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That might have been embroidering things a bit. The text had said, Tell ur sister 2 turn her fone on. Need 2 talk.
But he’d said “need.” Didn’t that mean “desperate”? Of course it did.
“Badly,” Edie reiterated, to reinforce the point. Then she turned her gaze on the man still standing with his arm around Rhiannon. “Andrew is her fiancе,” she said pointedly.
He let her go. Quite casually but deliberately, he eased his arm from beneath her hand and moved a step away. He looked at Rhiannon. “A fiancе?”
Ree lifted her shoulders in a sulky shrug. “He’s not here,” she said. But then she had the grace to appear a bit shamefaced. “We quarreled. He’s not always right,” she muttered.
Mr. Trouble didn’t say anything, and Edie felt obliged to jump in and steer the situation. “Of course he’s not,” she said stoutly. “And now he’s had plenty of time to think about things all the way to Vancouver. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you, Ree. He’s probably missing you dreadfully.”
“Do you think?” Suddenly Ree’s tone was bright.
Edie nodded emphatically. “Call him.”
But Rhiannon hesitated. She looked at the handsome man beside her, then her gaze measured the whole ballroom as if she were trying to decide what she’d be missing if she left: champagne, music, happy couples dancing past. Mr. Trouble who was, even in Edie’s disapproving estimation, the handsomest man in the room.
Rhiannon looked disgruntled. “He should have stayed. We could have danced.”
“Yes, but he wanted you to go with him, too,” Edie reminded her. “It’s a two-way street. He has a competition.”
“But I’d have missed the wedding.”
“And now you’re missing Andrew.”
Edie let that sink in for a few moments. Then she added almost offhandedly, “If you call him, you can tell him what Sir Oliver said about using his Scottish castle for your honeymoon.”
It was the ultimate temptation. Ever since their engagement, Rhiannon’s life had revolved around their wedding plans, and every detail had to be shared with Andrew. Sir Oliver’s offer of his family’s castle had been all Rhiannon could talk about last night—when she wasn’t talking about how she was fed up with Andrew.
“Oh, all right.” Rhiannon tumbled to the temptation exactly as Edie had dared hope. “I’ll call him. I guess I should since he tried to call … and if he texted you …”
Ree sighed, then lifted her gaze to look at Mr. Trouble. “He loves me,” she explained. “And I love him—even if he’s maddening. So I probably should call him. But,” she added a bit wistfully, “I really would have loved to see the architectural renovations in your bedroom.”
“And I’d have been pleased to show them to you,” he said gallantly.
Edie’s jaw dropped. She slammed it shut at once. Rhiannon didn’t notice. She gave them both a little wave and tripped gaily off toward the doors to the Great Hall where, please God, she would call Andrew and make up with him.
Edie watched her go, holding her breath until Rhiannon was out of sight. Then she turned to make her excuses and disappear, only to discover that the man Rhiannon had been pawing wasn’t looking in the direction Rhiannon had gone.
His dark eyes were now on her. A slow smile touched his lips. And then he winked at her.
Winked!
Something kicked over in her chest. It was almost electric, as if she’d been dead and was suddenly jerked back to life.
Like Sleeping Beauty and the prince? she sneered at herself. But the sensation was so real and caught her so totally unaware that for a moment she couldn’t speak. She hadn’t felt this sort of awareness since Ben.
When she did finally find her voice, she said, “Architectural renovations in your bedroom?”
Next thing you knew he’d say he’d been going to show Rhiannon his etchings.
But Mr. Trouble just grinned at her and she felt another jolt. “Scout’s honor,” he said, eyes alight with amusement.
Edie refused to think it was funny. She glowered at him.
“You don’t believe me? I’ll show them to you.” He offered her his arm.
Instantly Edie folded hers across her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not going to your room. And Rhiannon wouldn’t have, either,” she lied a second later, needing for some reason she didn’t quite understand to deflect the focus back to her sister. “She does love Andrew. They just had a disagreement. And she … lost her head.” Not to mention her sense of propriety. “She wasn’t offering,” she added firmly.
“No?” His brow lifted. “Apparently you didn’t hear as much of the conversation as I did.”
Edie’s cheeks burned. “She wouldn’t have—have …”
“Slept with me?” He was laughing at her now. “You don’t think so?”
“No!” At least Edie hoped not.
“Well, don’t worry, I wouldn’t have slept with her.”
Edie’s eyes widened, and she was surprised again by another unexpected feeling, this time one of something akin to relief. “You … wouldn’t?”
He shook his head, meeting her gaze. “Not on your life. She’s a child.”
“She’s twenty.”
He nodded. “Like I said, not my type.”
“You have a type.” It wasn’t a question.
Of course he had a type. Men like him always did.
“Well, um, good,” Edie said, because she felt obliged to say something in the face of the steady assessing look he was giving her. She started to back away.
He followed. “Who are you?” he demanded. His gaze was intent now, his eyes so dark they were almost black.
“Rhiannon’s sister.” No one ever believed it until Mona swore on a stack of Bibles that she’d given birth to them both. Her sister was blonde and busty, all curves and come-on. Edie was all angles, elbows and knees. Always had been. With nondescript brown hair and green eyes. Not the color of jade. Not the color of emeralds. Pretty much the color of grass. “Half sister,” she corrected.
“Do you have a name, half sister?”
“Edie Daley.”
