She didn’t dare turn her head much, given how close his face must be to hers. But she couldn’t resist a bit of a tilt so she could see his eyes. They glowed with a smile, brighter than she usually saw from him. That alone would have had her lowering her camera. Or, more accurately, swinging it around to snap a quick picture of him instead of the bride and groom.

He laughed and lowered the Kodak. “You surely have enough of those by now.”

“Never.” She smiled at the man who hovered a few inches away. He’d been more than patient with her duties this evening, never saying a word when she slipped away for a different angle of something, other than to ask her if he could help.

If he wanted to dance, she owed it to him. And didn’t at all mind the intrusion upon her assigned task, to be perfectly honest. She put the Kodak into her bag, tucked it out of the way, and put her hand in his so he could lead her onto the dance floor.

When he swung her around to face him with more flair than she’d expected, she laughed. “Why am I surprised that you like to dance?”

His brows lifted, better to showcase the glimmer in his eyes. “I do not know. My mother always said every good Russian should know how to dance. She taught us from the time we were boys.”

That she could imagine—a miniature Zivon, with that curl falling stubbornly onto his forehead, dancing with his mother. He’d have approached it seriously, almost mathematically. And she’d bet he hadn’t stepped on his matushka’s feet more than once. That grace of his was already making itself known within their first few revolutions of the waltz. “So can you do the Cossack dance?”

His laugh was quick, deep. “Do I look like a Cossack?”

“Hmm.” She made a show of looking him over. “Not to my way of thinking, but I’ve never met one. Perhaps they all have a charming curl to their hair that they try to deny and all move with the grace of a . . . a . . .” She lifted her brows. “What’s an animal of the Russian plains known for its graceful running?”

His lips twitched. “Reindeer?”

Another laugh bubbled up. “No. Not at all what I was thinking. Don’t you have leopards or something in Russia? Tigers, even?”

“We have. And I like this image much better.” He puffed out his chest, lifted his chin. “Zivon, the mighty tiger.”

At this rate, she’d giggle herself into tomorrow. “Zivon, the mighty dancing tiger.”

He widened his eyes in mock horror. “No, no. Tigers do not dance. If we are looking for a Russian dancing animal, it must be the bear.”

The image sent her into another peal. “Dancing bears are not graceful!”