The orchestra, taking a frantic cue from Dominic’s subtle hand gesture from the side of the room, shifted into a slow, sweeping waltz.

The crowd drew back to the edges of the dance floor, forming a tight, breathless wall of three hundred people watching the center of the room.

Nora stepped into his frame.

She placed her left hand on the heavy, broad muscle of his right shoulder. Vincent reached out, his hand wrapping around her waist, pulling her close until only an inch of air separated her green silk from his charcoal wool.

“Can you do this?” she whispered, her hazel eyes searching his face, looking for the tiny line of pain near his eyebrows that she knew so well.

“With you?” he murmured, his fingers pressing into the firm curve of her waist. “I could walk to New York.”

They began to move.

It wasn't a fast waltz. It was a slow, majestic turn across the parquet floor, Vincent using his upper body strength and the locked braces to guide her through the turns, while Nora used her weight to balance every step, anticipating his movements before his muscles even fired.

To the crowd, it looked like a display of supreme, arrogant intimacy—a powerful man holding his woman close, moving with a heavy, deliberate elegance that commanded the room.

Only Nora knew the truth.

She felt the tremor running through his thigh every time his left foot took his weight. She felt the heavy, hot rise of his breath against her hair as he fought through the agony of the nerve pain shooting up his spine. She felt the sheer, terrifying force of his spirit dragging his broken body through three minutes of perfection.

“You’re doing it,” she breathed into his ear as they turned near the grand windows. “Look at them, Vincent. They’re terrified of you.”

“I don't care about them,” he rasped, his hand tightening on her waist, bringing her hips flush against his. “I haven't cared about them since the night you told me to get my own coffee.”

Nora let out a low, soft laugh that vibrated against his chest. “That was a good speech.”

“It was an insolent speech,” he corrected, his gray eyes locking onto hers with a fierce, burning intensity that made her skin prickle with heat. “It was the first real thing anyone had said to me in four months.”

The music rose to its climax, the violins sweeping up into a final, lingering note that echoed through the crystal chandeliers.

Vincent completed the final turn, bringing them to a stop in the very center of the ballroom floor.

He didn't let go of her waist. He stood there, six-foot-two, his posture iron-straight, his arm locked around her broad, magnificent hips, looking down at her face before three hundred silent witnesses.

The applause started slowly—a single, hesitant clap from a judge near the bar—and then erupted into a roaring wave that filled the high-ceilinged room.

Vincent didn't look at the crowd. He lowered his head until his lips were two inches from Nora’s ear.

“Take me home, Nora,” he whispered, his voice finally breaking with exhaustion. “My legs are done.”

Nora didn't hesitate. She smiled, her hand coming up to touch his cheek—a gesture so natural, so filled with uncalculated affection that half the women in the room gasped.

“Yes, boss,” she murmured. “Let's go home.”