She slitted a glance up at him. “Would I be able to choose the carrot?”

His chest vibrated with his low laugh. “Yes.”

“This might be worth it, for that.” Easing apart from him, she put her hand back on his shoulder and doggedly resumed the waltz position.

“If you choose a fixed point somewhere in the room,” Gabriel said, “and stare at it as long as possible during the turn—”

“No, I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work for me.”

“Then look straight at me and let the surroundings rush by you without trying to focus on them. I’ll be your fixed point.”

As he guided her into the pattern once more, Pandora had to admit grudgingly that when she stopped trying to orient herself to her surroundings, and focused only on Gabriel’s face, she didn’t feel quite so sick. He was relentlessly patient, leading her through turns, glides, and change steps, paying attention to every detail of what she said and did. “Don’t lift so high on the balls of your feet,” he advised at one point. And when she wobbled dangerously at the end of a turn, he said, “When that happens, let me adjust your balance.”

The problem was fighting her instincts, which screamed at her to lean in precisely the wrong direction whenever her balance was off, which was most of the time. At the end of the next turn, she tensed and tried to stabilize herself when it felt like she was pitching forward. She ended up tripping over Gabriel’s foot. Just as the floor began to rush up toward her, he caught her easily and held her close.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “I have you.”

“Bollocks,” she said in frustration.

“You didn’t trust me.”

“But it felt like I was going to—”

“You have to let me do it.” One of his hands moved up and down her back. “I can read your body. I can feel just before your balance falters, and I can tell how to compensate.” His face lowered over hers, and his free hand came up to caress her cheek. “Move with me,” he said softly. “Feel the signals I’m giving you. It’s a matter of letting our bodies communicate. Will you try to relax and do that for me?”

His touch on her skin . . . that low, velvety voice . . . it seemed to ease every tight place inside her. The knots of fear and resentment melted into fluid warmth. As they took up the position again, it started to feel like they were working together, striving for a common goal.

It felt like a partnership.

Through one waltz after another, they negotiated through various difficulties. Was a turn easier this way or that? Was it better if they made the steps longer or more compact? Perhaps it was Pandora’s imagination, but the turns weren’t making her quite as dizzy and disoriented as they had at first. It seemed as if the more she did them, the more her body became accustomed.

It was annoying whenever Gabriel praised her . . . good girl . . . yes, that’s perfect . . . and it was even more annoying that the words made her flush with gratification. She felt herself surrendering by gradual degrees, focusing on the subtle pressures of his hands and arms. There were a few remarkably satisfying moments when their steps matched exactly. There were also moments of near-disaster, when she lost the measure and Gabriel fixed the break in their rhythm. He was a superb dancer, of course, skilled at managing his partner and timing their steps. “Relax,” he would murmur every now and then. “Relax.”

Gradually Pandora’s brain quieted and she stopped straining to oppose the rushing, wheeling scenery and the constant deceptive sensation of falling. She let herself trust him. It wasn’t that she was enjoying the experience, exactly . . . but it was an interesting feeling to be so completely out of control and yet realize at the same time that she was safe.

Gabriel’s steps slowed before he brought them both to a full stop, lowering their clasped hands. The music had ceased.

Pandora looked up into Gabriel’s smiling eyes. “Why are we stopping?”

“The dance is over. We just completed a three-minute waltz with no problems.” He pulled her close. “You’ll have to find another excuse for sitting in corners now,” he said near her good ear. “Because you can waltz.” A pause. “But I’m still not giving your slipper back.”

Pandora was very still, unable to take it in. No words would come, not even a syllable. It was as if some huge smothering curtain had been drawn back to reveal another side of the world, a view of places she’d never known existed.

Clearly puzzled by her silence, Gabriel loosened his arms and looked down at her with those eyes like a clear winter morning, while a tawny lock of hair slid over his forehead.

In that moment, Pandora realized it would kill her not to have him. She might actually expire of heartbreak. She was becoming someone new, with him—they were becoming something together—and nothing was going to turn out the way she’d expected. Kathleen had been right—whatever she chose, it wouldn’t be perfect. She would have to lose something.

But no matter what else she gave up, this man was the thing she couldn’t lose.

She burst into tears. Not dainty, feminine tears, but a messy, red-faced explosion of sobs. The most terrible, beautiful, stunning feeling she’d ever known had come crashing over her in a huge wave, and she was drowning in it.

Gabriel stared at her with alarm, fumbling in his coat pocket for a handkerchief. “No, no . . . you weren’t supposed to . . . my God, Pandora, don’t do that. What is it?” He mopped at her face until she took the handkerchief from him and blew her nose, her shoulders shaking. As he continued to hover and ask worried questions, Phoebe left the piano and came to them.