Nicola Marsh - Two Weeks in the Magnate's Bed

Several women stood to one side of the ballroom, while a few men loitered on the outskirts of the dance floor. She learned from Mavis, the woman standing next to her, that the men were hosts, hired by the ship’s company for single women who needed a dance partner.

‘This is my seventh cruise, dear. Why do you think I keep coming back? Though I’m seventy, these dance hosts make me feel twenty-one again, whisking me all over the dance floor. Not to mention their youthful good-looks.’

Lana smothered a smile as the youngest host appeared to be a greying fifty-five. She observed that the men were skilled at mingling with the women, and soon everyone had paired off. Predictably, she had no partner. Story of her life, really.

‘Don’t worry, love, you’ll be the lucky one paired with the instructor.’

Mavis, veteran cruiser, obviously knew how these things worked.

‘I hope he’s good.’

Because she was a dervish out there on the dance floor? Yeah, right. She moved her feet to an imaginary samba rhythm and almost took a tumble.

‘I’m better than good. Let’s just hope you can keep up.’

Her nerve-endings snapped to attention as the deep voice rippled over her, and she didn’t have to turn around to know who it belonged to. Fickle fate dealing her a bum hand yet again.

‘Okay, class, let’s get to work. As you can see, I’m not Rafe, our illustrious dance instructor. He was called away to a last-minute rehearsal for tonight’s extravaganza, so you’re stuck with me instead. For those who don’t know me, I’m Zac McCoy, the PR manager. Though I’m not a professional entertainer, I can safely say I don’t have two left feet, and I’ve managed to learn a thing or two during my years working with the entertainment staff. So, how about a waltz to start with?’

‘Anything you want, handsome. Oh, if only I was thirty years younger.’ Mavis fanned her face, a twinkle in her eyes.

‘If only I’d decided on taking the chess class,’ Lana muttered, wondering if she could feign a sprained ankle.

‘Did you say something?’

She had two choices. Duck and run, as she usually would in an uncomfortable situation like this, or ignore the blush burning her cheeks, discount the fact she’d never done this before, and suck it up and see if she could get through this awkward encounter without making a fool of herself.

She shook her head, managing a tight smile resembling a grimace. ‘No.’

‘Right, then. Shall we dance?’

Zac grinned and held out his hand, leaving her no option but to take it. She tried to relax, she really did, but as he pulled her closer, his body grazing hers, she inadvertently stiffened.

His knowing smile didn’t help. ‘See—a perfect fit.’

‘I thought we were doing a waltz. The way you’re holding me seems more like the Lambada.’

‘Fancy a bit of dirty dancing, do you?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. You certainly don’t hold a candle to Patrick Swayze.’

A glint of hidden excitement lit his extraordinary eyes.

‘And here I was thinking you were falling under my spell. You disappoint me.’

She averted her gaze, focussing on anything other than those all-seeing eyes, wishing her heart would stop racing. ‘Don’t you ever stop flirting?’

His grin widened. ‘I’m sure Fred did his fair share of flirting while he whisked Ginger around. I’m just taking my role seriously.’

‘Your role as the resident Casanova, you mean?’

The naughty glint in his eyes alerted her to the fact she hadn’t insulted him. Moreover, he was enjoying their sparring way too much.

‘We’re both adults here. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of harmless flirtation. Besides, you dared me—remember?’

More fool her.

‘Look, this is silly. You were taunting me last night. I bit back. Let’s just forget it, okay?

The naughty glint didn’t let up. If anything it intensified as his lips kicked up into an all too sexy grin.

‘Unfortunately for you I have a very good memory, so I can’t forget it. But I’m willing to concentrate on our dance steps for now.’ And with that he spun her outwards, at arm’s length.

‘If that’s your way of changing the subject, I’m not buying it.’

He reeled her in with a slight tug on her hand. ‘Who said anything about needing to change the subject? I enjoy flirting. You’re the one with the problem.’

If he only knew.

She didn’t know how to flirt—had absolutely no experience at it. Jax had targeted her, played her, said all the right things—done all the right things to get her to fall for him. Flirting hadn’t entered into it. As for her other two dates, they’d been stilted, awkward, rushed dinners, with limited small talk and frequent glances at watches on both sides.

It wasn’t so much having a problem with flirting, she just didn’t have a clue how to do it.

She stumbled, winced, trod on his toes, and wished the parquet floor would open up and swallow her.

‘Easy, Ginger. Just follow my lead.’

If he’d smiled or smirked or had the faintest amused twinkle in his eyes she would have slammed her heel on his foot—well, she would have thought about it—and made a run for it.

Instead, he tightened his hold on her hand, gently increased the pressure with the other in the small of her back, and counted softly under his breath as he led her around the dance floor.

The counting was for her benefit, but it didn’t help. Clumsy, stiff and awkward didn’t begin to describe how she felt in his arms—like a mannequin given an airing before being dumped in a shopfront in only her knickers.

Thinking of knickers while in his arms had her trampling his toes again, and she bit her lip, silently cursing her ineptness.

‘Sorry.’

Her gaze fixed on his chest, heat scorching her cheeks.

He stopped twirling her about, placed a finger under her chin and tilted it up so she had no option but to look at him.

‘Don’t apologise. This class is about learning, and you’re doing great for a beginner.’

His understanding smile sent a tremor through her. Why couldn’t he be condescending and obnoxious so she could dislike him, rather than considerate and kind?

She mumbled a noncommittal answer, wishing he’d stop staring at her like a pet project. Though it could be worse; he could be looking down on her as a charity case with pity in his eyes.

‘Just feel the music. Let the beat take you.’

Easy for Fred Astaire Junior to say.

Her dubious expression had him chuckling as he pulled her closer again. ‘Come on. You’ll enjoy it.’

To her surprise, he was right. As soon as she stopped focussing on her feet not stomping on his, and ignored the fact he was holding her close, she started to relax.

The music filtered over her, soft and ethereal, a classical hit from a bygone era, and she found herself humming softly, swept away in the magic of the moment.

She closed her eyes, remembered a dancing show she’d once seen on TV, and imagined herself in a red chiffon dress with a fitted bodice held up by will-power alone, with handkerchief layers cascading from her waist to her ankles. She imagined snazzy red shoes to match, sequinned, with impossibly high heels, that floated across the dance floor of their own volition.

With immaculate hair and make-up, and the smile of a ballroom dancing champion, she lived the fantasy, let the music infuse her body, her senses, and allowed Zac to whisk her around and around, her feet finally falling into step with his as an exhilaration she’d never known rushed through her.

She’d never felt so light, so graceful, so unselfconscious. If this was what ballroom dancing could do for her, she’d sign up for a year’s worth of classes as soon as she got back.