Something else she and Rhiannon didn’t have in common. Her sister was named after some ethereal mythological Welsh goddess. Edie was named after her father’s mother.
“Ah. Edie.” He grinned and reached out and tugged one of her nondescript locks of hair. “My grandmother’s name.”
Exactly.
“I’m Nick.”
As in “up to the old nick,” no doubt—as her grandmother used to say when describing the family’s mischief makers.
“Nick Savas.”
“Demetrios’s brother?” Edie knew he had several, but she hadn’t been introduced to any of them. She just knew that almost all of the tall dark-haired, sinfully gorgeous men at the wedding were related to the groom.
Nick shook his head. “Cousin.”
Trust Rhiannon to flirt with a member of the groom’s family. The most handsome member of the groom’s family, come to that. All the Savas men were handsome as sin. But this one was definitely the most gorgeous of the lot.
That was doubtless why she’d felt the sudden jolt of awareness. She wasn’t interested, but she wasn’t dead! She was just able to appreciate a handsome man.
“I apologize if my sister’s behavior was inappropriate, Mr. Savas—” she said politely, again beginning to edge away.
“Nick,” he corrected.
She didn’t repeat his name. She recognized it for what it was: an invitation to continue the conversation. And she didn’t want to do that. Her awareness of him made her nervous, though she wasn’t sure why.
“If you’ll excuse me …” She turned abruptly to take the same route her sister had toward the doors. Her duty was done, she could go back to her room, shed the ugly dress, kick off the pinching shoes and spend the rest of the night with a good book.
But before Edie could take a step, strong fingers manacled her wrist, anchoring her right where she was. She looked back at him, eyes wide. “What?”
“You’re not going to follow her and make sure she calls him, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“So, why are you running off? Stay and talk to me.” There was a smooth, persuasive note in his voice.
“I—” She stopped, wanting to say no, expecting herself to say no. She always said no. But now she couldn’t seem to form the word. “About what?” she said finally, warily.
He raised a brow. “The architectural renovations in my bedroom?”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed.
It was the sort of wry remark that Ben would have made. Her husband had never taken himself very seriously. And after years spent in her mother’s world of overinflated egos, Ben’s easy-going approach to life had been one of the things she’d loved the most about him.
She hadn’t expected that same dry humor from Mr. Trouble, though. But Nick Savas laughed, too, then grinned at her. “There,” he said. “See? I knew I could get you to smile.”
Edie resisted the pull of attraction. “I’ve already smiled. I smile a lot,” she contradicted him.
“But how often do you mean it?” he challenged softly.
“Often!”
“But not to me,” he said. “Not until now.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he touched a finger to her lips to forestall her.
“Dance with me.”
It was pure charm—the rough baritone voice, the slightly lopsided smile, the touch of that single finger against her lips. And its simplicity caught her off guard. So did the unexpected stab of desire she felt to do exactly that.
Disconcerted, Edie shook her head. “No,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Why not?” His fingers lightly pressed her wrist. His eyes wouldn’t let hers go.
“You’re not supposed to ask ‘why not,’” she said irritably. “It’s bad manners.”
A corner of his mouth quirked. “I thought it was bad manners for you to say no.”
She felt like a gauche teenager, her cheeks burning. But she managed a little shake of her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Can’t?” He cocked his head. “Or won’t?”
Edie took refuge in the truth. She lifted her shoulders and said simply, “My feet hurt.”
Nick did a double-take. Then he glanced down at the mauve leather pointy-toed high heels trapping her feet.
“Dear God.” He scowled fiercely at them, then looked up to flash her a quick grin. “Come here.” And he tugged her inexorably to one of the tables at the edge of the dance floor. “Sit.”
It sounded more like a command than an invitation. But getting off her feet was a welcome prospect, so obediently Edie sat.
She expected he would sit down beside her or, even better and probably more likely, leave her there and go find some other woman to dance with. Instead he crouched down in front of her and, before she knew it, he’d taken both her shoes off and tossed them under the table.
She let out a little yelp. “What are you—?”
“I don’t know why you women wear such terrible shoes.” Nick shook his head, his dark eyes locking with hers accusingly, his fingers caressing her instep.
She started to say they were Rhiannon’s, but his touch was robbing her of intelligible speech. And when he began to rub each of her pinched feet gently between his hands, she nearly moaned. It felt heavenly. And intimate. His touch sent bolts of awareness straight through her. She wanted him to stop—and at the same time nearly sobbed when he let go and pulled his hands away.
“There now.” He stood up in one fluid movement. “Better?”
Edie looked up, dazed to see him looking down—imperious, in command, his gaze compelling.
All she could do was nod.
“Then dance with me.” And he pulled her to her feet and straight into his arms.
It was magic.
He swirled her off her stocking-clad feet and led her into the waltz. She should have stumbled. She always stumbled when she danced.
Even when she’d danced with Ben at their wedding she’d felt self-conscious, always aware that Mrs. Achenbach, her cotillion instructor, had lamented that her clumsy pupil had two left feet. The words had taken up residence in her brain from the time Edie was ten years old. She absolutely believed them.
But tonight she had one of each—stocking-clad though they were—and miraculously they did exactly what they were supposed to do: followed his.
Of course they did.
Because that was the sort of man he was. Nick Savas said, “Dance,” and they didn’t dare do anything else. Edie peeked down at her toes, amazed.
