Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(22)

Kate shrugs idly. “He might have shed a tear or two when I declined his offer.”

I cluck my tongue. “Sorely low on your daily quota, then, aren’t you?”

“Oh, the night is young,” she says breezily. “I still have plenty of time to catch up.”

A beat of thick silence falls between us. This is when I should excuse myself, keep my promise to Bill and Jamie, and make myself scarce so the night can pass in peace.

Except I can’t seem to move. I just . . . stand there. Staring at Kate, my gaze drawn once again to her right arm still in its sling. I tell myself not to look too closely, tell my chest not to knot as I see how she stands by herself at the edge of the floor, looking beat-up and proud, her chin held high, that fiery glint in her eyes.

Kate observes me inspecting her and arches an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

“You can.” I set out my hand.

She stares at it like it’s roadkill.

A smile lifts my mouth. I’m absurdly delighted by that.

What are you doing? You’re supposed to be walking away, not toward her, dammit!

Ignoring that sensible voice, I ask her, “Don’t tell me you haven’t learned the tango in all your worldly travels.”

Slowly, Kate drags her gaze up from my hand and meets my eyes. “I’m . . . passably familiar with it.”

“Well.” I take a step closer, hand still outstretched. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I have one functional arm,” she says silkily. “As you were so happy to remind me the other night when you ran into me—”

“You ran into me.”

She rolls her eyes, but then her expression shifts as she takes me in, standing there, hand outstretched. Waiting. Our gazes hold, and our surroundings dim to a blur of moving bodies, the heavy thrum of the bandonion and guitar’s melody.

Prove your family wrong, I silently beg her. Show me I haven’t fucked this up like they say I have. Show me what you always do—that fire you throw my way, that I throw right back at you.

Kate takes a step my way and slaps her hand down on mine. “Fine.”

I grip her hand and ignore the fierce rush of heat that floods my body as her palm settles, light and warm on mine, her fingers’ grip hard and uncompromising. She doesn’t look it, but God, she’s strong.

I draw her close, until our bodies meet—chests, hips, lower.

Instantly, I recognize this moment for what it is: a devastating lapse in judgment.

But it’s too late, because Kate stares up at me, her face only a few inches lower than mine. Challenge dances in her eyes as she says, “Well, Petruchio, who’s leading? Me or you?”

I wrap an arm around her waist, drawing her closer. Air hitches out of her, and a rosy blush splashes across her cheeks. “I am.”

Gaze locked on mine, she pulls her hand free from my grip, then wraps her arm around my neck. Heat seeps through my clothes where her hand splays across my back, where the soft weight of her breasts presses into my chest, and her hips rest, snug against mine.

I take the first step, holding her eyes as she moves with me, again with the next slow step. When our steps quicken into a turn, her head whips in the next direction, and her leg kicks up as her hips twist with a flourish.

Christ.

I stare down at her. “?‘I’m passably familiar with it.’ Was that what you said?”

She flashes me a wide, satisfied grin, the cat who’s had its cream. “Yes.”

Recklessly, I drink in that grin, and my hand slips lower down her back as we whip into a quick turn, then take a long slow step together. My other hand tightens around her waist, to make up for the lack of her other hand for me to hold and keep her steady. That’s the only reason my palm is wide across her back, holding her hips to mine, my other hand wrapped around her ribs, my thumb sliding over the curve of her waist.

“You’re holding me rather tightly, aren’t you?” she asks. Her breathing is a little unsteady. Mine is, too.

Then again, we’re tangoing our asses off. But it doesn’t feel only like that—her body turning and twisting with mine. It’s the way we’d move if there weren’t layers of clothing and decades of dissonance between us, her breath hot on my neck as I worked her hard and slow, her cheeks flushed, her nails raking down my skin.

“Petruchio.”

I swallow, meeting her eyes, trying to cool myself down. “What?”

“I said you’re holding me tight.”

“And? Otherwise, one quick turn and you’d go flying.”

“I have my left arm hooked around you. I’m not going anywhere.”

I sigh, exasperated. “Could you just trust me for once and not have an argument for every—Christ.”

Her heel slams on my toe. I glare down at Kate as she stares up at me serenely and says, “Oops.”

“I suggest you hold on with that all-powerful left arm of yours,” I tell her.

She frowns. “What—ack!”

It’s not the right moment for a dip, but I do it anyway, smooth and fast, leaning forward. Kate arches back reflexively in my arms and gasps.

“Jesus, Christopher,” she hisses as I draw her upright, bringing her even tighter against my body. “You could have dropped me.”

My hand tucks her hips against mine, and a swallow works down my throat. “I’d never drop you, Kate.” She doesn’t answer me, but our eyes hold, hers hot as blue flames, as we take a slow step, then another. “You don’t trust me?” I press.