“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.

She let out a little yelp. “What are you—?”

“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.”