Hate to Love You(61)

Grasping my hand tightly, James waved it down and up in a wide arc. Then he did a sort of pendulum waddle with the rest of his body and yanked me along with him. For a second I wondered if breaking into the chicken dance would be better than trying to follow his lead. Our arms sliced through the air as we left off windshield wiping for chopping firewood on the move.

It felt like being maneuvered by a remote control gone wild. I never thought I’d agree with Caroline about anything, but she was right all those years ago—James couldn’t dance worth... Well, the man was a disaster on the dance floor.

Without warning, James changed direction and I tripped over his foot. I yelped as he wrenched me forward and we narrowly missed colliding with the couple behind him.

“Time out,” I gasped, narrowly avoiding stabbing his foot with my stiletto.

“Can’t keep up with a pro?”

“Shut up and pay attention to detail, Scott-Thomas,” I ordered. “Keep your hand on my waist and take my right hand like you did before. Ouch! Loosen up. No, not like that. Loose, not droopy! Good. Now move your hips but only a bit. Try to follow the beat and then we can move. Oh God, don’t lift your feet like you’re marching to war, just sway a little bit.”

“Like this?”

“No, more slowly.”

“Is that better?”

“No, do it like...” I bit my lip. “Like you did that night in Brighton.”

James looked down and I looked downer, convinced I’d stepped on the missing screw in my brain. I couldn’t even think in proper English anymore much less speak to James. Something was definitely wrong with me. Mercifully, he said nothing. The song faded into the beginning of Phyllis Nelson’s “Move Closer” and I stopped dancing, listening to her sensual intro.#p#分页标题#e#

James tightened his hold. “If you don’t dance with me I’ll get mobbed by my fan club.”

I laughed and we adjusted to the lingering rhythm of the song. His hand was hot around my waist, circling it with just the right amount of pressure. There was nothing untoward or improper in our hold, and we danced with our bodies as respectfully apart as our colleagues. But we might as well have been plastered together.

My entire body felt hot-wired to James’s, bonded by a current of sensual energy I hadn’t felt in years. And as I rested my head lightly against his chest, my mind filled with the bittersweet memory of the last time he’d held me in his arms.

We swayed side to side, completely out of sync with the music, but I wasn’t complaining. I was losing it, my mind tortured by the painful recollection while my body thrummed with pleasure. We didn’t speak, and I wondered if he too was remembering the bridal suite. My eyes burned and my throat closed over. I wanted the song to end and I never wanted it to stop.

James’s warm breath floated over my skin and the hand around my waist pressed me closer. My annoying nipples tightened, big, hard points pressing into his chest so that I tensed and leaned away.

“The only opinions I ever cared about were my family’s,” James said, mistaking my tension for discomfort at being watched. “Relax.”

Well, if I relaxed any more I would only be retrievable in liquid form. For once I was thankful when I saw Velma coming towards us. She tapped on my shoulder, cutting in and releasing me from tongue-tied torment. My manic smile and extra bubbly encouragement for her to take my place was met with enthusiasm.

I left the dance floor and headed straight to the éclairs. Another gooey piece of chocolate paradise made its way into my mouth but it was nothing compared to the sweetness rushing through my veins. I went back to the office, hot to the tips of my toes. It was time to go home and stick my own name in the freezer.

The jury was back and the verdict was clear. I couldn’t hate James anymore—if indeed I ever had. Damn it, my compass kept shifting and I didn’t know how to read it. Why hadn’t James compounded my discomfort during the toast, rubbed in my addiction when Greg taunted me or revelled in my embarrassment?

He had every right to enjoy my pariah status at Flintfire but instead he’d chosen to dance with me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And he could laugh at himself in the process. I was still trying to make sense of what had happened, when James walked into the office with a gin and tonic in his hand.

“It’s fizzy water,” he said, offering me the glass.

Gratefully, I drank it down while James went to his favourite spot at the glass wall. A silent, dark-suited silhouette against the city lights. I hesitated and then joined him.