Chapter 12 #4
She lifted her head from his shoulder, drawing back slightly so that their noses just brushed. Her dark eyes sought his, gazing deep with a seeking sort of need he longed to fulfill. “Do you know, Mr. Grimm,” she whispered, “you may have hit on something there.”
Her lashes dropped then, her gaze concentrating on the knot of his tie. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like not being able to see her eyes beneath those veiling lashes.
“Miss Talbot,” he said.
She looked up at him again. “Yes?”
But he had nothing to say. He only wanted her to look at him and to go on looking at him. To give him a chance to study the dark depths of those pools, to gauge their secrets, the beautiful enigma of her being. His blood heated in his veins, and his breath caught tight in his thickened throat.
“Miss Talbot,” he said again, very softly.
Then, despite every dictate of good sense and reason and reserve screaming at him to keep himself in check, he began to lean in, his mouth seeking hers.
It was an impulse, an instinct, without thought.
Driven purely by want. For just a moment, he felt her breath against his lips, could almost feel the softness of her touch, could almost taste her sweetness.
Thunk.
Something hit the table directly above.
“Oi! This one ain’t taken!” a voice, heavily slurred with alcohol, shouted from directly overhead. “Over here, Suzette! I’ve found us a spot!”
A loud scape of chair legs on parquet, and a pair of shiny shoes appeared under the table, followed by a pair of knees which hit Nigel solidly in the side.
With a grunt, he fell off-balance, landing heavily on his shoulder and dragging Luna down on top of him.
She uttered a little bleat of surprise, her hand splayed across his breast.
“What was that?” a lady’s voice, dripping with affrontery, demanded.
“What was what?”
“I thought I heard something. Underneath the table.”
“I didn’t hear nuffin.”
“Well, I most certainly did.”
“Hmmph. Maybe s’ghosts?”
“Don’t be a lout.”
“I ain’t never!”
“Oh, do have a look, Geoffrey, won’t you?”
“Fine, fine.” The next instant, the tablecloth lifted, and the flushed face of an inebriated middle-aged fellow peered upside-down into the shadows.
Red-rimmed eyes blinked blearily straight at Nigel, then turned to look at Luna as well.
He squeezed his eyelids, shook his head, looked again, then blustered a gin-tinged gust of air before sitting upright once more. “Yup. S’ghosts all right.”
“Oh, you dolt, come away from there! It can’t be good luck to sit at the bride and groom’s table. Not after such a do at the ceremony.”
“All right, Suzette, but I don’t think s’ghosts gonna hurt no one . . .”
The knees were removed along with the shiny-shoed feet.
Whatever had been thunked down on the table was reclaimed and carried away, leaving Nigel on the floor with Luna atop him, staring stupidly at one another.
Nigel tried to catch a struggling breath.
Her soft curls tickled his cheeks, her lovely scent intoxicating in his nose.
“I’m sorry about that,” he murmured.
“Sorry?” she echoed. “For what?”
But how could he answer? His mind simply wouldn’t present something for which he could justly apologize.
Not while his body screamed with awareness of the shape of hers pressed against him.
His hands rested at her waist, firmly planted but fully conscious of all the delicious curves they might travel under permissive circumstances.
Which these certainly were not. But his imagination sought to carry him away with it regardless.
Still, she did not push away. Not yet. She lay atop him, her limp curls falling over her shoulders to frame their faces in soft curtains, her breath warm as it mingled with his, her lips parted so invitingly.
Nigel could not help the way his gaze slid once more to focus on those lips.
Was it possible that fragile moment between them might be reclaimed? Or forged into something new?
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, “for this . . .”
And he lifted his head, beginning a lunge to claim her mouth. To seal the painful gap between them and, along with it, to seal his own fate.
But Luna retreated abruptly. One hand firmly pressed to the front of his apron, she rolled off his chest, and though Nigel’s fingers momentarily tightened, he could not keep her against her will.
Forcing himself to let go, he watched her sit up and turn away from him, those soft, curtaining curls falling across her cheek, shielding her from his gaze.
“Green Mother save me!” she said rather loudly after a moment.
“I’m getting a crick in my spine under here, aren’t you? Surely the coast must be clear by now.”
Nigel’s hand reached out and very nearly took hold of her arm.
He stopped himself, however. His fingers curled into a fist of restraint, while she lifted the edge of the tablecloth and peered out into the crowded room.
“Yes,” she declared, her chin set in a determined line.
“It looks as clear as it’ll ever be. Help me gather these violets, won’t you, Mr. Grimm? ”