Anger coursed along her spine like a bolt of electricity, but she merely turned her head slightly, causing her hair to brush along Talent’s face. But she smiled—her pretty, false, party smile—and set her eyes on the room while she set him down. “Do not attempt to whore me, Talent. That would make you a panderer. Roles that give neither of us the credit we deserve.”
She expected a harsh rebuttal, but he lowered his lashes, his cheeks going ruddy. “You are correct. I apologize.” His fingers pressed into her back, a light touch but one that she felt far too keenly for comfort. “I shall rephrase,” he said, as he guided them around the perimeter of the room. “Perhaps a dance with Darby might bring us some clue as to what he does or does not know.” For Darby could be either prey or the predator they sought.
“A good plan,” she admitted, “but I am not the one to entice Darby.” Years of watching her mother work had given Mary insight into men’s preferences. She’d been taught to calculate them at a glance.
Talent snorted. “Then you must suffer delusions, madam.”
The absolute certainty of his tone had her nearly bumbling a step. “A woman is not going to charm secrets from him.” She focused her attention back to the spectacle of Darby and his women. “He’s surrounded by them all the time. Thus he is accustomed to their wiles.”
Talent frowned slightly as he looked to her and then Darby. “I think you’re blind to your charms, Chase. Perhaps you are correct, but Darby just might be fickle enough if you gave him a good challenge.”
She laughed shortly and kept her gaze resolutely just beyond Talent’s broad shoulder. “All men want a challenge, Talent. That much I do know.”
They executed a sweeping turn, Talent’s wide palm pressing firmly against the small of her back, guiding her, supporting her, and a tingle of warmth spread along that spot. “Perhaps they do. But I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leaned infinitesimally closer. “We also need to know that there is some hope of getting what we want.”
She glanced at his face. He hadn’t expected her to look up at him—it was clear in the way he flinched slightly, as though caught—and she realized he’d been staring. At her. She was not foolish enough to think he wanted her, not when anger and resentment colored nearly all of their encounters. But she found herself wondering, what was it Jack Talent wanted and could not have? She looked away, unaccountably flustered.
They grew silent, deferring to the music and the light sounds of their not-so-steady breathing. It was far too easy to let her thoughts slip to the fact that he was holding her, not in anger or strife, but carefully and with skill. Too easy to soak in the warmth of his mouth near her temple and the crisp scent of his skin. A heavy stillness fell between them, as if he too became overly aware. His movements grew more deliberate, a gentle glide, an arcing turn that seemed to hang in time, forcing her to feel the strength in his large body and what it was capable of doing.
“You dance well,” she murmured, desperate for something to say, if only to break the spell he wove.
Talent let the words drift off before answering, his voice sun-warmed slate now. “There are many things I do well.”
He could not possibly be flirting. Mary turned her head toward him. A mistake, for his blunt chin brushed against her temple, and a sizzle of sensation licked along her skin. His warm breath touched her ear, a teasing lilt in his voice. “A four-in-hand knot, the one-punch knockout, ham-and-mustard sandwiches…”
Mary found herself smiling, and the crest of her cheek grazed his lower lip. A hitch caught in her chest. “I do not believe that last one can be counted. How difficult can it be for one to excel at sandwich-making?”
A soft rumble vibrated along his frame and into hers. Talent chuckling. She could barely fathom it, and then his lips were a hairsbreadth away from the sensitive spot just before her earlobe. “Shows what you know, Chase. A multitude of catastrophes can occur when constructing a sandwich. Too much mustard”—he spun her around, making her dizzy—“uneven bread. Not enough ham. No, Chase, you cannot approach the task willy-nilly.”
Despite the confusing heat that thrummed through her limbs, a light laugh left her. “Willy-nilly, shilly-shally, your vocabulary veers toward shocking frivolity, Master Talent.”
He paused a beat, and then she could feel him smile. “Mmm,” he murmured warmly, “and yet why do I suspect that pleases you, Mistress Chase?”
His hand upon her back eased up an inch, a smooth, subtle move, and her lids fluttered closed, her fingertips sliding just beneath his silk lapel. And all the delicious muscles along his shoulders tensed.