physique. She wore special dance shoes, which were obviously more practical for teaching a class than the requisite high heels, but already Rafael was imagining her feet encased in silver or gold, slim high heels elongating those gorgeous legs.
Just as he’d seen in the photograph, her short hair made her delicate features stand out, made her more luminously beautiful. Her eyes were the same: huge pools of dark brown velvet, their lashes long and dark. She was exquisite. His blood got hot, and as he watched every ounce of colour drained from her face completely.
Isobel felt the urge to reach out and hold on to something concrete. Don Rafael Ortega Romero stood just feet away from her, dwarfing her tiny studio. For an awful second she wondered if she was in fact imagining him standing there, if she was experiencing some kind of hallucination brought on by thinking about him…But then he spoke.
‘I think I could be of assistance to you, if you need a dance partner…?’
Isobel felt paralysed. She couldn’t react, couldn’t speak. She was dimly aware of her students looking curiously from her to Rafael.
‘To demonstrate the steps?’ Rafael prompted, as if she might be having trouble understanding him. As if it was entirely normal that he’d just turned up in her place of work, on the other side of the world.
Isobel saw Rafael take off his dark jacket, revealing a white shirt and dark trousers. She felt a ripple of unmistakable feminine interest spike behind her and it seemed to break her out of the shock threatening to suck her under.
Taking control, she put out a hand. ‘No, it’s fine—really, I’ll use…’ She looked around and thought wildly for a second, but this was the beginners’ class. Her eyes rested on Marc, but he went red and gave her a tortured look. Her heart sank. She couldn’t do it to him. She looked back at Rafael, who was standing there looking smug with arms crossed.
‘Do you know how to dance tango?’ Isobel asked, feeling as if she’d been dropped into some surreal world. She didn’t even think she was breathing.
Rafael smiled arrogantly. ‘I’m Argentinian—of course I know how to tango. I’ve been dancing since my grandmother used to sneak my brother and I into milongas when we were younger.’
Isobel was stunned into speechlessness, and only the presence of curious eyes forced her to pretend insouciance, to shrug lightly and turn round to start the music. With shaking fingers she chose a song, and the strains of Carlos Di Sarli wound through the studio. Numb with shock, she turned back to face Rafael, who was now standing in front of her with a quirked brow.
‘What are we doing?’
‘Ochos and sacadas.’
He nodded. Isobel couldn’t delay any longer, or the song would be over and her students would be wondering who this enigmatic stranger was and why she was acting so weirdly. She walked forward and into his arms. He took her hand and settled an arm across her back, and Isobel closed her eyes in a moment of desperation; his touch was having an explosive effect on her insides.
On the balls of her feet, she moved so that she leant into him fully, and then expertly Rafael started to dance, twisting and turning Isobel in a series of moves to demonstrate the steps she’d mentioned.
Isobel dimly recognised in some rational part of her brain that he danced like a professional. Her natural dance ability and instinct took over as she recognised his lead and followed him. She unconsciously let him take more of her weight. The steps became more complex. For the first time in her life, despite dancing with many partners, tango suddenly felt sexy, and she wished he wasn’t holding her so close. Her head was turned in the same direction as his, tucked perfectly just below his jaw. They fitted perfectly.
She was aware of Rafael’s steel band of support across her back, her right hand held high by his. She was aware of his arm under her shoulder, her hand spread across his back. She could feel the muscles bunch and move as he danced, and only the fact that she was such an experienced dancer stopped her from tripping over her own feet.
It was a long moment before Isobel realised that the music had stopped and they weren’t dancing any more. With a jerky move she pulled herself free of Rafael’s arms and stood apart, none too steady. She felt hot in the face. Her students were looking at her with slightly open-mouthed expressions that Isobel couldn’t and didn’t want to decipher.
She got caught up in a flurry of goodbyes and thank yous, was touched when some of her students presented her with small gifts, but through it all she felt as if she were on a tightrope of tension, acutely aware of the man who lounged nonchalantly just feet away, waiting for her.
Was it time? Had he come to bring her home? She was very much afraid she was about to find out.
Isobel walked back into the studio after changing in the tiny bathroom next door. Her heart kicked to see that Rafael was still there. He hadn’t been some bizarre hallucination. She felt self-conscious and shabby in an ancient knee-length sundress. It had been unbearably hot even by early morning that day, and she’d thrown on the coolest thing that came to hand. Next to the stunning perfection of Rafael she felt like a bag lady.
Her pulse sped up when she saw Rafael turn from where he’d been looking out of the window over the street below. His hands were in his pockets and his eyes looked her up and down, their expression shuttered.
He gestured towards where a couple of gift-wrapped boxes sat by her things. ‘Do your students know that it’s your birthday in two weeks?’
Isobel looked at Rafael, panic resounding through her in waves. He’d come for her.
‘It’s nearly three years to the day since we met, Isobel, do you remember?’
Her mouth felt numb. She’d gone icy cold. She deliberately ignored what he said. ‘They’re not birthday gifts. I’m shutting down for August as everyone in Paris goes on their holidays. Some students bring me small gifts to say thank you.’
Rafael just looked at her with that intent gaze. In a bid to put some space between them and turn her back to him, Isobel went over to her things and started to pack up her iPod and speakers, putting it all into a small backpack. Her brain had seized.
When everything was packed away she turned around and took a deep breath, steeling herself. Her belly went into a tight knot of apprehension. ‘Why are you here, Mr Romero?’
His dark eyes speared her to the spot. ‘You know very well why I’m here. And it’s not Mr Romero. It’s Rafael.’
Isobel’s hand clenched on her bag. Even now, when he’d confirmed why he’d come, she tried to deny it to herself—fool herself into thinking that she still had some sort of choice. ‘I’m not prepared to just—’
He cut her off. ‘We’re not going to discuss this here and now. I’ll have my car pick you up from your apartment at 7:00 p.m. and bring you to my hotel.’
Isobel nearly fainted to think that he was just snapping his fingers and expecting her to fall in behind him. Hysteria wasn’t far from her voice. ‘How do you know I don’t have plans? That I don’t have friends I’ve arranged to meet somewhere? If you think you can just come here and pluck me out of my life like this—’
Rafael stepped close, and Isobel fought strenuously not to move back a pace. His eyes roved over her face, making her skin prickle.
‘You’ve
