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‘Dance?’ Ilyas said.
‘I would love to.’
But then sense kicked in.
For he did not dance and certainly he did not sit staring into anyone’s eyes. The kiss they had shared had been more tender and intimate than any he had known, and that was not what he usually sought.
Maggie Delaney took up far too much space in his mind and Ilyas knew that he had to pull back, had to somehow eliminate the closeness between them.
And so he quickly amended his request and made out that he had been requesting her to danceforhim rather than asking her to dancewithhim.
‘Go on, then.’
Maggie felt her cheeks flush, even before she registered his words.
Her response to his offer had been immediate and heartfelt, for she had truly thought he was asking her to dance.
Embarrassment prickled—tiny red pokers of heat that flushed her cheeks and spread across her chest.
And unless she wanted to admit her mistake and let Ilyas know that she had jumped at the chance to be held by him, she had to rectify things, and quickly.
And so she stood.
Anger blazed in her green eyes, though she offered him a smile.
She did not dance. Well, not alone.
Or only on rare occasions and certainly not with anyone watching.
But how hard could it be? Maggie thought. She started to sway her hips a little, though she felt an utter fool.
Bastard! Her eyes shouted it, even as she raised her arms above her head as the far more practised woman had done by the campfire on the night she had been taken.
Yes, you utter bastard, she thought as she danced, because though she might look more like a jester than a dancer it was surely better than admitting her mistake.
But then she couldn’t carry on the charade, and she ground to a halt.
‘I can’t...’
He had been watching her with an inward smile, for he took a certain amount of pleasure in the discipline of denial.
Ilyas gave in to it then and stood.
As he walked over and took her hand, Maggie looked into his eyes.
She knew him better now.
