Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector. Carla Cassidy

she said, smiling brightly, ‘‘is one of those things that everyone knows, but such old history it won’t have been part of many of the stories told tonight.’’

      ‘‘I think we’ve exchanged enough stories for now.’’ He stood and drew her to her feet. ‘‘I’d very much like to dance with you.’’

      * * *

      The moon was mostly full, a child’s lopsided white circle painted on a charcoal sky. Cyprus and oak filtered the lights and sounds of the street on three sides of the piazza. On the fourth side the band stood on its modest platform with the curved wall at the back, designed to catch and reflect the music outward. Later, when mostly young people remained, they would probably try out more modern music; now they played the old songs. So far, the trumpet player was behaving himself.

      The dancers were all ages, from nine to ninety. Drew led Rose to the edge of the square, where she slipped into his arms as easily as if they had danced together a hundred times before. A waltz was playing…and oh, the man knew how to waltz.

      He held her correctly, one hand warm at her waist, the other clasping hers lightly, with the prescribed distance between their bodies. And he looked into her eyes as they moved in smooth, swooping circles, their bodies joined by movement rather than touch, the lilt of the music riffed now and then by laughter.

      Did he know how seductive this graceful courting was, when her body learned to follow his while still separate and sovereign, so that each turn became an act of surrender?

      She smiled up into his eyes. He knew.

      After the waltz came a lively country tune that invited the dancers to romp. To her surprise and delight, after watching the others for a moment he abandoned formality and spun her around the crowded square as if he’d been dancing like this since childhood. There followed another quick country dance, which left her breathless and happy.

      Then they played ‘‘Moon River,’’ and he pulled her close.

      Her head fitted his shoulder perfectly. His shirt smelled faintly of starch. His skin had its own perfume, which passed like a secret through her senses, and her heart beat fast and hard.

      So did his.

      They circled slowly now, gliding together in a dark, closed space bounded by music. She felt the movement of his legs and the way the linen moved over his body as she stroked her hands from his shoulders to his waist. The skin beneath the thin cloth was heated, slightly damp. Already, an ache had begun, growing larger as they drifted—easy, langorous, important.

      It didn’t occur to Rose to hide what she felt from him. She was sweetly, dreamily aroused. She wanted him to know. She lifted her head so she could look in his eyes and let him see hers.

      What she saw on his face wasn’t sweet or dreamy. His jaw was taut. His focus on her was so intense, so complete, her breath caught in her throat. He lifted a hand and traced the side of her face with his fingers carefully, as if all he knew of the world must be drawn to him through his fingertips. She shivered. He bent his head, and she glimpsed his eyes before her own closed—the lids heavy, the pupils dark but gleaming from some fugitive reflection.

      His lips touched hers, a quick shock of feeling, then retreated. His fingers tightened along the side of her face and his mouth came back, firmly this time, to join hers.

      Heat. A rushing—in her head as her blood answered a new tide, making her ears echo the ocean like shells. In her body, as if her center were suddenly lost and, dizzy, she spun without moving. His tongue painted promises on her lips, her hands dug into his waist…a sudden tremor in his left hand, the feel of her skin beneath the fingertips of his right hand, need growing, loins aching, flesh rising to press against cloth, her heart pounding, his heart pounding, our hearts—

      Hands dug into her shoulders, thrusting her back. Air moved, cool, along her heated body. And she stood alone in the small space left them by the shifting bodies of the other dancers. Alone, body and mind and heart, staring at his face, where there was no expression at all. And at his eyes, where she saw a deep and consuming horror.

      Drew turned and started walking. It wasn’t a conscious decision. There was nothing in him capable of reasoning or deciding at that moment. He walked, that was all. Away. Quickly.

      There were too many people. People everywhere, their voices and faces blurring into a crowd—pressure he couldn’t tolerate. Instinctively he sought darkness, privacy. A moment later trees loomed around him, and as the press of people grew less, thought began to return. He remembered to watch for traffic when he crossed the street, almost running now.

      No headache, not yet. But it would come. The sliding disorientation, the loss of reality—there was no mistaking that. It had hit while he was kissing her, dear God, while she was in his arms….

      But the rest of it hadn’t hit. His steps slowed, stopped. For the first time the spell, once begun, hadn’t taken its terrible course. He was in control, body and mind. In control, and standing in a dark, dead-end alley beside a garbage can. Somewhere behind him, the band swung into a cheerful rendition of ‘‘Tequila.’’

      The world hadn’t left him.

      Neither, he realized as footsteps approached and stopped, had she.

      ‘‘Drew?’’

      What the hell did he say? Excuse me, didn’t mean to run off, but I just remembered I left the water running somewhere?

      God. He ran a hand over his head, front to back, ending with his fingers squeezing the base of his skull as if he could press out an answer.

      His head didn’t hurt. The terrible exhaustion wasn’t hovering, waiting to drag him down. He was pathetically grateful to be spared that, along with the rest of it, even if he had no idea why he’d been spared. But he couldn’t try to figure it out now. Now, he thought, bitterly aware of the irony, he had to persuade Rose he wasn’t crazy.

      ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said without turning. ‘‘I don’t have a good explanation.’’

      ‘‘You don’t have to explain. I’ve never… It scared me, too.’’

      Relief poured in. She thought he’d been frightened by—what? Passion? Excessive emotion? It didn’t… No, he realized, shamed. It did matter. If she’d been frightened by what she felt when they kissed, he couldn’t let her go on thinking he felt…whatever she thought he felt. ‘‘Rose,’’ he said, turning, unsure how to make himself clear without hurting her.

      She stood three feet away. Worry or strain wrinkled her forehead. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me you’re an empath?’’

      He stared. She was as crazy as he was.

      ‘‘Oh. Oh, Lord.’’ The hand that pushed her hair back was shaky, but her mouth shaped a rueful smile. ‘‘You haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m talking about, do you? I don’t suppose you believe in all that psychic crap.’’

      Carefully he said, ‘‘I try to keep an open mind.’’

      For some reason that set her off. She laughed so hard it doubled her over. He was about to grab her, thinking she was hysterical, when she straightened, gasping. ‘‘An open mind. Yes, I’m sure you think so.’’ One last chuckle escaped, then, when he reached for her, she stepped back. ‘‘Hands off, I think, for now. Things have changed.’’

      He took a deep breath. Still no headache. Otherwise, things were pretty much all mucked up. ‘‘All right. If that’s how you want it.’’

      ‘‘If I knew what…’’ She sighed. ‘‘Never mind. I’m sure you think I’m a nutcase. Maybe it’s time we talked about it—about my claim to be psychic, I mean.’’

      He wouldn’t have a better opening. ‘‘Maybe we should. But not here. Let’s go back to the party.’’ Where they’d be surrounded by plenty of nosy people.

      His head might not hurt, but he damned