was audacious! His words sent a bolt of unlooked-for white heat straight through her, whether she was interested or not. A woman might have survived him if all he possessed was a pretty face, but he had charm, too, loads of it, and there were those eyes to consider; a shockingly dark blue like the Mediterranean at sunset. She’d already felt the power of them when he’d sought her out, and now she felt it again, more intensely, as those eyes bestowed the briefest of glances on her lips.
An unwary woman would be easily seduced. But she had left her naïveté behind years ago. She was no Katerina Stefanos, or Maria Kouplos, whose heads were filled with idealistic visions of love and marriage. And yet she was not immune to the heat of his body, the smell of his clean, simple soap or those long, strong legs of his, bare and tan in his foustanella.
In response, a little daring of her own arose. He’d come to her needing a distraction, an escape, from husband-seeking fathers. She could give him that. In exchange for sanctuary, maybe he could give her a little escape, too—an escape from the ill-fated matchmaking efforts of the village matriarchs. Why not let him be grateful? Judiciously grateful, of course. She wasn’t about to go slinking off with him into dark corners for even darker kisses.
Patra cocked her head and gave him a coy smile that was perhaps out of practice. ‘Grateful? Are your favours so easily distributed, then?’ He could be grateful, but she wouldn’t make it easy on him. He had a small test to pass first. ‘Do you even know my name?’ She had her pride. He might stoke her curiosity, but not enough for her to settle for being nothing more than an interchangeable part in his scheme to resist Katerina’s plans.
His blue eyes glinted with mischievous satisfaction as he rose to the challenge. ‘Patra Tspiras,’ he announced. ‘I’ve seen you in the village, at the market. You buy Konstantine’s fish on Wednesdays.’
Patra was glad for the darkness. She could feel a flattered blush start, hot on her cheeks. He’d noticed her. He’d asked about her. The idea that she found pleasure in knowing he’d sought out that tiny piece of information about her was a silly, girlish reaction.
It was the way he smiled when he said it that made it seem personal, important. It was how he said it, too. Together, it was a most potent combination that did all sorts of things to her pulse against her will. It reminded her she was Patra Tspiras, not simply Dimitri’s widow, as if her marriage and her husband were all that defined her person. She would always be Dimitri’s widow, it was part of who she’d become but not the sum. Sometimes she wanted only to be Patra, to simply belong to herself, to her wants and desires instead of what others required of her whether they knew it or not.
He made a small bow, his hand on his chest. ‘I’m Brennan Carr.’
She cut him off with a laugh. ‘I know. Everyone knows.’
He laughed, too, grinning as he offered his arm. ‘In that case, introductions are concluded. I promised Konstantine I would see to your cheer. Would you do me the honour of a dance?’ He leaned in close once more and she caught the scent of his soap. ‘I think it would ensure the authenticity of my escape, don’t you?’
And hers, too, Patra thought, taking his arm, even if he was unaware of the favor he did her. For a few minutes she would make her wish come true. For a few minutes, she would simply be Patra. Surely there was no harm in that.
Safe was the first word that sprang to mind as Brennan manoeuvred them on to the crowded dance floor. Patra Tsipiras was safe. She expected nothing from him beyond the moment because she, too, had been looking for an escape. He’d seen it in her eyes when their gazes had brushed. They took up their positions. He fitted his hand to her waist. She placed hers on his upper arm and Brennan leaned in, breathing the comforting scents of lavender and sage. He flashed her a cheeky grin. ‘Be warned, I mean to change your mind.’
‘About what?’ She laughed up at him, her dark eyes sparking as they considered him, and Brennan had the distinct impression she was flirting, a realisation that took him somewhat by surprise. She was a sober sort in the market. He couldn’t recall ever having seen her smile.
The music began and Brennan took them into the first steps of a fast country gallop, his eyes never leaving hers. He might have been unprepared for her bold response, but by Jove he would answer it with boldness of his own. He called her out with a friendly wink and a smile. ‘You don’t want to be here.’
She blushed at the truth, but her gaze held as he took them through a fast turn. ‘Was it that obvious?’ She laughed again, this time a little breathless, her hair starting to fall in a becoming caramel spill that softened the angles of her face.
Brennan’s smile broadened. ‘Not as obvious as shoving baklava under a bush.’
‘Oh, no, you saw!’ She groaned with good humour.
‘Don’t you like baklava?’ Brennan joked.
‘Not three plates of it.’ She laughed again and he swung her through a turn that left her gasping. If there was one thing he was good at, it was dancing. Actually, there were two things he was good at. One usually led to the other, although it wouldn’t tonight. Patra Tsipiras was safe, he reminded himself. She was a quiet widow devoted to her late husband’s memory. But he was having a hard time reconciling what he knew to the woman in his arms.
There was nothing quiet about this woman, everything about her was alive—her eyes, her body, her throaty laughter—and it spurred him on. He took the turns hard to feel her body come against his, he cut a sharp pattern through the centre of the dancers, dragging her close to do it and she matched him step for step, a live, burning, beautiful flame.
How had he not noticed before, all those days in the fish market? How had he not seen the dark fire of her eyes? Not heard the innate sensuality of her laugh? Not felt the thrum of life that emanated from her? Probably because he hadn’t been looking and she hadn’t made it easy. There’d been no reason for either of them to have done otherwise. But tonight was different. Tonight, they needed each other.
The dance ended, the musicians flowing into a reel he loved. Patra turned to go. He saw her hesitate when he made no move to escort her from the floor. Brennan closed a hand about her wrist, his voice low and insistent. ‘One more dance, Patra. Please.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, merely moved them into position and let her happen to him all over again.
‘We’d better stop at two,’ Patra suggested, breathing hard at the end of the reel, the voice of wisdom when he would have stayed on the floor with her. This wasn’t London, after all, and there was no hard-and-fast rule about a two-dance limit. ‘I think we can safely assume you’ve satisfied authenticity’s needs.’
Probably more than satisfied it. He might have exceeded it, if the looks Katerina Stefanos was directing his way were any indicator. Patra noticed it. ‘Katerina doesn’t look pleased. Perhaps you’d better go back and reassure her of your affections.’
Brennan shook his head, adrenaline still fuelling him. ‘How could I do that when you’ve asked me to escort you home?’ It was a bold gambit. They had not spoken of such plans. Would she refuse? Would she think leaving with him stirred a larger scandal than staying? But she was caught up in the euphoria of the dance, too.
‘Oh, I have, have I?’
Brennan pulled a mockingly serious face. ‘You have, most definitely. There’s a rock in your shoe that is wreaking havoc with
