The Bride of Willow Creek(70)

Angie’s father had excelled at dancing, and so did Peter De Groot. Both men moved from set to set with seemingly effortless grace. In fact, it had been during a waltz that Angie first suspected that Peter viewed her as more than a friend. She had seen something in his gaze that made her suddenly and acutely aware of his arm around her waist and his hand holding hers.

She wanted that tingly awareness with Sam. In a perfect world they would have executed a flawless waltz across the flower-scented terrace, gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes, lost in a private reverie of enchantment. Her cheeks would flush with the intimacy of his touch; his gaze would soften with tenderness as he held her in his arms.

“One two three, one two three.”

“Sam, wait. Your one-two-three isn’t lining up with the music’s one-two-three.”

They stopped moving and he tilted his head to scowl at the stars. “Why don’t they play a polka? No one cares if a man misses a step during a polka.”

He hadn’t been modest. He was truly an awful dancer. “Let’s begin again,” Angie suggested. They adjusted their grips on shoulder and waist. “All right, one two three, one two three.”

Sam trod hard on the toe of her slipper, which made her stumble and groan. Apologies spilled from his lips.

“It’s all right, no harm done,” Angie lied, wiggling her toes inside her slipper. Very likely none of her toes were broken, but they hurt. “Let’s try one more time.”

They paused for a beat then set out again. This time Angie tripped on the rough stones of the terrace floor. If Sam hadn’t caught her to his chest she would have toppled backward and fallen flat.

“Damn it, I’m just not good at this.”

Put a hammer in his hand and Sam could build anything. Give him a pick and shovel and he could dig a mine halfway to China. He could fight, he could cook, he knew how to tickle little girls and make them laugh. He could kiss a woman and make her knees melt. But when it came to dancing, he was hopeless.

There was something charming about discovering a confident man’s weakness. Something appealing about his rare helplessness.

Angie didn’t have time to explore these thoughts as she was clasped against Sam’s body, her heart beating against his chest, her breath mingling with his. The moment might have been romantic except her toes throbbed painfully and she was lopsided, still trying to find her footing on the rough stone floor. The clumsy results of their blundering attempt to waltz struck her as funny and she giggled, then laughed.

Sam set her firmly on her feet then stepped back and raised an eyebrow over his black eye. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Yes!” And she couldn’t stop. One two three, one two three. His grim count rang in her mind, sounding hilarious. “You were right. You’re absolutely the worst dancer that I ever—”

“Well, here’s something I am good at.”

Catching her by the waist, he swung her into his body and his mouth came down hard on hers.

She tasted champagne and heat. She was less innocent than she’d been the last time he kissed her. Her lips parted and she leaned into the solid power of his muscled chest and tight thighs. Her hands slid up his chest and around his neck, and she gave herself to the sensations his lips and tongue aroused in her.

Kissing Sam was like . . . like being electrified by a golden tingle that tightened her scalp and raced through her body, awakening every nerve ending. Time slowed, allowing her an acute awareness of each small adjustment, every tiny nibble and taste. His kiss made her aware of her own body in a way she had never experienced before. She felt the breathless rise and fall of her breasts, felt a moist weakness spread between her thighs. His kiss created an odd sense of urgency that made her crave something more.

They broke apart only when a man cleared his throat followed by a woman’s soft laugh. Blushing furiously, Angie turned her face aside and brushed at her skirts. Ridiculously, she felt as if they’d been caught doing something shameful and wrong.

When she slid a look toward Sam, he was grinning and his blue eyes twinkled in the light of the Chinese lanterns. And then they were both laughing helplessly, leaning on each other, laughing and wiping their eyes. They had jumped apart like illicit lovers caught in the most damning of guilty circumstances. But the couple who interrupted them would only have seen a man stealing a kiss beneath the starry skies.

But Sam was right. He was very, very good at kissing.

So good that the party lost focus and all Angie could think about was the man by her side. They toured the rest of the hotel but afterward all she could remember was the light from the chandeliers sliding through Sam’s hair. She could scarcely recall what they dined on at the midnight supper, but she remembered Sam’s sure hands on the silverware. She remembered the shape of his lips and the way he couldn’t seem to look away from her. It was as if she and Sam inhabited a private space that excluded all others. The musicians played for them alone, the midnight banquet was only for them. The spell wasn’t broken until dessert appeared before them.