Page 23

She moved half a step closer, the crinkly white silk of her dress flowing around his legs, almost taking him prisoner. He hesitated at first, but then fell into the same rhythm of swaying, side to side. Their shoulders synced, their hips too.

‘What a wicked thing to do . . .’

Suddenly, Temperance couldn’t feel the weight of the dress pulling her down anymore. It was like it was holding her up now, guiding her steps, keeping her locked in a daydream. The dress was all of a sudden the choreographer, not just the costume. It rustled between them, like a static charge about to explode. Temperance gave in to the moment, losing herself in the hypnotic melody of the song and the magnetic pull that seemed to draw her closer, closer, to her dance partner.

Heat chased through her torso. A current of something bright flashed behind her eyes. She was aware of the soft skin of her forearm pressed against his neck, the hard cord of muscle there, the rough prickle of his short hair. Green-grey eyes blinked behind the mask but didn’t look at anything but her. Teeth holding his bottom lip. Temperance couldn’t pull away. Wouldn’t. Neither did he. She moved in closer. Her breathing sped up, her hips nudged forwards until she could feel the strength in his chest crush against hers.

As aware as she was of her own hands, every tiny goosebump along her collarbone standing to attention, Temperance suddenly felt his hands move: running over her hips, around her waist until they rested at the very small of her back. A firm hold, one that anticipated her movements and led her through them.

She sank into that touch. And now her dance partner was the force holding them up, together, now he was calling the shots. Inching closer, swaying deeper. The corset seemed to clutch more tightly around Temperance’s ribs: her breath felt light and shallow.

Was it the disco lights or was everything suddenly tinged with in deep blue? Temperance blinked her eyes hard to try to clear her vision, the wooziness of the hot, thin air and the dress and the song making her dizzy. But tonight was not the night for sensible thoughts, for overthinking. Or even thinking. Or even under-thinking. She was just doing, she was just being.

As the two moved as one, it really did feel like a wicked game: they were daring each other to move even nearer, press even closer. It was a test to see who would lose their nerve first and Temperance swore to herself she wouldn’t wuss out now. She kept her eyes locked onto his as his head dipped, his shoulders rounded and he leant down towards her. Temperance could feel each breath rasp in her throat, her pulse rattling in her veins. Somehow, through all the layers of this dress, she could feel the pressure of his fingertips.

His forehead, albeit underneath the black mask, came to rest on hers. The heat of his breath fell on her upper lip.

The sway. The song. Those eyes. She was hypnotised. And she was giving in to it, completely.

They could have been the only two people on the whole dance floor.

But the song petered out. The dry ice drifted away. ‘Backstreet’s Back’ kicked in around them, making it impossible to keep up a slow dance. Reluctantly, Temperance broke contact and felt those strong hands drop down from her back.

The man pushed away a step, lifting the mask from his face.

‘Abel.’ She barely spoke the word out loud.

He didn’t seem aware of the hoard of dancers pouring in around them, bouncing on the spot and throwing monster moves. Abel still held her gaze, his eyes liquid, his jaw held tight, and if the speakers had lost power she felt sure she’d be able to hear the crackle in the air between them.

She put her hand out towards his arm. Her fingers closed around the crisp cotton of his shirt, could feel the reassuring strength of his forearms under her touch. Abel reached forward and brushed a curl away from her brow, to get a better look at her eyes, as if searching for something he knew was there but was just out of reach. But then his mouth drew into a hard line. ‘I’m sorry. This will never happen.’

Chapter 11

‘Subtle’ was not for Susie Molland. In her world view, being subtle was just taking a long, boring detour when a sprint would get you there five times as fast, even if you did bash your ankles on the way. She was a big believer in saying yes – to a new adventure, a new gig, an unplanned night out. If it all went wrong, she knew that home was always there. But even if she could sometimes be impulsive and impatient, she also liked to think her more positive qualities were just as unsubtle but in a good way – she loved without ever holding back, she dropped compliments as big as buses, and she would open her heart to a new friend in a heartbeat. Sometimes to someone more than a friend.

‘Pretty handy, aren’t you?’ Susie sat on the edge of one of the bar tables, her legs dangling and a jay cloth in hand. She’d given the ancient wood a hardcore wiping down already – there was no way she was trusting her vintage miniskirt to its usual sticky state, and definitely not after an eight-hour boozing extravaganza like FairyFest.

Mark was carrying in the pub chairs that had been sneakily taken out to the green as the night had worn on and splinter groups of friends had left to drink and laugh under the stars. Margie didn’t really mind, as long as she didn’t have to ferry them back herself after one of her biggest nights of the year. When she’d seen Mark still chatting to Susie after 1am last orders, she’d swiftly bowled over, pinched him on the upper arm and said, ‘If you’ve got time to flirt, you’ve got time to work. Go get my furniture back, boy.’

Rather than grump or grimace, Mark in fact seemed to light up after being chided, and hopped to it. He was now tucking his sixth chair away in the snug and dusting his hands together in the international gesture for ‘a job well done’.

‘I like to try,’ Mark said, smiling. ‘And Margie is a not a woman you say no to.’

‘Watch it,’ Susie lowered one eyebrow, ‘I might get jealous.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve plenty of room in my life to be bossed about by several women at any one time.’

Susie nodded. ‘I can work with that. Bacon sandwich?’

‘Sorry?’

She slipped down from the table and subtly checked her knickers weren’t showing as a result. ‘Festival tradition. If you’ve made it until the very end of the night – either as punter or staff – we open the kitchen back up and do a round of bacon sandwiches. ‘The most rewarding food on the planet, Margie always says.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Unless you’re veggie?’

‘No, I er . . .’ Mark checked his watch. It was an understated, simple face ringed with gold, with a black leather strap. Definitely vintage. Susie bet it had some history to it and her fingers itched to gently reach out and touch the material around his wrist. But that would be ever so slightly creepy as a come on, she knew. ‘It’s half one, though. Isn’t it a bit late? Or,’ he scrunched his eyes up for a moment, ‘a bit early?’

She shrugged. ‘We’re probably an hour’s drive from the nearest kebab shop here, even if they were still open at two-thirty, so this is as good as late-night snacks get. And Margie’s got the good bacon in from the butchers in Salcombe. It’s so thick and it goes so crunchy under the grill that my sister once chipped a tooth on it. You have to try it!’

‘OK, I will.’ Mark obediently followed her through the back of the pub and into the kitchen.