Betina Krahn by The Soft Touch Page A

appeal He could have worn a burlap bag and still have been the most attractive man in four counties.
    Her fingers must have clamped on McQuaid’s arm, for he glanced down at it, then at her with a frown. “Do leave some flesh on. I may have a use for that arm some—”
    “Quick, this way.” She pulled him discreetly along through the groups of guests, toward the dance floor.
    “Beg pardon?” He balked, when he sensed her intent, and stared at her.
    “Just come with me!” she whispered through a rigid counterfeit of a smile.
    He glanced over his shoulder to see what had set her to flight and apparently spotted the familiar Morgan Kenwood bearing down on them.
    “Who … that guy? First the missionary, and now him. Don’t tell me they’re trying to sell you inventions too.”
    “Not exactly,” she muttered, halting at the edge of the dance floor and scanning the couples forming twosomes for the next dance. She looked up at him, taking in the light in his eyes, the fierce cast of his features, and the physicality that surrounded him like a cloak. She could be asking for trouble. But in this instance, she just might be better off with the devil she
didn’t
know. Her decision made, she opened her arms and did the unthinkable.
    “Dance with me.”
    Even having been absent from polite society for ten years, Bear McQuaid knew that a woman asking a man to dance at a party like this was a stunning breach of etiquette. He stepped in front of her to block the other guests’ view.
    “You know, you ought to take it easy on that punch,” he declared, alarmed by the sight of her offering him such personal access to her.
    “Dance with me.” She glanced around him and whatever—whoever—shesaw caused her eyes to widen. “
Now.
” In desperation, she met his gaze and lowered her voice and pride. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
    The offer startled him and he scrambled for a response.
    “My rates, I should warn you, are fairly steep.”
    “My pockets, I assure you, are fairly
deep
,” she said in an impatient whisper. When he still hesitated, she reached for his hands, placed one at her waist, and stretched the other out in hers … just as the music began to play. She took a step backward, but he didn’t move.
    “One problem.” His voice lowered. “I haven’t danced in years.”
    “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she said sharply, again glancing past his shoulder. “All right—I’ll lead and we’ll keep to the edge.”
    He didn’t know which was worse: the torture of having to follow her around the dance floor like an ill-trained bear, or the torture of having to hold and look at her warm, fragrant form without allowing that contact to have its logical, predictable effect. His only solace was the resounding echo in the back of his mind:
She would make it worth his while
.
    Damn straight, she would.
    “Your feet should alternate with mine,” she said with a wince.
    “My feet do damned well if they can alternate with each other,” he said testily. “If it becomes too much for your delicate constitution, we can always stop and let your friend over there take my place.” As they turned, he caught a glimpse of her prime pursuer watching, red-faced, from the far edge of the dance floor. “Who is he, anyway?”
    “He is Morgan Kenwood … the owner of Kensington Farms and Stables. We’ve been friends for years. Hisfamily’s land borders mine and he thinks—” She abruptly changed courses, both in conversation and footwork, bumping into him and stepping hard on his toes.
    “Hey!” His eyes bulged briefly. Concentrating with desperate new intensity, he seized control of their movement.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
    “I just remembered how to dance,” he said, grimly turning her in a graceful arc. “The pain brought it all back.”
    They moved in less-than-voluntary harmony for a few moments before he recalled where he had been aiming his attempts at