Breaking the Greek's Rules by Anne McAllister

Author:Anne McAllister [McAllister, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781408974735
Publisher: HarlequinUKLtd
Published: 2012-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

PUTTING her hand in his was like touching a live wire.

A current of electricity seemed to flow between them, one even stronger than the flickering awareness she’d felt all night.

Daisy was aware of the pressure of Alex’s strong fingers wrapping around hers as he led her through the doors and onto the dance floor. But it was nothing compared to her awareness when he took her in his arms.

She almost stumbled against him as she tried to do the opposite and keep a respectable distance between them. It was a battle because every instinct in her went to him like a moth to the proverbial flame.

Every touch was memorable. His fingers encased hers warmly. She was exquisitely aware of his hand pressing lightly at the small of her back. She was close enough that she could catch a faint hint of soap and aftershave. And a quick glance showed her how smooth-shaven his jaw was. She remembered it rougher, had loved to stroke her hand over it, stubbled one way, smooth the other.

Abruptly she turned her head, trying to follow his lead at the same time and nearly tripped over his foot. He caught her, pulled her closer. And Daisy knew the sensation of her body melting into his, as if she belonged there, wrapped in his arms.

She had danced with lots of other men. She had felt other men’s hands on her body. None—not even Cal’s—evoked such strong reactions.

Even now, knowing he was not for her, knowing for a fact that she and Alex had no future, Daisy could not deny that Alex’s touch, Alex’s smile, Alex’s gaze brought to life something inside her that no other man’s ever had.

Dancing with Alex was, just as it had been five years ago, the Cinderella experience that Daisy had remembered.

She understood now how she had been swept away by it. There was a feeling of rightness, of perfect understanding, that she’d never had with anyone else. And it scared her to feel it again and know how wrong it had been.

She forced herself to remain clearheaded and sane. She looked away from his hard jaw to study the room, determined to commit it to memory. She focused on the music, tried to think of the title, the composer, to isolate the instruments. And all the while she was aware of the man who held her in his arms.

His breath teased the tendrils of her hair. His trouser-clad legs brushed the silk of her dress. And every touch, every brush set off a hum of something electric. And the study of the room and the music and everything else faded away.

It was all right, she told herself. Nothing was going to happen on a dance floor. He couldn’t sweep her off her feet. She couldn’t slide a hand between the buttons of his shirt.

So where was the harm in appreciating the feel of hard muscles under her fingertips? Why not give in, just for the moment, to the instinctive rhythm they

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