his legs forcing hers to follow suit, though protesting and awkward.
She didn’t want him so close, didn’t want to feel the press of his thigh or the heat of his chest. Didn’t want her hand wrapped so securely in his long, warm fingers, fingers that had come so close to taking her to paradise so many years ago…
Lost in the echo of sensations long gone, she stumbled, only to be abruptly righted by the man in front of her. And it occurred to her how different a picture their entrance on to the dance floor must look, forced and stiff and unnatural after Rafe and Sienna’s silken-smooth coupling.
She mangled still more steps before they managed to find some kind of uncomfortable rhythm. Uncomfortable to Marietta, anyway. There was no telling what Yannis thought or felt beyond his overwhelming aura of resentment.
‘Well, this is fun,’ she blurted, hating every second of it, resenting the grip he had on her hand and the feel of his large hand in the small of her back. Just being close to him was enough to set her skin on fire with awareness. Having to tolerate his touch—the touch of a man who hated her and made no effort to hide it—was too much to endure.
‘Nobody said it would be fun.’
He spun her around as easily as if she were made of balsa wood rather than flesh and blood, using his size to counteract her resistance and make her move with him the way he thought she should.
Exasperated, she took a breath and immediately wished she hadn’t, her lungs suddenly full of the scent of the man, the very essence of him captured in one ill-timed gasp for air. She turned her head away, so desperate to find somewhere unpolluted with his scent that she missed yet another step, and their feet collided and clashed. He answered by hauling her even closer so she was plastered from breast downwards against his body, her legs so close to his that she had no choice but to cede to his control. ‘What are you doing?’ she protested, pushing back her shoulders to try to reclaim some space between them.
‘Attempting to look like a couple.’
‘We’re not a couple.’
‘We could at least try to move in the same direction at the same time,’ he growled. ‘Just dance.’
He didn’t say anything after that, and for that she was grateful. So she tried to concentrate on the music and forget all about the way her skin tingled where their bodies met, tried to disregard the warm puff of air that signalled his breath teasing the coils of her hair around her ear. But there was no forgetting the feeling of skin against skin as he held tight to her hand, no ignoring how strong and warm the body plastered next to hers felt. And no amount of music would ever be enough to let her forget exactly who she was dancing with.
So she closed her eyes, wanting to shut off at least one of her senses. It was a mistake, the action just heightening her awareness of him until all she knew was the feel of their bodies swaying together to the music as he expertly guided her around the floor. Somehow, in the midst of flying sparks and backbiting, their bodies had found some kind of synchronicity, and in spite of him being the last person in the world she wanted to be with, the way his body moved against hers was intoxicating.
She could feel an underlying tension to his steps as if every movement was a battle, and yet his moves were masterful, long lean legs powering his big body around the floor as smoothly as a professional. And in spite of herself, in spite of her own deep-seated tension, she felt herself relaxing into him.
Why fight it? It was all for appearances, after all. Soon they could go back to being enemies. Soon this momentary respite in their battle would be over. But at least for now there was a kind of truce, where time and resentment were suspended in the magic of the music and the dance. And the thought came from nowhere that if it felt this good to dance with this man when he hated you and you hated him, how much better must it feel if they actually loved each other?
She jerked her head away from his shoulder, snapping her eyes open and her thoughts back from the brink. She had no right to ask such questions. No right to wonder anything except when this interminable ordeal of being in Yannis’s arms would be over. What she needed was a distraction from her thoughts, and conversation was the only tool she had to hand.
‘I take it you’ve never married.’
She felt his intake of breath rather than heard it, felt it in the brief falter in his step and the slight jerk of his head above hers. ‘Not yet.’
‘No need to sound defensive,’ she responded with a nerve she didn’t know she possessed. ‘I’m sure there’s hope for you yet.’ Couples began drifting onto the dance floor around them, men and women with smiling faces in dusted-off suits and brightly coloured Sunday-best dresses. ‘So why is it proving so difficult?’ she persisted. ‘What is it you’re looking for in the woman of your dreams that’s proving so elusive?’
‘I don’t see a ring on your finger.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘And I haven’t?’
‘Touché. Rafe told me you were driven to succeed. Tell me, when will you have amassed enough millions that you can settle back and relax?’
She felt his fingers tense around hers.
‘I thought you had a headache.’
‘It didn’t get me out of dancing. Why should it preclude me from conversation?’
He spun her around a couple who cut across their path, the sudden motion leaving her momentarily breathless and giddy, her fingers biting into him for support. ‘Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t,’ she managed once they’d settled into a steadier rhythm again and thinking that if she kept talking, he might not notice how desperately she’d just grabbed for him. ‘I know people have always liked to label you and Rafe as playboys, but of the two of you, somehow I always picked you for a family man. I would have expected you to have been married long before now.’
‘Maybe I should have been!’ His voice was gruff as his feet ground to a sudden halt. He looked around at the couples filling the dance floor, as if assessing whether they’d done enough to satisfy their duty, before releasing her suddenly as if deciding they had. ‘Now you can go.’
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