One Night of Passion

“Nick,” he corrected.

She didn’t repeat his name. She recognized it for what it was: an invitation to continue the conversation. And she didn’t want to do that. Her awareness of him made her nervous, though she wasn’t sure why.

“If you’ll excuse me …” She turned abruptly to take the same route her sister had toward the doors. Her duty was done, she could go back to her room, shed the ugly dress, kick off the pinching shoes and spend the rest of the night with a good book.

But before Edie could take a step, strong fingers manacled her wrist, anchoring her right where she was. She looked back at him, eyes wide. “What?”

“You’re not going to follow her and make sure she calls him, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“So, why are you running off? Stay and talk to me.” There was a smooth, persuasive note in his voice.

“I—” She stopped, wanting to say no, expecting herself to say no. She always said no. But now she couldn’t seem to form the word. “About what?” she said finally, warily.

He raised a brow. “The architectural renovations in my bedroom?”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed.

It was the sort of wry remark that Ben would have made. Her husband had never taken himself very seriously. And after years spent in her mother’s world of overinflated egos, Ben’s easy-going approach to life had been one of the things she’d loved the most about him.

She hadn’t expected that same dry humor from Mr. Trouble, though. But Nick Savas laughed, too, then grinned at her. “There,” he said. “See? I knew I could get you to smile.”

Edie resisted the pull of attraction. “I’ve already smiled. I smile a lot,” she contradicted him.

“But how often do you mean it?” he challenged softly.

“Often!”

“But not to me,” he said. “Not until now.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he touched a finger to her lips to forestall her.

“Dance with me.”

It was pure charm—the rough baritone voice, the slightly lopsided smile, the touch of that single finger against her lips. And its simplicity caught her off guard. So did the unexpected stab of desire she felt to do exactly that.

Disconcerted, Edie shook her head. “No,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Why not?” His fingers lightly pressed her wrist. His eyes wouldn’t let hers go.

“You’re not supposed to ask ‘why not,’” she said irritably. “It’s bad manners.”

A corner of his mouth quirked. “I thought it was bad manners for you to say no.”

She felt like a gauche teenager, her cheeks burning. But she managed a little shake of her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Can’t?” He cocked his head. “Or won’t?”

Edie took refuge in the truth. She lifted her shoulders and said simply, “My feet hurt.”

Nick did a double-take. Then he glanced down at the mauve leather pointy-toed high heels trapping her feet.

“Dear God.” He scowled fiercely at them, then looked up to flash her a quick grin. “Come here.” And he tugged her inexorably to one of the tables at the edge of the dance floor. “Sit.”

It sounded more like a command than an invitation. But getting off her feet was a welcome prospect, so obediently Edie sat.

She expected he would sit down beside her or, even better and probably more likely, leave her there and go find some other woman to dance with. Instead he crouched down in front of her and, before she knew it, he’d taken both her shoes off and tossed them under the table.

She let out a little yelp. “What are you—?”

“I don’t know why you women wear such terrible shoes.” Nick shook his head, his dark eyes locking with hers accusingly, his fingers caressing her instep.

She started to say they were Rhiannon’s, but his touch was robbing her of intelligible speech. And when he began to rub each of her pinched feet gently between his hands, she nearly moaned. It felt heavenly. And intimate. His touch sent bolts of awareness straight through her. She wanted him to stop—and at the same time nearly sobbed when he let go and pulled his hands away.

“There now.” He stood up in one fluid movement. “Better?”

Edie looked up, dazed to see him looking down—imperious, in command, his gaze compelling.

All she could do was nod.

“Then dance with me.” And he pulled her to her feet and straight into his arms.

It was magic.

He swirled her off her stocking-clad feet and led her into the waltz. She should have stumbled. She always stumbled when she danced.

Even when she’d danced with Ben at their wedding she’d felt self-conscious, always aware that Mrs. Achenbach, her cotillion instructor, had lamented that her clumsy pupil had two left feet. The words had taken up residence in her brain from the time Edie was ten years old. She absolutely believed them.

