His Bride for the Taking by Sandra Hyatt Page B

absolutely determined to bait me?” She knew he didn’t like the dress; he’d as good as told her. “If you want an argument, just say so. I’ll happily give you one.” She was still smiling, content and looking forward to the Shakespeare, but she meant what she said.
    Something in the vehemence of her response actually seemed to please him. “Just get ready to go out, Precious. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”
     
    As the actors took their final bow after a stunning performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a tale of love most definitely not running smoothly, Lexie sat back and sighed with pure pleasure.
    She glanced at Rafe beside her in their private box. He turned to her, affecting bored indifference. She wasn’t going to let him diminish her enjoyment. “That was wonderful. Amazing. Fantastic.”
    “Rapturous?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said.
    “You enjoyed it, too, didn’t you?” She was fairly sure the distant superiority was an act.
    “Of course.”
    “You were laughing.” She’d heard him several times throughout the performance. He had a laugh so low and deep and rich it seemed at times to wrap itself around her.
    “I said I enjoyed it.”
    “Then what’s with the grumpy act? Did you see one of your girlfriends in the audience, out with another man?”
    “No. Let’s just go.” He stood.
    Lexie was loath to leave. “Wasn’t Puck fabulous? And this theater…” She looked round the wooden, open-roofed facility, a replica of the one used in Shakespeare’s time that had burned down when a prop cannon misfired.
    “Save it for Adam,” he said, not unkindly. “He’s the Shakespeare buff.”
    “I know. It’s just one of the things we have in common.”
    He rolled his eyes in a most unprincely gesture. “Are you ready yet?” He held out his hand.
    “It was really sweet of you to bring me here tonight, when you don’t love it.”
    “Sweet?”
    “Yes.” He clearly wasn’t used to being called sweet, and clearly didn’t like it. She took the hand he was still holding out for her, felt his strong fingers fold around hers and, still floating from the performance, stood.He’d averted his face, was in fact studying the audience as though there was something or someone of the utmost importance out there. He needed to loosen up. Not something she’d ever thought she’d think about Rafe. Whether he’d enjoyed the performance or not, she’d been enraptured, and she was more grateful than he could know that he’d brought her here. On impulse, Lexie leaned forward to kiss his cheek.
    At that moment he turned.
    For a second, maybe two or three, her lips touched his, warm and soft. And for that sublime second, or two, or three, that simplest of kisses consumed her. Stopped the world around her, stilled everything within her, and then threatened to buckle her knees as heat shot through her.
    The rapture of the play was nothing compared to this.
    Strong fingers wrapped around her upper arms and set her away from him.
    Lifting her hands to her lips, she met his gaze, saw the mirror of her own shock in his darkened eyes. “I’m so sorry.” She stepped back. “That was not what I meant to happen. I was aiming for your cheek.” Lexie pointed at the cheek in question, as though to reinforce her statement. And still he said nothing, didn’t laugh or brush off the incident. Surely he realized it was unintentional. “You turned.” It hadn’t even been entirely her fault. Beneath his unflinching scrutiny she faltered. “It was an accident. I’ve said I’m sorry.” He didn’t so much as blink. “Say something. Please.”
    He opened his mouth. It was several seconds beforethe words came out. “I guess we’re even. Let’s go.” He pushed aside the curtain behind them and held open the door.
    Ten minutes later in the car, as their driver negotiated the London streets, Lexie stared through the window. She’d give anything for the kiss not to have happened.