“May I help you?” the old man sneered.
Harte smiled pleasantly, letting his eyes go a little glassy and soft as he turned to the girl. She tried to pull away, but he had her secure. “I’ve been looking for you, darling,” he said, allowing the words to slur together a little.
“I’m sorry, but this one is already taken,” the old man said, attempting to wrestle the girl back from Harte. “Go find one of the others.”
“But I love her,” Harte told him, refusing to relinquish control. He swayed a bit on his feet for effect.
The old man’s thick brows bunched in a scowl. “Then perhaps you should have kept better watch of her.”
“You’re right,” Harte told him, turning his attention to the girl, who was glaring at him with eyes the color of whiskey and with just as much fire. He gave her a besotted smile. “I should have never let you go, not after you stole my heart,” he said, enjoying the way the girl’s eyes widened slightly when he emphasized the word.
“I don’t believe I know you,” the girl said, her voice shaking a little. Her words were well formed, her voice soft, cultured, but then, so was his. Considering his own beginnings, her lack of accent didn’t mean much. The more interesting question was where she’d learned to pick pockets. And why her teacher hadn’t warned her about using her magic in the Haymarket.
“You couldn’t have forgotten so soon.” Keeping in character, Harte lifted his free hand to his chest dramatically, as though struck. “Why, it was only last Friday we met here. The band was playing this very song when your eyes found mine across the room. I was reluctant, but you were”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—“convincing.” He gave her a teasing wink before he turned to her partner.
“It was nothing at all to overlook her little affliction for such beauty.” Harte leered at the girl, who was still trying to pull away from him. He felt a pang of conscience at the fear lurking behind the anger in her golden eyes, but Corey’s men were too close. Better she fear him than meet with them.
Why he had decided to help her was beyond him, though. He was no white knight, no one’s protector.
“Yes, well . . .” The old man looked uneasily at the girl as he relinquished her to Harte. “Who am I to stand in the way of young love?”
Harte pulled her closer to him as the old man backed away into the crowd. “Easy now,” he whispered, his head close to hers. She smelled faintly of flowers and something soft and musky, like sandalwood. It was what a summer day should smell like, he decided, instead of the stink of the streets.
She was still struggling to get away from him, but he tightened his hold, a subtle adjustment that to any other dancer would look like an embrace. “Go along with me and don’t make a scene.”
“I’ll show you a scene,” she hissed.
She wasn’t small. She was nearly as tall as he was, and her features were more interesting than classically pretty. On anyone else, the wide mouth with such a sharp nose might not have worked, but on her it was striking. Her eyes were bright with fury, and damn if it didn’t make her that much more attractive.
Or maybe that was the whiskey talking. . . .
The girl wriggled again, settling into his arms, and then suddenly, she twisted, trying to knock him off-balance. But Harte had been in his share of dirty fights. He countered her attack easily, wrapping her in his arms to secure her again as he drew them both into the swirl of men and their women on the dance floor.
“Impressive,” he murmured, leading them into the first turn of a waltz.
The girl’s golden eyes narrowed at him, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of trying to get away. He’d been right—her skin was clean of paint. Unlined, it looked smooth and soft as a petal.
I should let her go. . . .
Over the girl’s shoulder, he saw one of Corey’s men prowling the dance floor, still searching for the source of the magic. The man turned, looking in the girl’s direction.
“Dance with me,” Harte told her, leading her away from the man and toward the center of the crowded dance floor.
Energy spiked around her again as she struggled to get free from him. “I wouldn’t dance with you if—”
Corey’s men were getting closer. Without thinking through the consequences, Harte covered her mouth with his own, locking her in his arms as he brought her close.
The kiss did exactly what he’d intended—the warmth of her magic went cold as she stiffened, pressing against his shoulders with her hands. Corey’s men were right next to him now, so he deepened the kiss and pulled her against him, away from them.
She smelled clean as a prayer beneath the soft scent of her soap, and it had been so long since he’d been that close to a girl—to anyone, really—that it took everything he had to keep his own wits about him. He was barely able to keep track of the two guards as they began to move away.
Without warning, her body went pliant in his arms, and he reacted instinctively. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he had tried. But he didn’t try. Instead, he drew her closer, the velvet of her gown soft beneath his fingertips, as she kissed him back.
Maybe he’d been wrong, he thought as her mouth moved in heady rhythm with his. Maybe she wasn’t so innocent after all.
His brain felt heavy, numb, and he didn’t know what to make of her. . . .
But even that thought was distant and obscure as her lips slid against his. He wasn’t thinking at all when he parted his lips slightly, seeking to taste her. He wasn’t considering how bad an idea it was when she opened her mouth for him. He was simply lost.
In that moment, the danger Corey’s men posed didn’t exist. Nor did the crush of bodies around them. He couldn’t think of anything at all but the feel of her mouth against his, the scent of her filling his senses . . . until her sharp teeth bit down hard enough on his tongue to draw blood.
He released her and grabbed his mouth with a surprised yelp. You bit me, he wanted to say, but by the time he opened his eyes the girl was already gone. The only trace she left was the tingling energy from her sudden burst of magic and the taste of blood in his mouth.
It wasn’t that she’d ducked away into the crowd. No. She’d been there one second and in a blink—in less than a blink—she had simply vanished. He’d spent years working on illusions, and he’d never seen anything quite like it before.
He needed to go before Corey’s men returned.
Instead, he stood stupidly in the middle of the swirling bodies, his tongue smarting, his head muddled by the whiskey, and his entire body electrified by the memory of her mouth against his. Impressed by her in spite of himself.
“Darrigan?” A voice was calling his name through the haze. “Harte Darrigan, is that you?”