The Night that Changed Everything Page 2
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.
“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.
“Something wrong?”
Everything. Nothing. Edie shook her head, still dazed. It was like having an out-of-body experience. Or maybe like having an “in-someone-else’s-body” experience. Like Cinderella’s.
Certainly not her own.
She wasn’t even supposed to be here. Didn’t want to be here. Had no business being here—except for Rhiannon. And Rhiannon had already gone.
Instinctively Edie glanced around, looking for a clock. How close to midnight was it?
No way to tell. And Nick wasn’t giving her a chance to look. They swirled and dipped and glided. Her liberated toes tingled and she would have wriggled them if she’d been able to do that and dance at the same time. It was the least likely thing she could imagine doing. She half expected someone to tap her on her shoulder and point out her lack of shoes, Or, worse, make a general public announcement.
But of course no one was looking at her. Especially not at her feet.
He had danced her all the way across the ballroom by this time. It was lovely, exhilarating. And yet she could only wonder how in heaven’s name she was going to get Rhiannon’s shoes back. She glanced around and couldn’t even pick out where they’d left them.
“Now what?” Nick said gruffly.
“My shoes—”
“Not yours,” Nick said with certainty.
“Well, no,” Edie admitted. “Rhiannon’s. But I can’t just leave them there.”
“We’ll get them later.” He dismissed the whole problem, but then he wasn’t dancing at the royal wedding in his socks. “Smile,” he commanded her. “I like it when you smile.” And he smiled again, too, as if forming a smile of his own could prompt her.
It seemed that it could. Edie’s lips curved. Apparently her mouth was as malleable as her feet.
Nick nodded. “Yes. Like that.”
No wonder her sister had been pawing his dinner jacket.
Edie faltered at the thought. But the second her feet began to stumble, Nick caught her, drew her up again, pulled her close. Now her breasts pressed against his jacket. And as she was not overly well-endowed that meant all the rest of her was very close to him, too. Through the silk of her dress Edie could feel his legs brush against hers. If she turned her head, she could count individual whiskers on his jawline. And whenever she drew a breath, she smelled soap and a hint of woodsy aftershave.
Her knees wobbled. Nick held her closer still.
“I’m not a very good dancer,” she apologized, trying to straighten and pull back.
But Nick didn’t let go. “I’m enjoying it. Best part of the evening so far.” His voice was a purr in her ear. The vibration sent a tingle all the way down her spine. And her brain leaped ahead, going exactly where she didn’t want it to go.
So far?
How far was he expecting it to go?
“Now what?” he murmured as he must have felt her stiffen in his arms.
Edie gave a little shake of her head. “Nothing. I … I’m fine. I just thought of something.”
“You need to stop thinking.” She could hear the smile in his voice and as he turned his head, she thought she felt his lips against her hair. The shiver was back, sliding down her spine.
What on earth was wrong with her?
She hadn’t felt like this in years. Hadn’t felt the least flicker of interest in a man since Ben.
Her mother’s insistence that she “get back on the horse” had fallen on deaf ears because she didn’t feel any need to. And she refused to force things. But this wasn’t forced. It was entirely in-voluntary—and very very compelling as Nick steered her closer to the orchestra. The music enveloped her, wrapping her in a ridiculous Cinderella fantasy.
Danger! her sensible self whispered.
But her dancing self, her wiggling-toes self, countered just as quickly: as long as she knew it was a fantasy, where was the harm?
It wasn’t as if she believed in fairy-tale endings.
She’d learned at eighteen when heartthrob actor, Kyle Robbins, had broken her heart that fairy tales were fantasies, that real life romances didn’t end in happily ever after. And if she’d dared to think that her marriage to Ben disproved that, well, she had only to remember the devastation of losing him.
So, she knew you couldn’t count on happily ever after. She was immune.
So go ahead, she told herself. Take it for what it is—a few minutes of enjoyment. It won’t last, but who cares? It’s one dance, one night. Nothing more.
For the first time tonight her brain and her feet were in agreement. She smiled up at Nick Savas, wiggled her toes and gave herself over to the dance.
Nick Savas didn’t do weddings.
Hadn’t in years.
He hadn’t wanted to come to this one, either. But when you were the cousin of the groom, on the one hand, and were currently restoring a wing of the bride’s family’s castle, on the other, you knew you didn’t have a choice.
There was no way he could have continued working right through the royal wedding day—even though he would have preferred it. He didn’t want to watch another happy couple make vows to each other for the rest of their lives. He didn’t want to see the way they looked at each other with hope in their eyes and dreams in their hearts. Maybe it was selfish—all right, it damned well was selfish—but he didn’t want to witness other people getting what he’d been denied.
Ever since his fiancée, Amy, had died two days before their own wedding, he’d turned his back on all that.
Savas weddings were particularly to be avoided not just because he would have to watch another of his cousins plight their troth, but because every single relative there seemed to consider it their responsibility to point out eligible women for him to meet. To marry.
Nick had no interest in marrying anyone.
No one seemed to get that. So ordinarily he took care to be on a different continent. But working on Mont Chamion’s castle, meant he was here today. He’d had no choice.
“It will be lovely,” his aunt Malena had assured him yesterday afternoon. “I think Gloria is bringing two of Philip’s assistants. They’re both young and unmarried,” she added brightly, confirming his worst fears.
“Oh, yes,” his aunt Ophelia gushed. “There will be lots of absolutely gorgeous women. You can take your pick.”
But
Nick didn’t want his pick. So he’d arrived at the last minute, then sat in the back, avoiding the myriad Savas aunts, uncles and cousins, who, seeing him in attendance, would put one and one together. It was what they did. They couldn’t help it. They had an ark mentality—the world was best arranged by twos.
Nick didn’t dispute that. Hell, he absolutely believed it.
But there was no “best” for him anymore. Never would be.
When he heard the priest intone, “Do you take this woman …” his throat had tightened.
He shut his mind off, determinedly focusing instead on the various cherubim and seraphim floating above the congregation, studying them as if he were going to be tested on them which, once up on a time he had been, in a course on period architectural detail.
These were mid-seventeenth century from the look of them. Very baroque. Bernini would have been right at home.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Nick breathed a sigh of relief.
He would have escaped then, except his uncle Orestes had latched on to him before he could, determined to talk to him to see if he wouldn’t like to come and restore the moldering gazebo on his Connecticut property.
At least it hadn’t been an offer to introduce him to the new office girl. Silently Nick had counted his blessings as he went along the receiving line, congratulated his cousin, Demetrios, and kissed the glowing bride.
After the dinner, which he had contrived to eat in the company of his uncle Philip’s triplet daughters because no one could expect him to be interested in them, he had propped himself against a wall near the dance floor where conversation would be difficult and no one would suggest that he dance.
He’d been counting the minutes until he could politely leave, when an eager young blonde had latched on to him.
“Rhiannon Evans,” she’d announced breathlessly. And she’d looked at him as if expecting him to know who she was.
She was young, definitely stunning and determinedly sparkling. “I’m an actress,” she’d explained, forgiving him because he admitted he didn’t know the first thing about movies. Wasn’t really interested. Didn’t watch them.