Cinderella’s Wedding Wish

‘Come and dance, Cinderella,’ he said. ‘You’ve been working all evening.’

‘You’re supposed to be dancing with your guests,’ said Miranda, bracing herself to resist him. It wasn’t fair of him to stand there, looking like that, smiling like that.

‘I have danced with them,’ said Rafe. ‘I’ve been dancing all night, and now I want to dance with you,’

‘Why?’

Yes, why? Rafe asked himself. He didn’t know himself, he just knew that he did.

‘To say thank you,’ he improvised. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job. Everybody’s saying what a success the ball is, and you should be sharing in that, not hiding out here.’

‘I’m not hiding. I’m tired, and my feet are killing me.’ She showed him her bare feet. ‘There’s no way I’m putting those shoes on again!’

‘Dance barefoot,’ Rafe told her. ‘But dance you will.’ Reaching down, he took hold of her hand and tugged her, still protesting, to her feet. ‘And you can leave that bloody thing here,’ he added, removing the clipboard from her clutch and tossing it onto the bench. ‘You don’t need it any more.’

His grip warm and firm around her hand, he pulled Miranda up the steps and across the terrace, ignoring her attempts to hang back.

‘You know, you could just say thank you,’ she said breathlessly as she was dragged along. ‘Or send me flowers tomorrow. I’d be fine with that. Or even better, a bonus!’

Rafe stopped suddenly just outside the doors, but didn’t let go of her hand. ‘Why don’t you want to dance with me?’ he demanded.

Miranda stared at him in frustration. She couldn’t tell him that she didn’t trust herself near him, that she was afraid of the way her body reacted to his closeness.

‘I can’t dance,’ she muttered. ‘You know that.’

‘We danced before,’ Rafe pointed out.

‘That wasn’t really dancing. And it wasn’t in public.’

‘Nobody’s going to be interested in you, Miranda,’ he tutted. ‘It’s not a display. Anyway, it’s not even proper dancing. It’s not as if we’re going to do a formal waltz. Listen.’

It was very late, and the band had switched to slow music by now. ‘See?’ Rafe said. ‘We don’t need to dance at all. We just need to hold each other and sway a bit.’

That was what she was afraid of.

‘Oh, well, if you’re going to make such a fuss about it,’ said Miranda, covering her nervousness beneath a familiar prickly manner. ‘But I’d really rather have a bonus!’

Rafe laughed and pulled her onto the floor. ‘I love it when you’re charming, Miranda!’

As he had promised, no one was dancing properly. The floor was so crowded, they had little choice but to stand close together. Rafe curled his fingers firmly around hers and held her hand against his shoulder. He spread his other hand against the small of her back, feeling her stiff and rigid, and eased her nearer to him so that he could breathe in the scent of her hair.

This was what he had wanted to do all evening, he realised. He had danced with an array of women far more beautiful and sophisticated, but Miranda was the one he wanted.

It was madness, Rafe told himself. She was completely unsuitable for him in every way. They were totally incompatible. She didn’t want him, didn’t approve of him, and she had made it very clear that theirs was a strictly working relationship. It would be deeply inappropriate to suggest anything else.

So he couldn’t let his lips drift over the silky hair, couldn’t nudge it aside to kiss his way down her temple, couldn’t nuzzle the warm, sweet pulse beneath her ear. Couldn’t undo those little buttons down her back one by one and slide the dress off her so that he could make love to her.

Rafe felt his blood surge at the thought. What would it be like to unlock the tension in her, to get past those defensive barbs to the warm, vibrant woman he was so sure lurked beneath that prim exterior? To make her shudder with pleasure, to give her joy, to show her what fun there was in loving and being loved?

But Miranda wouldn’t think an affair was fun, Rafe realised. She had told him that she was holding out for true love. She was dreaming of the fairy tale, not fun.

And he was no Prince Charming. He couldn’t give her the fairy tale she wanted, and anything else would hurt her. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

No, this was one impulse he had to resist. Thanks to Miranda’s organisation, he had met lots of interesting, attractive women tonight. His pocket was bulging with business cards, telephone numbers and email addresses. Any one of them might be the woman he was looking for.

Tomorrow he would start his quest to find her, Rafe vowed. But in the meantime, Miranda was warm and slender in his arms, and although he knew he shouldn’t really be pulling her tighter, he couldn’t resist doing it anyway. She was here for now. He would make the most of that.

‘You look wonderful in that dress,’ he told her.

‘Your grandmother insisted I wear it.’

‘Elvira always had taste. It’s exactly the colour of your eyes.’

She looked up in surprise at that. ‘No, it’s not. Elvira said it was greengage.’

‘So are your eyes.’

Miranda smiled uncertainly, as if unsure whether he was joking or not. ‘I’ve never thought of my eyes as green. They always look a murky ditchwater colour to me.’

‘They’re not murky at all,’ said Rafe without thinking. ‘They’re the clearest eyes I’ve ever seen.’

She opened her mouth, but no words came out, and after a moment Rafe smiled and drew her close, shutting out everyone else in the ballroom as they danced in silence.

It was just as well Rafe made no attempt at conversation because Miranda couldn’t have strung a sentence coherently together if she had tried. Her eyes were level with Rafe’s crisp white collar and she was woozy with his nearness. She could feel his hand warm and insistent on her back. His other palm was pressed against hers, their fingers entwined, as he clasped her hand to his chest.

She tried to hold herself away from him, but it was hopeless. He was too solid, too warm, his body too inviting. Miranda scowled at his collar and concentrated on all the reasons why she shouldn’t find Rafe attractive, but the more she thought about it, the more aware she was of him.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see the firm line of his jaw and the corner of that mouth. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a dent in his cheek and a quirk to the set of his lips that sent warmth shivering through her. She tried looking away and staring at his jacket instead, but the material seemed to shimmer in front of her gaze after a while and her eyes slid surreptitiously back to his mouth.

It was so close. All he had to do was turn his head just a little and if she turned hers too, their lips would meet. What would that be like? The answer came in the leap of her heart, the acceleration of her pulse at the very thought, and Miranda closed her eyes against the instinctive knowledge of how thrilling it would be to touch her lips to his, to feel his mouth take sure, seductive possession of hers.

He would be a very good kisser. He had had lots of practice, after all. Miranda dragged the feverish drift of her thoughts back to reality. What was she thinking? That Rafe Knighton, playboy extraordinaire, would actually think about kissing her? He had his pick of beautiful women. Was it really likely that he would pass them all over in favour of plain Miranda Fairchild?

Miranda swallowed, embarrassed that she could have let herself even imagine it. She had had years to get used to being the plain sister, the one nobody noticed. It had been uncomfortable this evening feeling that everyone was looking at her, as if she were a little girl dressed up as someone else.

Which she was.

She was dressed as a beautiful, sophisticated woman instead of the prickly, plain girl she really was. It had been a mistake. If she had been wearing black trousers and sensible shoes, she wouldn’t be here fighting temptation, torn between resistance and the yearning to lean against him and turn her face to his throat, to press her lips to his skin, and lose herself in the warm, solid safety of his body.

If she had any sense, she would pull out of Rafe’s arms, make an excuse and walk away right now, but the music seemed to be twining round them, and he was so broad and hard and inviting that in spite of herself Miranda felt herself relaxing instead.

Her mind might be issuing frantic instructions to stiffen every last sinew, but her bones were dissolving with the sheer pleasure of being held. The hand she had laid rigidly against his shoulder softened and of its own volition slid