But tonight she had one of each—stocking-clad though they were—and miraculously they did exactly what they were supposed to do: followed his.

Of course they did.

Because that was the sort of man he was. Nick Savas said, “Dance,” and they didn’t dare do anything else. Edie peeked down at her toes, amazed.

“Something wrong?”

Everything. Nothing. Edie shook her head, still dazed. It was like having an out-of-body experience. Or maybe like having an “in-someone-else’s-body” experience. Like Cinderella’s.

Certainly not her own.

She wasn’t even supposed to be here. Didn’t want to be here. Had no business being here—except for Rhiannon. And Rhiannon had already gone.

Instinctively Edie glanced around, looking for a clock. How close to midnight was it?

No way to tell. And Nick wasn’t giving her a chance to look. They swirled and dipped and glided. Her liberated toes tingled and she would have wriggled them if she’d been able to do that and dance at the same time. It was the least likely thing she could imagine doing. She half expected someone to tap her on her shoulder and point out her lack of shoes, Or, worse, make a general public announcement.

But of course no one was looking at her. Especially not at her feet.

He had danced her all the way across the ballroom by this time. It was lovely, exhilarating. And yet she could only wonder how in heaven’s name she was going to get Rhiannon’s shoes back. She glanced around and couldn’t even pick out where they’d left them.

“Now what?” Nick said gruffly.

“My shoes—”

“Not yours,” Nick said with certainty.

“Well, no,” Edie admitted. “Rhiannon’s. But I can’t just leave them there.”

“We’ll get them later.” He dismissed the whole problem, but then he wasn’t dancing at the royal wedding in his socks. “Smile,” he commanded her. “I like it when you smile.” And he smiled again, too, as if forming a smile of his own could prompt her.

It seemed that it could. Edie’s lips curved. Apparently her mouth was as malleable as her feet.

Nick nodded. “Yes. Like that.”

No wonder her sister had been pawing his dinner jacket.

Edie faltered at the thought. But the second her feet began to stumble, Nick caught her, drew her up again, pulled her close. Now her breasts pressed against his jacket. And as she was not overly well-endowed that meant all the rest of her was very close to him, too. Through the silk of her dress Edie could feel his legs brush against hers. If she turned her head, she could count individual whiskers on his jawline. And whenever she drew a breath, she smelled soap and a hint of woodsy aftershave.

Her knees wobbled. Nick held her closer still.

“I’m not a very good dancer,” she apologized, trying to straighten and pull back.

But Nick didn’t let go. “I’m enjoying it. Best part of the evening so far.” His voice was a purr in her ear. The vibration sent a tingle all the way down her spine. And her brain leaped ahead, going exactly where she didn’t want it to go.

So far?

How far was he expecting it to go?

“Now what?” he murmured as he must have felt her stiffen in his arms.

Edie gave a little shake of her head. “Nothing. I … I’m fine. I just thought of something.”

“You need to stop thinking.” She could hear the smile in his voice and as he turned his head, she thought she felt his lips against her hair. The shiver was back, sliding down her spine.

What on earth was wrong with her?

She hadn’t felt like this in years. Hadn’t felt the least flicker of interest in a man since Ben.

Her mother’s insistence that she “get back on the horse” had fallen on deaf ears because she didn’t feel any need to. And she refused to force things. But this wasn’t forced. It was entirely in-voluntary—and very very compelling as Nick steered her closer to the orchestra. The music enveloped her, wrapping her in a ridiculous Cinderella fantasy.

Danger! her sensible self whispered.

But her dancing self, her wiggling-toes self, countered just as quickly: as long as she knew it was a fantasy, where was the harm?

It wasn’t as if she believed in fairy-tale endings.

She’d learned at eighteen when heartthrob actor, Kyle Robbins, had broken her heart that fairy tales were fantasies, that real life romances didn’t end in happily ever after. And if she’d dared to think that her marriage to Ben disproved that, well, she had only to remember the devastation of losing him.

So, she knew you couldn’t count on happily ever after. She was immune.

