Heart Journey by Robin Owens

fragrance as he kissed her and her passion rose.
    She pulled her fingers away. “Use that facile mouth of yours to drink your wine.”
    “It’s not what I want to taste.”
    Del stepped from the shelter of the arbor and gave a passing waiter her wineglass.
    Raz followed her. As she’d left the shadows for the lit room, he’d seen her face go immobile just for an instant—as if she was putting on the thin veneer of a social mask. She didn’t hide much of herself, certainly not as much as most people. Again he wondered why she’d come to the party. He drank the last of his wine a little too quickly to savor, then gave the waiter his glass.
    The musicians struck up a waltz and couples left the dance floor or went onto it. The first to match their steps were Cratag and Signet Marigold. Raz smiled. He turned to Del, offered his hand. “Do you waltz?”
    “Yes.” She put her fingers in his, pivoted, and placed her hand on his shoulder. The touch of her, the closeness, went to his head faster than the wine, was tastier, more delightful. He was taller and broader than she. He hadn’t quite realized that until she was in his arms, she had such an indomitable spirit—presence. Once again words escaped him without thought. “How old are you?”
    She threw back her head and laughed and he saw the enticing golden column of her throat. “I’m thirty-six, pretty boy.” The way she said it, laughing at herself, had him sweeping her around and around in a whirl. Her body was strong and supple and he thought he might be able to do anything with it. Her pale green gaze glinted with humor. “Eight years older than you.”
    He pulled her closer. “You can’t be,” he murmured into her ear, once again catching her fragrance—the scent of lavender that wasn’t the same in the city. He was a city man through and through, but attraction wove between them as she matched his gaze with that sparking green of her own. Her body pressed along his, warm, exciting. She was completely unlike any woman he’d ever known.
    And she’d be leaving Druida soon.
    Maybe she was safe to make love with. He looked down into her eyes and slid his hand down her back just above the curve of her bottom, feeling the flex of her muscles. Even if she wasn’t safe, he’d make love to her.
     
     
    A s soon as they finished their dance, Del was asked by another man and accepted. She danced a few more times with men other than Raz, then excused herself. She made her way to the Marigolds to say good-bye, then to the Spindles to pay her respects and thank them again for the invitation.
    If she danced one more dance with Raz she might spontaneously combust. Best to leave him curious . . . she was woman enough to know that, and to know that passion was smoldering in him as well as herself.
    So she left with a wave to the room, blessing the cool outside air as it wrapped around her. Her driver was there, the glider waiting.
    She slid into the vehicle and the springreen wine made her head a little muzzy—enough to speak to the man about the state of the City, the rehabilitation of what had once been known as Downwind, and whether new maps would be a boon.
    The night had been good, nicer than she’d expected, and she’d make sure her dreams were better still.
     
     
    T he party had turned out to be one of the best of Raz’s life, mostly because of the woman in red who had become a potential lover, Del Elecampane. True, Del had left after a conversation and a dance, but when she was with him, his blood pumped faster. He hadn’t managed to seduce a kiss from her; her eyes were too knowing. She’d gone without any promises to meet, though he was sure that she felt the same sweet zings of passion that he did.
    A very unusual woman, she had made no overtures, had not flirted. Had left him aching with arousal after she’d gone . . . and had challenged the hunter in him to pursue.
    He wasn’t the only one she’d danced with. She’d waltzed with Johns and