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“What does that mean?”

“‘No one can take away what you’ve danced.’ This memory will be yours and mine forever.”

He didn’t seem to like that idea. “I want your promise that we’ll never speak of it.”

“You’ll have it,” Reina said, feeling reckless and giddy. “But first, John . . . I want a night worth forgetting.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Waltz

There are only a few times in life when we’re aware of doing what we most want to do, with exactly the right person. Most of the time we understand it only in hindsight. But nothing equals the piercing joy of knowing it in the present.

The rest of the evening was an exquisite folding of hours in which everything was safe and warm and charming. Reina and John danced again and drank more sherry and sat at one of the crowded tables with plates of rich lamb stew stung with spices. Isabel’s oldest daughter, Carlotta, brought them a loaf of rustic bread, its crackled top dusted with flour, to be torn with the fingers and eaten with salt and oil.

When they were full to the point of languor, one of the abuelas, Doña Inéz, came with a tray of flan she had made herself. She made a great show of serving John first and lingered at the table to observe his reaction.

John took a bite of the thick milk custard, bathed in caramel syrup and garnished with plump candied fruit. He briefly closed his eyes in pleasure, then looked up at Doña Inéz and placed a hand over his heart. Everyone at the table chuckled. The abuela smiled in satisfaction, reached around to pat his lean midriff, and murmured in Spanish before she left.

Reina brought her mouth close to John’s ear to translate. “She wants to fatten you.”

“It wouldn’t take long, eating like this.” He nudged the dish of flan toward her. “Help me. I have no room left.”

“Neither do I. But you can’t leave any—it would hurt Doña Inéz’s feelings.”

He ate another spoonful before asking, “Do abuelas usually make so free with their hands?”

Reina grinned and plucked a candied cherry from his plate with her bare fingertips. “Not usually.” In a conspiratorial tone, she added, “Unless a man happens to be very good-looking.” She popped the cherry into her mouth, bit down on the syrupy sweetness, and sucked the ends of her forefinger and thumb. When she looked up, she found his arrested gaze on her. “Oh, dear,” she said, trying to sound contrite, “I shouldn’t have taken that from your plate.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” he agreed, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“But you accept my apology?”

“I would, but I’ve yet to hear one.”

Finding a wicked delight in provoking him, Reina leaned in and whispered, “That’s because I’m not really sorry.” And she stayed close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath, and he could feel hers, the mingling of caramel and cherries in their exhalations. Something in his stillness communicated a readiness to pounce.

But before her reckless mind could pursue this intriguing idea, she was approached by a tile maker and his wife, the Mendietas, who had just arrived from Valencia. They asked her advice about finding a local bank that was friendly to foreigners and would allow them to open a small account. Reina made a few suggestions—including Farlow’s, of course—and promised to give them a letter of recommendation. After Señor Mendieta described his hand-painted tiles, Reina declared she would be his first customer in London, as she wanted to install new surrounds for some of the fireplaces at Westbrook House.

She translated the conversation for John, speaking softly near his ear so he could hear beneath the music and the crowd. Every time she dove in close to him, she could smell his shaving soap, the starch of his pressed collar, and the salt and freshness of his skin. She loved the way his dark hair curled slightly against the back of his neck, and longed to tangle her fingers in the thick, well-cut layers.

After the conversation with the Mendietas had ended, John turned in his chair toward Reina and said quietly, “Almost midnight.”

Reina felt her stomach plunge. It couldn’t be. How could the time have vanished so quickly?

“You have a few minutes to speak to your friends,” John suggested.

“No, I . . . I usually just slip out. They know I’m a disaster at goodbyes.” Reaching for her glass of sherry, she drank the last few golden drops. “I wish . . .” She gave him a wistful glance. “I wish we could have one last dance.”

Without a word, John stood and offered his arm to her. She rose to her feet and went with him to the dance floor.

At the request of some younger guests, the musicians had added a few polkas and waltzes to their repertoire later in the evening. They began the melancholy strains of a Tárrega waltz in A minor, which suited Reina’s mood all too well. Waltz music was very different when played by guitars: the melody was freed of all percussive weight and allowed to float . . . ache . . . breathe.

This was a mistake, a little voice in her brain warned. The kind of mistake that would reveal something she was better off not knowing.

John eased her toward him until their torsos were pressed together. The feel of all that solid muscular warmth against her was stunning.

Did he really mean for them to dance this closely? Having learned to waltz while preserving a modest space between herself and her partner, she wondered how this was going to work.