So go ahead, she told herself. Take it for what it is—a few minutes of enjoyment. It won’t last, but who cares? It’s one dance, one night. Nothing more.

For the first time tonight her brain and her feet were in agreement. She smiled up at Nick Savas, wiggled her toes and gave herself over to the dance.

Nick Savas didn’t do weddings.

Hadn’t in years.

He hadn’t wanted to come to this one, either. But when you were the cousin of the groom, on the one hand, and were currently restoring a wing of the bride’s family’s castle, on the other, you knew you didn’t have a choice.

There was no way he could have continued working right through the royal wedding day—even though he would have preferred it. He didn’t want to watch another happy couple make vows to each other for the rest of their lives. He didn’t want to see the way they looked at each other with hope in their eyes and dreams in their hearts. Maybe it was selfish—all right, it damned well was selfish—but he didn’t want to witness other people getting what he’d been denied.

Ever since his fiancée, Amy, had died two days before their own wedding, he’d turned his back on all that.

Savas weddings were particularly to be avoided not just because he would have to watch another of his cousins plight their troth, but because every single relative there seemed to consider it their responsibility to point out eligible women for him to meet. To marry.

Nick had no interest in marrying anyone.

No one seemed to get that. So ordinarily he took care to be on a different continent. But working on Mont Chamion’s castle, meant he was here today. He’d had no choice.

“It will be lovely,” his aunt Malena had assured him yesterday afternoon. “I think Gloria is bringing two of Philip’s assistants. They’re both young and unmarried,” she added brightly, confirming his worst fears.

“Oh, yes,” his aunt Ophelia gushed. “There will be lots of absolutely gorgeous women. You can take your pick.”

But Nick didn’t want his pick. So he’d arrived at the last minute, then sat in the back, avoiding the myriad Savas aunts, uncles and cousins, who, seeing him in attendance, would put one and one together. It was what they did. They couldn’t help it. They had an ark mentality—the world was best arranged by twos.

Nick didn’t dispute that. Hell, he absolutely believed it.

But there was no “best” for him anymore. Never would be.

When he heard the priest intone, “Do you take this woman …” his throat had tightened.

He shut his mind off, determinedly focusing instead on the various cherubim and seraphim floating above the congregation, studying them as if he were going to be tested on them which, once up on a time he had been, in a course on period architectural detail.

These were mid-seventeenth century from the look of them. Very baroque. Bernini would have been right at home.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Nick breathed a sigh of relief.

He would have escaped then, except his uncle Orestes had latched on to him before he could, determined to talk to him to see if he wouldn’t like to come and restore the moldering gazebo on his Connecticut property.

At least it hadn’t been an offer to introduce him to the new office girl. Silently Nick had counted his blessings as he went along the receiving line, congratulated his cousin, Demetrios, and kissed the glowing bride.

After the dinner, which he had contrived to eat in the company of his uncle Philip’s triplet daughters because no one could expect him to be interested in them, he had propped himself against a wall near the dance floor where conversation would be difficult and no one would suggest that he dance.

He’d been counting the minutes until he could politely leave, when an eager young blonde had latched on to him.

“Rhiannon Evans,” she’d announced breathlessly. And she’d looked at him as if expecting him to know who she was.

She was young, definitely stunning and determinedly sparkling. “I’m an actress,” she’d explained, forgiving him because he admitted he didn’t know the first thing about movies. Wasn’t really interested. Didn’t watch them.

He should, she’d told him. He could start with hers.

She was getting billing now—”though still below the title,” she admitted—and bigger and better parts. She told him she was serious about her craft and that she didn’t want to be known simply for being beautiful—she said this last with no self-consciousness whatsoever—but for being good at her work.

There was an edge to her bright girlish chatter. Nick was well-versed in female body language and he could see she had An Agenda.

First there was the hand on his arm, then hers somehow linked around his. She leaned into him. She patted his lapel, then touched his cheek.

“I’m determined not to ride on my mother’s coattails, either.” And that was when he’d learned she was Mona Tremayne’s daughter.

At least he knew who Mona was.

