what?’
Dragging her eyes up, she was stunned to see the change in him; the icy stare had melted, replaced by the moist sheen of lust, but his dilated pupils in no way softened the intensity of his gaze. Running a tongue over her lips, she forced a reply, confused at the sudden shift in his demeanour. ‘For you being forced to dance with me.’
He didn’t say anything at first; then he bent his head and she felt the brush of his face against her hair. All her senses seemed to be standing rigid to attention.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said huskily. ‘After all, it’s only a dance.’
This was the man who thought she was a conniving gold-digger—the man who had blatantly told her he was suspicious of her motives. But he was also the man holding her now, making her feel more of a woman than she had ever felt in her life. Everything about him forced her senses into overdrive: the exotic heady scent of him, the expensive cut of his suit beneath her fingers, the quiet strength of the arms holding her, the scratch of his cheek against hers. She gave up fighting it then. Nestling against his chest, she swayed slowly against him, relaxed under his skilful touch. Closing her eyes she inhaled deeply, every sense in her body attuned to the perfection of the moment.
It wasn’t only a dance.
To describe it as such was a travesty.
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