“Hard to go anywhere when I’m pinned down.” She nodded toward Anthony’s foot. “You’re standing on my shawl.”

The group looked down to see Anthony’s fancy boot on the tail end of Portia’s gossamer-thin, golden scarf, which had partially unwound and drifted to the floor. Tiny translucent sequins glittered in the ballroom lights.

“Though I guess I don’t need it,” she added.

She stood, letting the wisp of fabric unwind completely, slipping from her shoulders, leaving them bare.

Every ounce of darkness in Gabriel shifted to heat.

When the scarf had been draped elegantly, no one had noticed that Portia wore a strapless gold brocade bustier she’d found in her aunt’s trunks. Instead of the traditional blue denim skirt, she wore a gold denim she suspected Evie had worn to some Texan event of her own, back in the day.

Olivia’s eyes sparkled with a sister’s pride.

Portia focused on Gabriel, who stood next to her, his expression indecipherable.

“Our dance, Mr. Kane,” she said, taking his hand and allowing him to guide her onto the floor. But once there, he held her stiffly as they stepped into a country waltz.

He was a good head taller than her, despite her heels. Portia felt tiny, delicate—and definitely undesirable, despite the flash of heat she had seen in his eyes seconds before.

“You’re maddening, you know. One minute you step forward like some warrior staking your claim for the dance. The next you’re holding me like I haven’t had a bath in a week. You could at least try to pretend you’re enjoying this dance.”

“I’m not.”

“Then you shouldn’t have asked!”

“I didn’t. You asked. More like you begged. Twice. It was pathetic.” He smiled at her then, his body easing. “I felt obligated. I don’t usually do pity, but there you have it.”

“I bet you make girls swoon regularly with speeches like that.”

“You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

The country waltz was beautiful, reminiscent of an earlier life spent in Texas, her parents dancing under the stars outside the trailer, and Gabriel’s steps settled. They made their way around the floor, each turn easier as they learned each other’s rhythm.

“True, I did.”

Portia felt her tension ease and they circled the floor in earnest, his hand at her waist, her palm resting on the hard muscles of his shoulder. After a few minutes, she said, “Admit it. You’re enjoying yourself.”

“Not true.” But she caught a glimpse of his smile.

The music shifted, changing without stopping, to a soulful country three-step, still basically a waltz. Gabriel didn’t miss a beat. He shifted his step with the song, pulling her even closer. He smelled like Texas on a summer morning, the heat simmering, but the harshness lost in the overnight cool. Portia thought of long grasses and wild plains. She itched to press even closer.

“I can see how happy you are,” he said, his voice lower. “Your eyes shine when you’re happy, Portia. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

She tripped, but he caught her easily.

They made another circle of the floor.

“I miss this,” she said finally.

“Dancing?”

“Yes. Dancing, and country music.”

“What else?” he prompted softly.

“Kissing,” she said.

She felt the sudden surge of tension in his shoulder.

“I miss being carefree, driving along two-lane country roads, stopping at Willow Creek Lake, walking along the sandy edge in bare feet.”

“Kissing and…?”

“Just kissing. Sweet, innocent kisses from teenage boys with more hormones than they knew what to do with.”

“Was one of them your husband?” he asked.

“No. No sweet kisses from my husband. Or ex-husband.”

The music came to an end, and Gabriel cupped her chin and tilted her face until she met his gaze. “Your husband’s an ass,” he said. The intensity of his expression melted her heart, melted her dark thoughts.

“Ex-husband,” she repeated.

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “I saw some games.”

“The carnival booths!”

Portia had never been good with beanbags or horseshoes. But when they came to a baseball booth, she stopped.

Gabriel eyed her. “A woman who wants to throw?”

“You’d rather I just bat my eyelashes and drink sweet tea?”

“Do you even know how to bat your eyelashes?”

She tucked her chin and gazed up at him, her eyes sultry, then did just that.

He laughed out loud.

“I used to watch Olivia practice in the mirror when we were growing up.”

He shook his head, his smile easing the harshness of his features. “All right.” He handed over a set of tickets.

“You go first,” Portia offered. “I want to watch, see how it’s done.”

“Fine.”

Gabriel took up one of the six baseballs set in front of him, aimed, threw, and sent the ball through the small round opening with ease.