Nick doubted there was a male breathing who hadn’t fantasized about Mona Tremayne at some point in his life—her early sex goddess movies had seen to that. Heaven knew as a young man he had, even if she was nearly old enough to be his mother.

He’d met her a few days ago at a dinner Demetrios had hosted. She’d been without her daughter then, thank God. Mona was still strikingly beautiful, still worthy of fantasies if he’d been so inclined. She was also warm and friendly, interested in what he was doing at the palace.

When she learned he was here not for the wedding, but to oversee the restoration of part of the palace, she’d said, “You don’t do ranches, do you?”

“Never have.”

“You should consider it.” She’d smiled encouragingly. “I’ve got an old adobe on my property that needs to be restored before it crumbles back to primeval mud.”

He’d laughed. But because old buildings of any sort interested him he’d asked her a few questions, then offered to send her the names of some colleagues.

Rhiannon hadn’t been nearly as interesting. But as she kept on chattering. Nick contrived to look interested. At least she didn’t have marriage on her mind. He was sure of that.

There had been an edge of fragile desperation to her frenzied chatter, and the way her gaze roamed the room, he thought she was desperate for someone to see her with him.

He didn’t mind who saw them together. Nothing was happening.

Nothing was going to happen. And her presence kept the Savas matchmakers at bay.

Finally she paused and focused on him. “What do you do?” she asked.

And so he told her—at length—about architectural renovation and restoration. Served her right, he thought, for pawing him. It was clear that she didn’t care a whit. She had other things on her mind.

So he droned on about beams and joists, about weight-bearing walls, about matching the plaster using original techniques. He talked about dry rot and rising damp and wormy floorboards—which in the interest of her further education, he offered to show her as he was currently engaged in pulling up some in the palace’s east tower. He’d even gone so far as to say he’d taken a bedroom there so he could continue to work on the wormy floorboards at all hours.

He’d figured he might bore her enough that she’d go find someone more inclined to take her up on what she seemed to have in mind. Or maybe the suggestion would scare her off.

In fact, that was when she’d run her hand down his lapel, looked dreamily up into his eyes and told him how much she’d “simply adore” coming to his bedroom to see the renovations.

Nick began to think it might be a better idea to dance with her—and step on her toes.

But it hadn’t come to that.

He’d been saved. By Edie Daley.

A less likely savior would have been hard to imagine. A less likely sister to the ethereally beautiful Rhiannon was hard to imagine, too.

They looked nothing alike. Though Nick supposed he could detect the Mona Tremayne cheekbones in both her daughters’ faces. But the similarity ended there. Where Rhiannon determinedly emphasized those bones with makeup, Edie did nothing to highlight them at all.

The little makeup she wore seemed more designed to cover up than accentuate. Though he suspected that what she was covering up were freckles.

He thought he would prefer the freckles.

He certainly preferred her flashing gray-green eyes and tart tongue to her sister’s blue eyes and breathless babbling. Edie didn’t charm, she didn’t flatter. She didn’t paw, either. She kept her distance.

And she got right to the business at hand, which was clearly making sure that her sister had nothing to do with him. Used to having women thrown at his head, Nick found Edie’s portrayal of a determined mother hen, intent on extracting her chick from danger, oddly appealing. Her words to her sister, though, revealed that she understood that Nick was not the entire source of the danger. Clearly she realized that her sister was capable of disaster with very little help at all.

Nick didn’t envy whoever Rhiannon’s fiancé was. The poor guy would have his hands full with her—which made Edie’s ability to direct her back onto the straight and narrow all the more impressive. Obviously she was a woman to be reckoned with.

She had presence. And character.

While she may not have had the perfect ageless features of her mother or the ethereal beauty of her younger sister, Edie had the kind of bone structure a camera would love, as well as the liveliest eyes he’d ever seen.

Nick liked lively eyes. He liked her take-charge, no-nonsense personality. He liked the fact that she was intent on backing away from him.

It made him want to get closer.

And once her sister had disappeared, Nick stopped trying to think of ways to escape the reception and instead tried to find ways to keep Edie Daley talking.

