Man of the Hour: Night Of Love

She curtsied, grimacing as she made her injured ankle throb with the action. “It’s my favorite. Don’t you think it suits me?” she asked with a challenge in her eyes.

He averted his gaze as if the words had shamed him. “No, I don’t,” he said stiffly. “Sit down, David.”

David helped Meg into the chair next to Ahmed and greeted Daphne.

“How did you manage this?” David asked the other woman.

“He likes having things thrown at him, don’t you, Steven, darling?” Daphne laughed. “I got rehired at a higher salary. You should try it yourself.”

“No, thanks.” David sighed. “I’d be frog-marched to the elevator shaft for my pains.”

“I don’t suppose Meg is the type to throw things, are you, dear?” Daphne asked.

“Shall we find out?” Meg replied, lifting her water glass with a meaningful glance in Daphne’s direction.

David put a hand on her wrist, shocked by her reaction.

“Forgive me if I’ve offended you,” Daphne said quickly. She looked more than a little surprised herself. “Heavens, I just open my mouth and words fall out, I suppose,” she added with a nervous, apologetic glance toward Steven.

Steven was frowning and his eyes never left Meg’s.

“No need to apologize,” Meg said stiffly. “I rarely take offense, even when people blatantly insult me.”

Steven looked uncomfortable and the atmosphere at the table grew tense.

Ahmed stood up, holding his hand out to Meg. “I would be honored to have you dance with me,” he offered.

“I would be honored to accept.” Meg avoided Steven’s eyes as she stood up and let Ahmed lead her onto the dance floor.

He held her very correctly. She liked the clean scent of him and the handsome face with liquid black eyes that smiled down at her. But there was no spark when he touched her, no throbbing ache to possess and be possessed.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I think you saved the evening.”

“Daphne has no malice in her, despite what you may think,” he said gently. “It is quite obvious what Steven feels for you.”

Meg flushed, letting her eyes fall to his white shirt. “Is it?”

“This dancing…it hurts you?” he asked suddenly when she was less than graceful and fell heavily against him.

She swallowed. “My ankle is still painful,” she said honestly. “And not mending as I had hoped.” Her eyes lifted with panic in their depths. “It was a bad sprain…”

“And dancing is your life.”

She gnawed on her lower lip, wincing as she moved again with him to the bluesy music. “It has had to be,” she said oddly.

“May I cut in?”

The voice was deep and cutting and not the kind to ignore unless a brawl was desirable.

“But of course,” Ahmed said, smiling at Steven. “Merci, mademoiselle,” he added softly and moved back.

Steven drew Meg to him, much too closely, and riveted her in place with one long, powerful arm as he moved her to the music.

“My ankle hurts,” she said icily, “and I don’t want to dance with you.”

“I know.” He tilted her face up to his and studied the dark circles under her eyes, the wan complexion. “I know why you wore the red dress, too. It was to rub my nose in what I said to you last night, wasn’t it?”

“Bingo,” she said with a cold smile.

He drew in a long breath. His silver eyes slid over the length of her waving hair, down to her bare shoulders. They fell to her breasts where the soft V at the neckline revealed their exquisite swell, and his jaw clenched. The arm at her back went rigid.

“You have the softest skin I’ve ever touched,” he said gruffly. “Silky and warm and fragrant. I don’t need this dress to remind me that I can’t think sanely when you’re within reach.”

“Then stay out of reach,” she shot back. “Why don’t you take Daphne home with you and seduce her? If you didn’t on the way here,” she added with hauteur.

She missed a step and he caught her, easily, holding her upright.

“That ankle is hurting you. You shouldn’t be dancing,” he said firmly.

“The therapist said to exercise it,” she said through her teeth. “And she said that it would hurt.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking. If the ankle was painful after five long weeks, how would she be able to dance on it? Would it hold her weight? It certainly didn’t seem as if it would.

She saw the expression on his face. “I’ll dance again,” she told him. “I will!”

He touched her face with lean, careful fingers, traced her cheek and her chin and around her full, bow mouth. “For yourself, Meg, or because it was what your mother always wanted?”

“It was the only thing I ever did in my life that pleased her,” she said without thinking.

“Yes. I think perhaps it was.” His finger traced her lower lip. Odd how tremulous that finger seemed, especially when it teased between her lips and felt them part, felt her breath catch. “Are you still afraid of making a baby?” he whispered unsteadily.

“Steven!” she exclaimed. She jerked her face back and it flushed red.

“You made me think about what happened that last night we were together before we fought,” he said, as if she hadn’t reacted to the question at all. “I remember when you started fighting me. I remember what I said to you.”

“This isn’t necessary…!” she broke in frantically.

“I said that if we went all the way, it wouldn’t really matter,” he whispered deeply, holding her eyes. “Because I’d love making you pregnant.”

She actually shivered and her body trembled as it sought the strength and comfort of his.

He cradled her in his arms, barely moving to the music, his mouth at her ear. “You didn’t think I was going to stop. And you were afraid of a baby.”

“Yes.”

His fingers threaded into her soft, silky hair and he drew her even closer. His legs trembled against her own as the incredible chemistry they shared made him weak. And all at once, instantly, he was fully capable and she could feel it.

“Don’t pull away from me,” he said roughly. “I know it repulses you, but, my God, it isn’t as if I can help it…!”