Rake Most Likely To Sin. Bronwyn Scott

with a laugh. ‘I know. Everyone knows.’

      He laughed, too, grinning as he offered his arm. ‘In that case, introductions are concluded. I promised Konstantine I would see to your cheer. Would you do me the honour of a dance?’ He leaned in close once more and she caught the scent of his soap. ‘I think it would ensure the authenticity of my escape, don’t you?’

      And hers, too, Patra thought, taking his arm, even if he was unaware of the favor he did her. For a few minutes she would make her wish come true. For a few minutes, she would simply be Patra. Surely there was no harm in that.

       Chapter Three

      Safe was the first word that sprang to mind as Brennan manoeuvred them on to the crowded dance floor. Patra Tsipiras was safe. She expected nothing from him beyond the moment because she, too, had been looking for an escape. He’d seen it in her eyes when their gazes had brushed. They took up their positions. He fitted his hand to her waist. She placed hers on his upper arm and Brennan leaned in, breathing the comforting scents of lavender and sage. He flashed her a cheeky grin. ‘Be warned, I mean to change your mind.’

      ‘About what?’ She laughed up at him, her dark eyes sparking as they considered him, and Brennan had the distinct impression she was flirting, a realisation that took him somewhat by surprise. She was a sober sort in the market. He couldn’t recall ever having seen her smile.

      The music began and Brennan took them into the first steps of a fast country gallop, his eyes never leaving hers. He might have been unprepared for her bold response, but by Jove he would answer it with boldness of his own. He called her out with a friendly wink and a smile. ‘You don’t want to be here.’

      She blushed at the truth, but her gaze held as he took them through a fast turn. ‘Was it that obvious?’ She laughed again, this time a little breathless, her hair starting to fall in a becoming caramel spill that softened the angles of her face.

      Brennan’s smile broadened. ‘Not as obvious as shoving baklava under a bush.’

      ‘Oh, no, you saw!’ She groaned with good humour.

      ‘Don’t you like baklava?’ Brennan joked.

      ‘Not three plates of it.’ She laughed again and he swung her through a turn that left her gasping. If there was one thing he was good at, it was dancing. Actually, there were two things he was good at. One usually led to the other, although it wouldn’t tonight. Patra Tsipiras was safe, he reminded himself. She was a quiet widow devoted to her late husband’s memory. But he was having a hard time reconciling what he knew to the woman in his arms.

      There was nothing quiet about this woman, everything about her was alive—her eyes, her body, her throaty laughter—and it spurred him on. He took the turns hard to feel her body come against his, he cut a sharp pattern through the centre of the dancers, dragging her close to do it and she matched him step for step, a live, burning, beautiful flame.

      How had he not noticed before, all those days in the fish market? How had he not seen the dark fire of her eyes? Not heard the innate sensuality of her laugh? Not felt the thrum of life that emanated from her? Probably because he hadn’t been looking and she hadn’t made it easy. There’d been no reason for either of them to have done otherwise. But tonight was different. Tonight, they needed each other.

      The dance ended, the musicians flowing into a reel he loved. Patra turned to go. He saw her hesitate when he made no move to escort her from the floor. Brennan closed a hand about her wrist, his voice low and insistent. ‘One more dance, Patra. Please.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, merely moved them into position and let her happen to him all over again.

      ‘We’d better stop at two,’ Patra suggested, breathing hard at the end of the reel, the voice of wisdom when he would have stayed on the floor with her. This wasn’t London, after all, and there was no hard-and-fast rule about a two-dance limit. ‘I think we can safely assume you’ve satisfied authenticity’s needs.’

      Probably more than satisfied it. He might have exceeded it, if the looks Katerina Stefanos was directing his way were any indicator. Patra noticed it. ‘Katerina doesn’t look pleased. Perhaps you’d better go back and reassure her of your affections.’

      Brennan shook his head, adrenaline still fuelling him. ‘How could I do that when you’ve asked me to escort you home?’ It was a bold gambit. They had not spoken of such plans. Would she refuse? Would she think leaving with him stirred a larger scandal than staying? But she was caught up in the euphoria of the dance, too.

      ‘Oh, I have, have I?’

      Brennan pulled a mockingly serious face. ‘You have, most definitely. There’s a rock in your shoe that is wreaking havoc with your foot.’

      She arched incredulous dark brows. ‘A rock? How about we settle for a pebble?’ Then she added with a sly smile, ‘for authenticity’s sake of course.’

      For her part, Patra did a credible job manufacturing a slight limp while Brennan made their excuses to Konstantine. They were under way within minutes. There was no drama in slipping off, no covertly delivered messages with complicated instructions for a private meeting. He’d simply left with her.

      Safe was turning into fun. So much fun, in fact, Brennan was in no hurry to see the evening end. Who would have thought the small event of strolling down a dirt road, Patra’s arm tucked loosely through his, could be so enjoyable? Overhead the stars were out, even brighter now that they were away from the party lights. Brennan knew exactly where he wanted to go. They’d reached a fork in the path, the left leading up a hill towards one of his favourite places. The right led to her home, although he’d never been there. It was something everyone in a small town knew. Everyone knew where everyone lived. If he took her there, it would lead to the end of the evening. Patra turned to the right. He made no attempt to follow her or to release her arm. It was decision time.

      She tossed him a quizzical look, her eyes dropping to the light grip he had on her arm. ‘I can see myself on from here.’

      ‘Do you want to go home?’ Brennan let his eyes scan her face, let them linger on her eyes, looking for truth. He held up his other hand, revealing the prize he carried. He had grabbed it off a table as they’d left the party. ‘I’ve got a bottle of wine and the view at the top of the hill is spectacular.’ He grinned. ‘So, let me ask you again. Do you really want to go home?’

      The question wasn’t meant to be difficult. She should want that, just as Patra knew what the right answer was: yes. She wanted to go home, wanted to be alone. That had been her original intent. She’d fulfilled her end of the bargain. She’d rescued him from Katerina’s possessive clutches. She had every right to claim her escape, and yet, that smile of his and those eyes on her face were the undoing of her. She wasn’t naïve. She knew what he wanted, what all young men wanted. She’d be a liar if she didn’t admit to being at least a little flattered he wanted some of her attention. She’d be a liar, too, if she didn’t admit her attraction to him. It was hard to be alone even when there was no other choice and she’d been alone so very long. She’d been good for oh, so very long, too—not calling attention to herself, living quietly on the edges of society in all ways, encouraging no one to take an interest in her. Now, here he was; tempting her with his good looks and his superb dancing. He tempted her with more than that. He was fun and he was kind. Those qualities were far more important than looks, she’d learned. Looks could be deceiving. Actions less so. She’d noticed tonight how he’d not wanted to embarrass Katerina and he would not force his attentions where they were not wanted. He was giving her the choice to climb the hill.

      Or not. If she said no, he’d escort her home, wine unopened, view unseen. Kisses untasted, bodies untried. The last part rose unbidden in her mind. He might be willing to push those boundaries, but she was not. If she went up that hill, she needed some rules in place with herself. She was not kissing this bold English adventurer who had probably kissed half of Europe on his journey here. All right, no kissing. Other than that, why not? Why not climb