For the first time he began to enjoy himself as he drew her out, got her talking, even teased her a bit. She responded, then backed off. He didn’t want her backing off.

So he asked her to dance.

The request probably shocked him more than it had her. Nick didn’t dance. Hadn’t for years.

The last woman he’d danced with had been Amy, three nights before their wedding, the night before she’d died. He’d danced with Amy and it had been the last time he’d held her in his arms.

It wasn’t the same, he assured himself. Nothing like the same.

This was a one-off, a turn around the dance floor with a pretty, vivacious woman. He was at a wedding, for God’s sake. Dancing was expected! Just because he hadn’t done it in eight years … It meant nothing.

Dancing was only moving your feet to music. Hardly something to hold sacred. He should have done it years ago, would have if it had ever occurred to him.

So he was shocked again when Edie said no.

In all his thirty-three years Nikolas Savas had never been turned down for a dance—which was undoubtedly why he’d demanded, “Why not?”

Her unexpected, yet honest answer had made him laugh. Her feet hurt.

No woman he’d ever met—not even Amy—had actually admitted that those stupid pointy-toed shoes women wore hurt their feet.

When he’d knelt to ease hers off, they were so tight he couldn’t believe she’d even got them on. He wasn’t surprised when she’d said they belonged to her sister. No wonder she didn’t want to dance. It was astonishing she could even walk.

But once he’d freed her feet and tossed the offending footwear under the table—so she wouldn’t dare crawl under and rescue them—she let him take her into his arms and swirl her onto the dance floor.

It was like riding a bike. Once you learned how to dance, you never forgot.

But it wasn’t like dancing with Amy.

Amy had been tiny, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. Edie’s nose would have bumped his chin if she’d come that close. She didn’t. She kept her distance and periodically glanced down at her stocking-clad toes.

So did he. They charmed him. She seemed shocked by them. Shocked to be dancing with him.

But she moved well, except for the fact that every once in a while she would stiffen and start to pull away.

When she did, he drew her closer, enjoying the feel of her soft breasts against his chest, of the silky dark hair that brushed his jaw when she turned her head. He brushed his lips against her hair.

She stiffened again. “Are you staring?”

No, that wasn’t what he was doing. He grinned. “No.”

“You are, too. You’re ogling my feet.”

He laughed and pulled her even closer. “There. Now I can’t see them. Better?”

“Er, um,” she muttered into the wool of his lapel. He felt her body stiffen again, but she didn’t pull away. And seconds later, the tension seemed to ease, her body settled against his as they moved together.

Much better, he decided. Except that his body was becoming increasingly aware of how very appealing she was. Nick might have sworn off the idea of marrying after Amy’s death, but he hadn’t sworn off sex.

And thoughts of taking Edie Daley to bed were very appealing.

She seemed to fit in his arms, and as they moved together, he rested his cheek on her hair. She had amazing hair, not at all like the straight platinum curtain Rhiannon wore. Edie’s was thick and dark and wavy. He suspected it had started out the evening tamed by a pair of gold hair clips just above her ears. But it was a long while since those clips had done their job. Even as she danced, her hair was escaping, curling wildly with a life of its own.

He wanted to thread his fingers through it, bury his face in it. He imagined what it would look like spread out against the sheets. He began to consider again how to get her there when the last strains of the waltz died away and the orchestra segued into something louder, faster and with a pounding of drums, which matched the thrum of his blood coursing through his veins.

“Well,” Edie said, abruptly drawing back and pulling her hand out of his. “That was nice.”

Nice? Nick stared at her, jolted.

She nodded, dimpling as she smiled. “Very nice. Thank you for the dance.” There was something almost impishly polite in her tone, as if she knew the effect she was having on him—and wasn’t going to even give him a chance to try his moves.

But Nick wasn’t going to give up without an effort.

“I can do better than nice,” he promised, holding out his hand, silently urging her to take it, to come with him.

Resolutely Edie shook her head. “Thank you, but no. And it isn’t impolite to refuse a second dance,” she informed him before he could claim otherwise.