Page 32 of My Dark Fairy Tale
When the stranger came over, I wasn’t surprised, but it did shock and warm me to see Nicola hovering with a frown, as if he was protective of me.
“You look as if you want to dance,” the stranger announced, leaning a hip into my table so he could beam down at me comfortably. Hespoke English with a mild accent that seemed more French than Italian. “I thought I had better ask you.”
I forced thoughts of Raffa away and tried to think of Gemma, who could flirt and enjoy men with a kind of irreverent joy I’d always been envious of.
“Was that a question?” I teased.
His smile loosened into something more genuine, and he offered his hand. “It was, if you’ll say yes?”
Instead of answering, I pushed out of my seat and took his warm, smooth palm. He led me to the empty space before the band and held me dramatically at the end of his arm before spinning me into his arms, his chest to my back.
It was intimate for strangers. Intimate forme. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever been held like that before and decided I hadn’t. It made me feel sad and determined in equal measure. As much as my instincts told me to pull away, to hide from the many eyes turned to us over their dinner plates and fold myself against the wall like a preserved flower, I made myself stay inside the embrace.
I’d come to Italy on a quest to find myself, and wasn’t romance the ultimate adventure?
I thought about offering him my name, but I liked the mystery of a dance with a stranger, of being nameless and mysterious, how I’d always imagined Italian women to be, instead of the plain and straightforward American I was.
Before I could even swing my hips with his in time with the music, the warm bracket of his body disappeared from behind me, and my arms were left wrapped around my torso, hugging my body as if in consolation.
I stood there for one interminable moment, alone on the dance floor in front of an entire restaurant of people, frozen in humiliation.
Just as I turned to see what had happened to my dance partner, he pressed against my back, his arms sliding around my waist to pin me even more aggressively to his front.
When I wiggled, trying to find some space, a familiar whisper wafted hot across my neck, breaking my flesh into goose bumps. “Placati, cerbiatta. It is only the man you wished to dance with from the very start.”
A shiver sluiced down my body like a bucket of cool water dropped over my head.
“Raffa,” I breathed, even though I meant it to be an accusation. “What are you doing?”
“It should be obvious,” he drawled, spinning me away and then pulling me gently, inexorably against his body so we were sewn tight from chest to thighs. He was so much taller than me, even in my heeled sandals, that I had to tip my head back and expose my neck to look into his coolly amused gaze. “We are dancing.”
“Why?” I demanded, ignoring the way his eyes dipped down to the line of my throat and darkened noticeably. “A few hours ago, you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”
“A few hours ago, I did not think you were foolish enough to entice a room of Florentine men to seduce you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, trying to pull away from the artful way his body led mine in an easy series of steps around the small dance floor. No one had joined us, but I wasn’t surprised. The way Raffa held me was deeply possessive, his large palm pressed to the bottom curve of my spine, his bigger body curled over mine as if he could shield me from view. As if this dance was private and not an exhibition. If he could not make them cease to exist, he would pretend anyway.
“Men have been circling you like carrion all night.” In the low golden lights of the restaurant, Raffa seemed like a bronze statue come to life, his dark edges softened and blurred, his skin a warm olive.
“Are you saying I’m dead meat?” I demanded, trying to pull away using all my force.
I only succeeded in tripping slightly, but Raffa dipped me seamlessly, as if it was intended, and rolled me up and across into his opposite arm before carrying on.
“I am saying you could be, if you bat those obscenely beautiful lashes at the wrong man. You are not in America anymore, little fawn. You must pay attention to your surroundings.”
“The most dangerous man in this room seems to be the one forcing me to dance against my will,” I countered.
“Like my littlebambolina?”
His little doll.
“I am not a fawn or a doll,” I said between my teeth, tossing my heavy hair over my shoulder as sweat started to bead down my back from the closeness of our bodies. “I haveteeth.”
I was surprised by the gentle amusement in his smile, even though I should have found it condescending. The hand clasping mine placed it on his chest so his fingers were free to glide up my bare arm, tease my shoulder, and slide up my neck until his thumb trailed over my mouth. “Yes, but no one has taught you how to use them. Though I have wondered what it would feel like to be bitten by you.”
His thumb dipped between my lips to test the edge of my front teeth and then retreated before I could remember myself.
“Dream on,” I scoffed, but I knew the flush warming the skin of my cheeks and chest would give away the truth.
