Lord Harry Beresford is used to having everything his way, that is, until he falls in love with the passionate Gypsy singer Talaitha Grey.
Proud Talaitha is as unimpressed by Harry's title as she is by his money, but can she fight her powerful attraction to the man behind those things?
Might the Gadjo decide he preferred Delilah? Vicious jealousy swept over her—jealousy of Delilah's generously curvaceous figure and of the grace with which she moved. She glanced over to where the Gadjo stood. He looked not at Delilah, but at herself. She could see his yearning for her in his eyes. Again, her rebellious body allowed the flames to spread like wildfire through her, but this time she did not fight it.
Talaitha gave herself to the dance, allowing her unreasonable passion for him to overcome her as she glided and turned, following the steps. She was aware of the sway of her own hips, the twist of her waist, the way her breasts lifted as she took her arms above her head and touched her fingers to the tambourine. Only once did she allow herself to glance at him. His gaze was riveted on her, desire was written clear on his handsome face.
She could feel her thighs brush gently one against the other, the delicious slip and slide of her dress against her skin. Even the touch of the frayed silk ribbons of the tambourine against her naked arms was arousing.
She could feel his eyes devouring her, though she would not, did not, dare look directly at him. She could feel his desire on her skin, on her breasts, even in that most secret part of her between her legs.
She let her own desire mix with his to move her, to consume her. When she looked out at the audience, she saw an answering desire obvious on the face of every man there, and the women's faces were flushed.