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Isabel shrugged. “Lo mismo.”

Reina went to retrieve Pembroke from the abuelas, who were reluctant to surrender him. She was insistent, however, thanking them for “improving” her guest, and demanding the return of his coat. To the group’s delight, Pembroke bowed and said, “Gracias, señoras,” before Reina steered him away.

“You handled that very well,” she told him as they walked through a soft rain of guitar notes and violin-quivers and spatters of light. “Isabel said the abuelas like you.”

“I like them,” he surprised her by saying.

“A group of older women and grandmothers?”

“Aye, they’re the ones who know everything. The traditions and family histories . . . the ways of doing things.”

As they approached the mass of dancing couples, Reina’s footsteps slowed. She glanced at him uncertainly. “Would you like to—” She broke off with an uncomfortable laugh, thinking Leave the poor man be. He’s had enough for one night.

“I would,” he said. “If you’re willing to take the risk.”

They stopped to face each other. Reina stared up into his dark eyes, where reflected light from overhead chandeliers glinted like tiny constellations.

Something had changed. His usual reserve and deference had been set aside, revealing a man who was comfortable in asserting himself. She realized the risk he was referring to wasn’t the threat of gossip or social disapproval—it was the complete reversal of their roles.

He was about to take the lead, and she would have to trust and follow.

“I’m a woman who takes risks,” she managed to reply.

The creases at the outer corners of his eyes deepened. “I know.” He extended a hand.

Reina responded slowly, her hand settling in a butterfly descent until they were connected by the light, hot pressure of one palm against another.

Pembroke eased her into an open hold, his other hand settling on her back. Her heart jolted into a frantic rhythm. It would be easy to feel overpowered by someone his size . . . but he was careful with her. She found a curious and unexpected relief in giving herself over to him. Struggling to understand herself, she took an agitated breath while tiny muscles jumped in her face and throat.

“Reina,” she heard him ask quietly, “this is what you want?”

She nodded, taken aback by the dawning realization of how much she wanted from him.

In the next moment, Pembroke drew her into the bolero, his body providing a secure framework that allowed her to relax and follow without thinking. As she should have known, he was a strong lead, guiding her with such explicit signals that there was no need to anticipate what direction he might take. She was amazed by his assurance. It was more than simply moving through the steps correctly—he understood the tension and flow of the dance, the sinewy grace of it.

A breathless laugh escaped her as he navigated her among the dancing couples without breaking rhythm. “How can you be so good at this?”

His lips twitched. “I had twenty teachers,” he said, and guided her into an underarm turn. As she completed the turn, he caught her in his arms, arresting her momentum. His gaze slid over her flushed face like a caress. “You make it easy. You move as if your feet aren’t even touching the floor.” They resumed the dance, gliding through shadows harried by golden light and crystal spangles.

The bolero, with its slow tempo and lingering pauses, brought their bodies together and apart, again and again. The hard flex of muscle beneath his coat sleeve, the rhythmic intrusions of his foot between hers, the firm guidance of his hands, all of it combined in a hypnotic metronome—together, apart—while she stared into simmering dark eyes.

Her voice sounded as if she’d just woken from a long sleep as she asked, “When was the last time you danced?”

Pembroke was slow to answer as he thought back. “In Manchester, it was. At a music hall near the iron foundry. Now and again, if I had a penny to spare, I would go for a pint and a dance or two with women I fancied.”

“Women like me?”

“No,” he said softly. “I’ve never met the like of you, Reina Martin. There’s not a woman on this earth with half your ways.”

She was amazed by her response to him, the acute awareness, the ache of longing. “John, I wish . . . hope . . . we could step away from our usual roles now and then. As we’re doing tonight.”

“Tonight never happened.” His voice was gentle but firm.

“But why?”

“You know why.”

She made the same little pfff sound that Isabel had earlier, and quoted, “Nadie te quita lo bailado.”