“Not bad,” she conceded.

Standing tall, his expression intent, Gabriel sent three more through the opening in quick succession with the ease of a major-league baseball player. A small crowd formed around him. By the time he had made five of the six, the crowd was bigger and more raucous.

“Do you think I can make the last one?” he asked her, his smile challenging her.

“You’ve made five of six easily. I’m guessing you’ll make the last.”

He turned back with a grin on his face. Taking aim, he pulled his arm back, then threw, but not before the group of men whooped—then groaned—when he jerked slightly and missed.

“Oops,” Portia said, walking forward with a deliberate sway to her hips, her gown glittering in the lights as she held out a hand. “My turn.”

Gabriel handed over the three necessary tickets. He smiled at her, playful, wicked.

She felt a shiver of joy at the sight of this man. “Thank you,” she told him as the vendor set out six baseballs, the crowd quieting.

“Ready?” the vendor asked.

Portia nodded, focusing. She threw once, twice, not stopping as the crowd started to go wild. Thwack, thwack, thwack, until she’d made five of the six throws. Tossing the sixth ball in her hand, one corner of her mouth turned up, she said, “Not bad for a girl, huh?”

Gabriel laughed out loud. “I take it you’ve played baseball.”

“My daddy made a diamond in a field not far from our trailer.”

She noticed the way Gabriel’s brow twitched at the mention of their trailer. But by then, the crowd of men cheered and stomped in their tux jackets, bow ties, and jeans. Gabriel looked at her with an amused smile, and for half a second, she would have sworn he was proud.

Turning back, her heart slammed against her ribs. She had indeed thrown a baseball since she was big enough to hold a ball, then played this exact game at carnivals since she was six. She could throw in her sleep. But with Gabriel looking on, not taunting her as she had expected, yet somehow looking at her in a whole new way, her nerves flared. But then she forced herself to stop thinking, aimed, threw, and sent the ball dead center through the opening.

The crowd erupted, and Gabriel tipped his head back and laughed again. He took her elbow.

“Hey, mister. Don’t you want the stuffed animal?”

“No, thanks.”

Portia tugged away and dashed back. “Of course we want it!” She grabbed all two feet of the plush giraffe and hugged it close.

Gabriel laughed and guided her through the crowd, back toward their table, but the last thing she wanted was to spend another second inside.

“I’ve had the perfect night. But now it’s time for me to turn into a pumpkin.”

“I’ll take you home,” he said.

“You don’t have to. Stay. Enjoy yourself.”

He gave her a look. “You can’t be serious.”

Which made her laugh. “Good point.”

Gabriel guided her out into the night, barely stopping at their table to gather her shawl. It was late, but Portia started to walk.

“We’re not walking home dressed like this. Not to mention the hour.”

“You’re forgetting how safe New York is now.”

“I’m not forgetting. It could be three in the afternoon and I still wouldn’t let you walk in that dress.”

Normally she would have bristled at his tone, but she refused to let him ruin her perfect night.

“All right. How about a bus?” She hurried across Broadway, then Central Park West, to the opposite side of Columbus Circle.

“No way am I taking a bus,” Gabriel said, still beside her.

“Then you’d better find yourself a cab!”

She came to the M10 bus stop on the north side of the circle just as a lumbering bus pulled to a stop. She dashed inside. Gabriel stood at the bottom of the steps for half a second before muttering a curse and leaping up beside her just as the doors closed.

“Does everything have to be your way, Portia?”

“You’re just used to everything being your way. I know how to compromise.”

Given the hour, the bus was empty expect for the driver and a man clearly getting off from the night shift, half asleep at the back. Portia slid onto a hard-plastic two-seater. Gabriel hung his head and sat down beside her.

They headed north on Central Park West, her knee brushing against his as the bus swayed like a boat on a gentle sea. The sky was dark but crystal clear; the sidewalks were crowded even at midnight. To the right beyond the sidewalk, the old stone wall of Central Park surrounded the giant rectangle of trees, lakes, and winding paths. To the left, mostly prewar apartment buildings lined the way like a wall of ancient stone and brick. This new world was nothing like Portia’s old one back in Texas, but the longer she was in Manhattan, the more she fell in love.