Valentine Vendetta

‘Okay,’ she nodded.

Maybe this, she thought despairingly as he led her onto the dance floor, was how Rosie had been with him. Powerless in the face of this much charm. Who could resist him?

He put a hand on each side of her waist, marvelling at the swell of her hips as they curved downwards in a soft arc. He pulled her a little closer and felt her shiver in response, and triumph coursed around his veins like lifeblood.

In his youth, egged on by hormones and predatory women, Sam had quietly engaged in the silent lovemaking which was considered perfectly normal on the dance floor. The instinctive thrust of the hips to show how hard he was. The cradling of soft flesh against hard male contours. Breath hot against long perfumed necks, while breasts would be crushed tantalizingly against the muscled wall of his chest.

But this dance was exceedingly proper. Hell, it was proper! He was using the kind of touch he might employ if he was dancing with an elderly and shockable maiden.

And it was the most erotic experience of his life so far!

He had to do something—and not the thing which was uppermost in his mind. Much more of this slow enchantment and he would be dragging her off somewhere like a caveman!

He needed to talk to her, to do something to take his mind off how much he wanted her. ‘So do you enjoy your work, Fran?’ he attempted conversationally, thinking how bland he sounded!

Fran blinked as the words broke in to the slow flush of pleasure she was feeling. She struggled to concentrate. To resist the desire to unbutton the buttons of his jacket and to rest her head tenderly against his silk-covered chest. ‘I suppose I do. But it’s just a job—like any other job.’

‘And what does that mean?’ he wondered. ‘Is that a yes, or a no?’

‘Well, every job has its good side—’

‘And what’s yours? Apart from the obvious advantage of dancing with men like me!’

Fran’s mouth twitched in response. ‘Well, everything pales into insignificance next to that! But I like the freedom, I guess. I don’t have to get up at seven o’clock every morning and put on a suit.’

The thought of her wearing some constricting little suit, with stockings and high-heeled shiny shoes, made the roof of Sam’s mouth dry out. ‘Yes, that’s true,’ he said evenly. ‘And I suppose there’s the inevitable bonus of going to lots of parties!’

She shook her head, her hair brushing silkily against his neck. ‘Not really. Once you’ve done that a few times, you get it out of your system,’ said Fran fervently. ‘And believe me—parties and balls can become pretty boring after a while.’

‘Well, thanks very much,’ he said drily.

‘Oh, not this one!’ she corrected hurriedly, and then wondered if that sounded too gushing. Or too honest. She thought about the real reason why the last word she would have used to describe this night was boring, and blushed with guilt.

He saw the rise in colour which stained her neck, and an extraordinary sense of protectiveness washed over him. Sweet. He wasn’t used to women blushing in his arms. ‘You don’t have to worry about saying what you mean, Fran,’ he said gently. ‘I’m not in the least bit offended.’

Fran stiffened. Oh, Lord! Any minute now and he would be! Why was he being so sweet to her? Why couldn’t he do or say something outrageously sexist which would make her recoil? ‘Good!’ she said evenly.

He felt her grow rigid within his embrace, and frowned. Most women would have been gently parting their legs for him by now, waiting for the symbolic and proprietorial thrust of his thigh between theirs. The question silently asked and silently answered. Sam gave a grim smile and began to rub his thumb absently at the small of her back, feeling the pad brush against the scarlet bow which sat above the curve of her bottom.

The tiny movement was dissolving all her defences in a way which was totally alien to her, and Fran suddenly understood exactly why Rosie was overreacting. Just think of the effect he was having on her—still defensive and smarting from the failure of her marriage—after a few br

ief meetings and one innocent little dance. What on earth would it be like if he’d taken her out and showered her with attention? Kissed her? Made love to her? Fran shivered.

She turned her face up to look at him for one last time before the joke was played, her lips parting before she could stop them.

He couldn’t resist. Couldn’t. Just bent his head and brushed his lips against the shimmering bow of hers. Her eyes were open and so were his, hers so big and so dark that they looked like jet rimmed with a thin band of glittering green-gold.

He gave a lazy smile as he felt her mouth tremble beneath his. ‘Mmmm,’ he murmured softly. ‘Want to lose the crowd? Find somewhere more private?’

It was probably the most innocent request he had ever made and yet Fran jerked back as if he’d asked her to peel her dress off in public. She gazed up at him, startled and shivering. ‘Sam?’

Sam frowned. ‘What’s the matter, honey? Are you cold?’ His voice was full of concern and he found that he wanted to rip the jacket from his back to cover those bare, creamy shoulders.

‘No.’ Just terrified. Because at that very moment Fran saw a frilly white handkerchief appearing round the tented flap which marked the entrance to the marquee.

It was the signal she had been waiting for. And dreading.

She moved her hand from where it had been splayed over Sam’s chest and rested it lightly on his shoulder instead, so that she could see her watch.