Free As You Desire by Connie Brockway Page A

exclaimed seriously. “If one of them did take me out, it would probably be for a walk in the gardens. No one would think to take me to the places you do. The really interesting places.”
    “The forbidden places,” he suggested gently.
    “Now, Harry, you know if I were expressly forbidden to go somewhere I wouldn’t go.”
    “You know, Diz”—he leaned close so his lips were just an inch from her ear—“you’re something of a blackguard yourself.”
    “Pshaw.” She fought and lost her battle to remain unaffected by his warm approval and covered her confusion with a sniff. “Diversionary tactics won’t work, Harry. As I was saying, the reason you aren’t running around, bumping into Simon and Grandpa and Georges in dark alleys, is either because Rabi will find you an Apis bull or you’ll just purchase that one you were talking about earlier. That one from …” She trailed off invitingly.
    “You are the least subtle woman I know. And, no, that Apis bull won’t do for Cal’s purposes. Far too small.”
    “But you know where to get the right-size one, don’t you?” she prompted.
    He shrugged and she felt his shoulder muscles bunch beneath her palm: silk-smooth economy. “You give me more credit than I deserve, Dizzy. Apis bulls aren’t that easy to come by. Especially a ‘Texas mantel-size’ one. I wonder what else old Cal has on his Texas mantel—one of the Elgin Marbles?”
    She couldn’t help but laugh again. As if to reward her mirth, he spun her madly once more along the dance floor’s perimeter. Her breath staggered thrillingly in her throat and she gazed up at him, feeling merry and wicked and strangely exhilarated. “Aha!” she teased when she’d caught her breath.“Won’t you be surprised if my grandfather does come up with one and cuts you out of a lucrative deal? That would put your nose out of joint, Harry Braxton.”
    “You’re right. It would. Not, you’ll note, that I’m particularly worried.” He twirled her once more and she clutched his shoulders, enjoying the sensation of being caught in a vortex, spinning as lightly as goose down in his arms. Harry wasn’t a polished dancer, but he moved with an athletic grace. “Fortunately, while your grandfather is a marvelous scholar, he doesn’t know a damn thing about dealing.”
    “Such arrogance, Harry. Did it ever occur to you that
I
just might search for one myself and I
do
know something about dealing?” It was mostly bravura, but the idea that had taken hold earlier had become more and more appealing. What did she have to lose?
    “I grant you, you’ve a wicked way with fruit vendors.” He grinned condescendingly. “But an antiquities trader is not a street peddler.”
    “You know, I’ve half a mind to prove you wrong.”
    “Please do.”
    “Oh!” She pushed at his shoulder. “You can be the most provoking, patronizing …”
    “You think I’m patronizing?” he asked, suddenly serious. “You, my dear, haven’t a notion of what patronization means. But if you end up back in England, you’ll learn soon enough.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Your life here is singular, Dizzy. Exceptional. People respect your judgment, they ask your opinions. In England, no one is going to give a little blond chit more than an ogling.”
    Those hated words.
Singular. Peculiar. Exceptional
. She answered them rather than his meaning. “No.”
    “You’ve never lived in English society, Diz. It isn’t free and cosmopolitan and delightful. It’s narrowminded and restrictive and punishes those who do not conform to its concept of normalcy.”
    “I’ll take that chance.”
    “Why?” He stopped her suddenly in the middle of the dance floor, his hands gripping her upper arms, his expression demanding.
    She squirmed. Immediately he let go of her arms, recapturing her hand and leading her off the floor. Around them, dancers swirled apart and drifted back together as they passed, like water birds settling in the wake of a