have a type.” It wasn’t a question.
Of course he had a type. Men like him always did.
“Well, um, good,” Edie said, because she felt obliged to say something in the face of the steady assessing look he was giving her. She started to back away.
He followed. “Who are you?” he demanded. His gaze was intent now, his eyes so dark they were almost black.
“Rhiannon’s sister.” No one ever believed it until Mona swore on a stack of Bibles that she’d given birth to them both. Her sister was blonde and busty, all curves and come-on. Edie was all angles, elbows and knees. Always had been. With nondescript brown hair and green eyes. Not the color of jade. Not the color of emeralds. Pretty much the color of grass. “Half sister,” she corrected.
“Do you have a name, half sister?”
“Edie Daley.”
Something else she and Rhiannon didn’t have in common. Her sister was named after some ethereal mythological Welsh goddess. Edie was named after her father’s mother.
“Ah. Edie.” He grinned and reached out and tugged one of her nondescript locks of hair. “My grandmother’s name.”
Exactly.
“I’m Nick.”
As in “up to the old nick,” no doubt—as her grandmother used to say when describing the family’s mischief makers.
“Nick Savas.”
“Demetrios’s brother?” Edie knew he had several, but she hadn’t been introduced to any of them. She just knew that almost all of the tall dark-haired, sinfully gorgeous men at the wedding were related to the groom.
Nick shook his head. “Cousin.”
Trust Rhiannon to flirt with a member of the groom’s family. The most handsome member of the groom’s family, come to that. All the Savas men were handsome as sin. But this one was definitely the most gorgeous of the lot.
That was doubtless why she’d felt the sudden jolt of awareness. She wasn’t interested, but she wasn’t dead! She was just able to appreciate a handsome man.
“I apologize if my sister’s behavior was inappropriate, Mr. Savas—” she said politely, again beginning to edge away.
“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
