Nina Beaumont - Surrender The Heart

It took some effort, but she managed to pull away from his magnetism.

“By what?” She frowned, bristling less at his words than at the amusement in his eyes.

Chris watched, fascinated, as her fabulous eyes iced over, even as they retained a heated flicker of anger.

“How do you do that?” he demanded softly, forgetting completely that she had asked him a question.

“Do what? What are you talking about?” Her brisk, impatient tone softened as she saw that the amusement in his eyes had fled and been replaced by heat. How could eyes of that cool green color carry such intense heat? she wondered.

“How do you make your eyes go as cold as an arctic night and yet the fire is still there?” He curled his hands into fists to keep them at his sides.

She stilled at the sound of his voice—low and yet somehow urgent. A shiver glided over her skin as if he had touched her. For a moment, she merely looked at him, unable to speak. Then forcibly shaking off the feeling, she tilted her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her stormy eyes challenged him and Chris felt the blood begin to pound in his veins. Had he ever Wanted a woman so quickly, so urgently? Yes, she was lovely, he thought, but it was not just her beauty that lured him. Far more, it was her spirit—and the unbridled passion he sensed within her. He pulled in a deep breath and managed a casual smile. “I’ll explain it to you some other time.”

“Monsieur Blanchard—” Ariane drew herself up to her full height and cursed silently that she did not even reach the American’s shoulders. “I do not believe there will be some other time.”

“Oh, on the contrary.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “I promise you there will be.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”

“Not a threat. Even uncivilized Americans do not threaten beautiful young women.” He smiled. “It’s a promise.”

He wanted to lock her in a room and make love to her until she was out of his system, Chris thought, feeling his body tighten. It occurred to him that one did not need a great deal of imagination to construe a desire that strong as a threat.

“I have had quite enough of your promises, Monsieur Blanchard. And your demands.” She started to turn away. “You will excuse me.”

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the musicians began to play the lilting introduction to a Strauss waltz.

“I believe this is my dance, comtesse.”

Even as Ariane turned away from him, Chris took her hand and, with his other hand at the small of her back, maneuvered her toward the dance floor so elegantly, so deftly that she knew there was no way she could escape without making a scene.

Despite the difference in their height, there was no awkwardness as he whirled her around to the three-quarter time of the dance. On the contrary, they moved together as if neither of them had ever danced with anyone else.

As much as Ariane disliked the empty chatter at social gatherings, she had always loved to dance. Now the pleasure of moving in time with the music made her forget her annoyance—almost.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” Chris said. “Why don’t you give in and smile?”

She tilted her head back so that she could meet his eyes. The amusement was there again and it touched off her temper as surely as a match touches off a flame.

“I do not relish being manipulated, monsieur. Or laughed at.”

“I’ll admit to the manipulating, but I was not laughing at you.”

“Weren’t you?”

“No.” His eyes turned suddenly serious. “I know how much mockery can hurt. Firsthand.”

“You?” Ariane was so surprised at his words and at the way the amusement had drained out of his eyes so quickly that she missed a step. “I cannot believe that”

“Well, it’s true,” he said brusquely, a little appalled that he had shared that long-ago hurt with her.

“I can’t quite imagine anyone daring to mock you.”

Annoyed at himself, he shrugged. “It was a long time ago.

Ariane understood childhood hurts—after all, she lived with some of her own. Feeling his discomfort at the confession he had made, she said nothing. Instead, she shifted the hand that lay lightly in his palm and gave his hand a squeeze, accompanying it with a smile.

The touch she gave him was so brief that Chris wondered if he had imagined it. But he knew that he had not imagined the smile of extraordinary sweetness that curved her mouth and was reflected in her violet eyes.

When the dance ended, they found themselves near Justine and her partner.

“Just a word, Ariane,” Justine called out. Then, leaving her dance partner with an apologetic gesture, she moved over to her new friend and, under the guise of adjusting the tiny bunch of silk violets that was fastened above Ariane’s ear, she pulled her a step away from Chris and whispered, “Be careful. He’s gorgeous, but get rid of him quickly and don’t dance with him again. People are staring.”

“What was that all about?” Chris asked, when Ariane turned back to him and placed her hand on his proffered arm.

“Apparently we have made a spectacle of ourselves.” Her shrug was more exasperated than rueful. “She told me to get rid of you and warned me not to dance with you again.”

Had someone asked him, he would have denied that his nerves had tightened. “And are you?”

“Going to get rid of you or going to dance with you again?” Her mouth was serious, but her eyes were smiling.

“Both, either.”

They began to walk toward the part of the ballroom where her parents were seated.

“I don’t take direction very well. Especially from children.” Ariane shrugged. “Justine thinks she knows everything, but she is only a child.”

Chris smiled. “While you are veritably ancient,” he teased.

“You have no idea how true your words are.” His smile was so charming, so infectious that Ariane smiled back, forgetting her earlier irritation. “That’s why I’m here, after all. In Paris, I mean.” She made a face.

“You see, I’ve reached the age of twenty-five and my father is appalled that he does not yet have a son-in-law and a horde of grandchildren.”

Chris felt a tightening in his belly at the thought of her with another man. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was planning to provide her father with what he wanted when he realized that they had reached the far end of the ballroom. He bowed politely toward the elder Valmonts before he turned toward Ariane.

“Thank you for the waltz, comtesse.” This time he did not reach for her hand, but waited politely for her to offer it to him. “May I look forward to dancing with you again?” he asked when she did.

Ariane felt the pressure of his fingers on hers. As he lifted his head and met her gaze, she read the challenge in his eyes that told her that the touch had not been accidental. She could feel her father’s displeased gaze on her, but the temptation of the dare this man offered was stronger.

“You may.”

He retained her hand a moment longer than convention allowed, but she had no desire to pull her hand away from the warmth she could feel despite her gloves. Again there was that brief pressure and she suppressed a shiver of excitement just as he finally released her.

She should not want to dance with him again so badly, she thought, as he walked away, but she did. It was only because his amusing, impudent conversation was such a pleasant change from the inanities she had been hearing, she assured herself. And at the moment she believed it.

Several moments passed before she realized that her father was speaking to her.