buzzed with possibilities and her plate was empty. She refused more wine, noting that Erik drank very little.
He insisted on ordering a sumptuous sugary dessert, so she made him share it, their spoons tinkling together in a companionable sort of way. Erik leaned back, smiling as he watched her chase the last morsels around the dish. “Good?” he asked, his gaze on her mouth.
Carefully, Prue laid her spoon aside, the happiness leaking out of her. It was over. “We should go back,” she said.
The lazy smile disappeared. “You sure?” She couldn’t read his expression.
“Yes.”
The skiff was nearly at The Garden before she managed to assemble a suitably dignified speech in her head.
“Erik.” She put a hand on his sleeve. Although she’d cleared her throat, she still sounded hoarse and raspy, as if she were coming down with the winter ague. “I think you know what I’m going to say.”
“No.” The tone was uncompromising.
Bracing herself, Prue turned to confront him, while he loomed over her in the small craft. With as much poise as she could muster, she said, “Please, believe me. This is the best thing—for both of us. It isn’t going to work.”
A tingling silence. “You won’t bloody let it.” Temper deepened his voice, clipped his words.
How did Rose do this? “There’s no place in my life for a man like you. I’m not your type.” The laugh strangled in her throat. “I know I’m not.”
“Like hell.” His voice dropped to the intimate velvet purr she loved. “Come on, pretty Prue. All I want is your company. What about lunch tomorrow? I’ll bring the tray, I promise.”
Prue gave a shaky laugh. “When you talk like that, you could charm the birds from the trees.”
Erik’s mouth went tight and hard. Turning his head, he met the fascinated gaze of the skiffwoman. “As fast as you can, Bettsa.”
The woman muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “Daft buggers.”
Without another word, Erik withdrew his arm from around her shoulders. Prue shivered, huddling into the silk shawl. Cold seeped into her bones, her heart.
At the water stairs of The Garden, Bettsa steadied the skiff while Erik handed Prue out. “Wait here,” he said to the skiffwoman, his tone curt. “I shan’t be long.”
“There’s no need,” said Prue. “I’m perfectly capable of walking to my own front door.”
“I’m sure you are.” Erik took her arm in a steely grip and guided her up the path. “But I’m not so easily dismissed.”
Prue stopped just inside the buttery pool of light spreading from the wide-open doors of the Main Pavilion. “Here, take this.” As she went to slip the shawl from her shoulders, the movement pulled at the fine hair on the nape of her neck. “Ow!” Her eyes watered.
“Stand still.” A pause while Erik’s fingers lifted a braid aside. “Your hair’s tangled in the hook-and-eye things on your collar.” A big hand on the back of her skull urged her closer to his tall, blurred figure. “Bend your head forward.”
Perforce, she did. Until her nose was buried in the open vee where his shirt was unlaced, his long fingers tugging gently at her hair. Her face heated, sheer mortification combining with the sharp physical pain. Desperately, she tried not to inhale, but it was impossible.
Merciful Sister! No man had ever affected her so profoundly. She’d had lovers over the years, all decent men, a couple of them almost as handsome as Chavis. She was a healthy, adult female, in charge of her own life. She’d walked away from every one of those relationships when she felt the time was right. Besides, she’d had her priorities straight—her daughter and her work.
But this? It was like a summer storm, all sultry heat and flashy lightning, whirling in her head until she couldn’t think straight. She hadn’t felt so off balance since she’d been eighteen, head over heels in love with Chavis. Sister save her, only a few moments more. Frantically, she cast about for some kind of distraction.
“Tell me you can’t juggle.” The instant the words were out of her mouth, Prue stiffened, utterly appalled.
“I can’t juggle,” said Erik equably enough, his hands still moving in her hair, separating one lock from another. “Why?”
“Chavis used—” She broke off.
He froze. “Chavis? That was his name?”
Prue bit her lip. “Have you finished?”
“Nearly. This one’s completely knotted.” The ice had thawed. “When you do something, you really are thorough, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Now his voice had a beguiling lilt that invited her to share the humor of the situation.