Despite the cool night air she was flushed with heat from her exertions; perspiration damped her gown so that it clung damply to her curves, the thin material like a second skin.
Like a firefly among lanterns, she flitted from partner to partner, losing herself in the dance, in the heady rush of memories that accompanied her return to Mexico where so much of her life had been changed. It was both exhilarating and melancholy at the same time, these memories of her past, the past she had shared with Steve, and the future that was theirs.
I have to have faith in us she thought distractedly, I have to have faith in Steve….
“Beautiful lady,” a low voice as smooth as fine brandy murmured in her ear. She looked up to see the tall man from Señor Valdez’s table taking the place of her last partner. She whirled away, ignoring him, but too aware of his eyes on her, black and reflecting light from torches.
He followed her, persistent, his lean body graceful in the steps of the dance, but too close, too intimate. She could feel the heat from him, powerful, almost threatening.
“Are you afraid?” he taunted, and flashed a white smile at her when she stamped her feet and lifted her arms over her head, snapping her fingers with contempt.
“Of you? You flatter yourself, señor,” she replied in the same flawless Castillian Spanish he had used. He did not seem to be a part of these men here, though he had the same swarthy look about him. His features were more refined, with no trace of the Indian forebears that graced so many Mexicans.
He laughed softly, and there was a hint of approval in his eyes. “Little butterfly, you intrigue me. What is such a gracious creature doing in Ojinaga?”
She only smiled. Her body, shoulders a gleaming white above the yellow silk, moved with sinuous grace and utter abandon to the dance. The smile lingered, lashes lowered slightly to hide the green of her eyes, a provocative, seductive expression on her face as she danced.
There was not a man watching who did not think what it might be like to possess her, to have her naked, satiny body beneath him.
From the shadows just inside the courtyard gate, Steve watched with a wry smile. How many times had he come upon her like this, dancing with teasing abandon, her gypsy eyes half-closed and a dreamy smile on her mouth? More times than he could count. There were things about both of them that never seemed to change with time or tragedies.
And yet there were so many things that had changed. He knew now that he loved Ginny too much to give her up.
What would she say, and do, when he told her he had to leave her again, even if it was only for a little while? Would she trust him enough to accept it?
When she swirled in a blur of yellow silk and flashing legs, he stepped in, a hard glance challenging her partner to resist. For an instant, Steve thought he recognized the man, but that impression was swiftly banished as black eyes lowered, and with a murmured, “Señor,” the man relinquished his place and backed away.
As Ginny turned, her brows flew up in surprise and she faltered when she saw Steve. Then a smile curved her mouth. Silently, she gave him an alluring glance from beneath her lashes, provocative and teasing, the trick of a practiced courtesan. Moving to the driving tempo of the music, she tossed her head, then began to remove the pins from her hair one by one, scattering them carelessly on the stone tiles as glorious copper strands fell free. It was an invitation, seductive and arousing, and every man there was riveted to the sight.
Of all men, Steve understood it most. Ginny, dancing with abandon, her heavy mane of bright red-gold hair framing her face, was the lure that kept him coming back.
“Little baggage, are you trying to start a fight out here?” His murmured comment only earned a wicked smile and careless shrug, and he grinned. “I should know better than to leave you on your own for longer than an hour. When will I learn?”
She danced close to him, her breasts brushing against his chest in a silken promise before she whirled away again. When the steps of the dance brought them back together, he grabbed her hands, held them above her head as his feet stamped against stones in a rapid staccato, his body so close to hers he could feel the dampness of her gown. Green eyes widened up at him.
As the music ended in a crashing flourish of guitars, he pulled her hard against him, one arm bent behind her back to hold her. He grazed her ear with his lips as he murmured, “Come upstairs with me, bruja.”
Ginny leaned into him, breath coming in little pants of exertion. A teasing fragrance emanated from her hair, all too familiar and tempting, her favorite perfume, a blend he had bought for her in France. Her hand splayed against his chest and she looked up with a faint smile.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The night air became sweeter, softer. Now that Steve was here, her worries and fears proved groundless. He had brought her jewels—fire opals, gleaming with lustrous brilliance in a velvet box, set into ornate silver filigree. A lovely bracelet for her wrists, and a magnificent ring for her hand, looking much too large but so very beautiful.
“Tears of the Moon, the Aztecs called it,” Steve said when she admired the artistry of the silver setting. “Now that Mexico has even more silver veins being discovered, I thought you’d appreciate some native ore.”
Delighted, and deliriously happy that he was back, she slipped on the jewelry, admiring the radiant gleam in the soft swaying glow of lanterns overhead.
“You spoil me, Steve Morgan.”
He smiled as he took her hand to
