He strode through the maze of tiny tables and ornate little chairs with a natural grace and fluidity that made her mouth go dry. His eyes locked with hers from several yards away, letting her know that he’d had enough of just watching her. He was making his move.
And that challenging little voice inside her said, Go for it, Savannah.
He could have stepped straight out of a foolish, romantic fantasy, she found herself thinking as she watched him walk toward her table. His dark, layered hair looked windblown and touchable. Angelic dimples combined with the devil’s own smile. Six feet of lean, tanned, firm body. Thick-lashed dark eyes that could cajole a woman into doing something incredibly unwise.
He held out his hand to her, the gesture both inviting and a bit arrogant. A pirate’s move, she thought. And his voice was as smooth as old Southern sippin’ whiskey when he said, “Dance with me.”
The orchestra began to play a new number, one that Savannah recognized immediately. “That Old Black Magic.”
Was this magic? Or just her long-starved romantic imagination being fed by the island, by the music, by this man’s dangerously beautiful smile?
She placed her hand in his.
And almost gulped when his fingers closed around hers—strong, warm, alive.
Undeniably real.
He led her to the dance floor, then turned to take her in his arms. Their gazes locked when he pulled her close to him, the jolt of physical awareness as apparent in his expression as she knew it must be in hers. A sense of wonder filled her as he studied her face for a moment, seeming to memorize every feature, before he began to move.
His shoulder was broad and strong beneath thé soft silk of his shirt. Savannah could feel his warmth through the fabric. Well-defined muscles shifted beneath her fingertips. She very nearly shivered in response.
She hadn’t danced in ages. Longer than she could remember. Yet she danced with this enigmatic stranger as if they’d had years of practice, as if they knew by instinct when to turn, when to sway, when to move apart, when to come back together.
What was happening between them?
“What’s your name?” he asked her, never taking his gaze from her face.
“Savannah.” She didn’t add a last name; details seemed unnecessary in a fantasy.
He rested his cheek lightly against her hair, bringing them slightly closer together.
His voice was a low rumble in her ear. “Kit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Kit,” he repeated. “My name.”
Kit. A suitably piratical name for this man in black, she thought with a private smile.
The orchestra was playing “Bewitched” now. How could they possibly know exactly what Savannah w
as feeling?
She was vividly aware of the heat of Kit’s right hand at the small of her back. The thin fabric of her filmy black dress provided little barrier between his warm palm and her suddenly-sensitized skin. His left hand was still closed around her right, his hold firm, almost possessive. As if he had no intention of releasing her anytime soon.
She didn’t want him to release her. Being this close to him felt much too good. She could go on like this for hours.
Kit smiled down at her when the orchestra broke into a new, swingier number, “Cheek to Cheek,” from the Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers movie Top Hat.
“Ready for this one, Ginger?” Kit asked, demonstrating that he, too, knew the song.
“I’m game if you are, Fred,” she replied with a smile.
He promptly swung her away from him, then pulled her more tightly against him. “‘Heaven. I’m in heaven,’” he crooned in a better-than-adequate imitation of Astaire.
And Savannah knew she was dangerously close to falling for him. How could he possibly know that she was a pushover when it came to old movies and old songs?
Kit ended the dance by dipping Savannah back over his arm in a dramatic move worthy of the big screen. She clung to him, laughing and breathless, for once uncaring of what anyone around them was saying about her. Who cared? She would never see these people again. Tonight she was having more fun than she’d had in a very long time, and she intended to savor every moment of this magical evening.