Lovers' Dance Read Free Page B

barely look eighteen.” His face abruptly lost its previous joviality and he was back to looking sternly at me. “Wait, exactly how old are you?”
    “Twenty-six.”
    His disbelief was obvious, as was the wariness creeping into his silver grey eyes. “Try again.”
    “I’m twenty-six,” I repeated indignantly. “Do you want to see my license?”
    “Please.” He had stopped fiddling with whatever he was holding and was folding his arms across that broad sweater-clad chest of his.
    “Seriously?” I couldn’t believe this, but the expectant air around him didn’t dissipate so I went to recover my purse which I’d left on the pretty little table in the foyer. When I returned Matt was pacing in front the sleek island in the centre of his kitchen. Barefoot and without makeup, I knew I probably looked younger than my age, but not jail bait young. “Here it is. I must say I’m insulted that you think I’m lying about my age.”
    I held it out to him, trying my best to wipe the scowl off my face as he snatched it from my hand and scanned it intently. A look of relief covered his face for a second then his gaze travelled up and down my form.
    “God. You’re tiny.” he murmured.
    I scowled at my rescuer. First he implies I lied about my age, and now he was cracking on my height. “I’m a ballet dancer. We’re tend to be short. It’s not my fault you’re freakishly tall.”
    He placed my license on the counter, picked up a plaster and stuck it to the cut on my head. “All better.”
    I blinked a few times, unnerved by his nearness. He smelt nice, really nice. He was devastatingly handsome, too. I wasn’t into white guys, never saw them in that way. But, standing close to Matt with his fingers gently touching the bump at my temple, I was getting uncharacteristically hot.
    “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” he pressed. “Or call the police?”
    I shook my head, uncomfortable by my body’s strange reaction to him. Matt moved away. “I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s your decision. Would you like something to drink before I take you home?”
    I glanced at the bottle of whiskey. Heck, after the night I’d had, it was deserved. Without asking I took his glass, filled the tumbler to the rim and chugged it down under his astonished observance.
    “Ack.” I gasped, feeling the burn all the way down to my stomach. “That’s good whiskey.” My eyes streamed and my tongue felt numb, but damn, it was some top-notch booze.
    “I meant tea or coffee.” Matt huffed and eyed the level in his whiskey bottle. I reached for the bottle, but he snatched it away before my fingers could close around it. “Let’s put this away for now.”
    I drained the last few drops in the glass, then hopped onto one of the stools on my side of the counter while he put his depleted whiskey away. I flopped over, resting my head on the cool granite worktop and sighed loudly. “Those guys would’ve hurt me badly.”
     
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    “What was that, poppet?” Matt asked absent-mindedly, then froze in the act of closing the cupboard door. Did he call her poppet? What the fuck was wrong with him tonight? He turned around, hoping she hadn’t heard his slip of tongue, to see her slumped over the counter resting her towel-wrapped head on her arms. She’d rolled the sleeves of his shirt up and, again, he marvelled at her petite frame. An unexpected feeling of protectiveness swamped him and he glided over to where she sat. She raised her head, brown eyes glassy with unshed tears as she watched him.
     
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    “I said those guys would’ve hurt me,” I whispered tightly. “If you hadn’t come along when you did, they would’ve really hurt me.” My head dropped back to my arms, and I couldn’t repress the shudder that wracked my shoulders. The barest of touches smoothed over my left shoulder.
    “But I did come along,” Matt said firmly, “and they didn’t hurt you. Much.”
    I nodded in my