A bit warily, she took the little resort gift-shop box and lifted the lid. And then she smiled.
The box held a small gold pin shaped like one of the tropical flowers she’d so admired on the island. The petals had been lacquered a brilliant crimson, the leaves a rich green. It looked so real that Savannah could almost smell the flower’s scent.
“This is lovely, Kit,” she said, wondering if she should accept this gift from a man who was still technically a stranger to her.
“It made me think of you,” he replied, looking pleased with her expression. “I wanted you to have it as a souvenir.”
A souvenir. Something to remember him by—as if she could ever forget this man.
Impulsively, Savannah tightened her fingers around the box and made her decision. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Let’s go dance, shall we?”
Without further hesitation, she allowed herself to slide back into the fantasy.
KIT COULDN’T KEEP his eyes off Savannah again that evening. She looked so beautiful. Her dark blond hair gleamed in the candlelight that was reflected in her vivid blue eyes. Her flirty dress bared her smooth throat and shoulders, showing just a hint of soft cleavage. Her legs were long and slim, and she moved gracefully on her high-heeled sandals.
Beauty. Intelligence. Maturity. Wit. An appreciation for classic tunes and films. Kit was beginning to wonder if she could possibly be real.
She hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about herself. There was so much he wanted to know about her. So many questions he wanted to ask. Her last name, for example. Her hometown. Her career. Her background. Whether he was going to have to fight another man to win her.
Wryly amused at his raging curiosity, Kit forced himself to be patient. There would be plenty of time for questions, he promised himself. But tonight there was music to dance to, champagne to savor, a tropical moon to smile over them. The night was pure magic, and he didn’t want to waste a moment of it. He, more than anyone, knew how rapidly illusion faded into reality.
The orchestra played a sultry version of “Moonlight in Vermont,” utilizing the talents of its brilliant pianist. Kit swayed slowly with Savannah in his arms, their gazes locked, their smiles intimate. He made a few tight turns and she matched his steps precisely, as if they’d danced together for years. Gently, he swung her away from him, twirled her beneath his upraised arm, then pulled her back against his chest.
She laughed softly and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “I didn’t know I could dance like this until I danced with you,” she confessed.
He liked the sound of that—as though no one else had ever really danced with her before him. He almost winced at how possessive he felt at the thought. He certainly had no right to be possessive about this woman he hardly knew. But he wasn’t at all sure he could help it. At least not tonight.
He forced himself to answer lightly. “I guess all those dancing lessons my mom forced me to take paid off.”
“Obviously a very wise woman.”
“She’s amazing. I was very lucky to have been raised by her.”
“It’s nice that you and your mother are so close.”
Kit thought there was a touch of wistfulness in Savannah’s words. Was she not close to her own mother? Or had her mother, perhaps, passed away?
He wished he knew her well enough to ask without seeming to pry.
Instead he said only, “My mom would like you.”
He felt Savannah stiffen almost imperceptibly. She didn’t respond.
An older couple, in their late sixties perhaps, danced closer and smiled at Kit and Savannah. “We were just saying how nice it is to see a young couple who enjoy the old songs,” the woman said. “And who know how to dance to them.”
Kit smiled at the woman in return. “How could we not enjoy this?” he asked as the orchestra played “What’ll I Do?”
“Lot of young people your age are out contorting themselves to all that new garbage,” the older man drawled in disapproval. “Hasn’t been any real music written since 1954.”
“Now, Gus, that’s not quite true. Elvis didn’t even get started until 1956,” he wife reminded him as they danced further away from Kit and Savannah.
“Well, yeah,” her husband admitted. “I wasn’t countin’ Elvis, of course.”
Kit grinned down at Savannah when the other couple was out of earshot, and noticed that she was struggling not to laugh. “Did that accent sound a bit familiar?” he asked.
“I’d say they were from Mississippi,” she replied with exaggerated haughtiness. “I’m from Georgia.”