?”
“I don’t know. But not you.”
“You were the one who said I was speaking to you as though you were a child. And as I told you, given you’re acting like one, my tone was completely appropriate.”
She thrust her index finger at him. “There he is! Sir Stick Up His Ass!Thatis you!”
He sighed. “You seem to think you know me better than myself.”
Crossing his arms, he looked up at the stage.
The musicians had started playing, and a slow and haunting melody drifted across the courtyard as couples began to dance.
After a moment, he drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He slipped his hand in hers. “So, will you dance?”
“I can’t. I don’t know how to tango.”
“I’ll show you.”
He pulled her toward him and she stumbled, unprepared.
There was a sliver of space between them. She stiffened, pulling against him and gravity. But in one swift and smooth motion with his arm wrapped around her and his hand on the small of her back, he made that sliver disappear and she could feel him—all of him.
She wished she could will her heart to slow down. She didn’t like what it might be telling him. He was acting so cocky.
Yes, cocky. That’s it, she thought, trying to ignore what she felt south of the equator. It was kind of difficult when it was so noticeable.
Couples moved across the courtyard while they stood still on the outer edge of it.
“Well,” she said, “are we going to dance, or what? I told you I don’t know how to tango, so don’t blame me if I stomp on your feet.”
“Just follow me,” he said, suddenly stepping back and pulling her with him out to the center like they’d been stuck together with crazy glue.
At first, she was hesitant and stiff. But he was so smooth, she discovered she could rely on him to do the right thing and lead her to the right place. And at just the right moment.
The only other time she’d danced with a man this good was when she danced with the Man in the Iron Mask, so … him.
She suddenly realized the music had stopped. She opened her fingers and made a move to pull away, but he didn’t release her.
“You need more practice,” he said.
The music started up again, and he pulled her along as if she were merely an extension of him. That annoyed her. It more than annoyed her. It made her angry.
“I suppose you’re enjoying this, given you get to lead and all I can do is follow.”
