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closer, felt the warm vibrancy of his powerful body just behind her, almost touching.
It was the first contact she’d had with him since the argument, and she didn’t want it at all.
“Lillian and I thought it would be better if we shared the kitchen chores while we were here,”
she murmured.
“Did you?” His big hands slid onto her waist, drawing her gently, slowly back against him so
that she could feel the hard muscle of his thighs, his flat stomach, his chest. His breath was warm
beside her ear.
“What are you making?” he asked.
“They…they’re date and bacon rolls,” she whispered.
“What do they taste like?”
Impulsively, she picked up one of the tasty morsels and, turning slightly, held it to his chiseled
mouth. He took it, his lips brushing her fingers as he savored it.
“Not bad,” he said with a grin, his eyes washing over her soft, flushed face. “Did you make
them, Persephone?”
“Yes.”
“And some mushrooms in hemlock gravy?” he teased.
She smiled at him. “Only as a side dish,” she replied.
His eyes held hers, narrowing, glittering, as the smile left his mouth. His big hands tightened on
her waist in a hungry, painful grip.
“Why don’t you turn around?” he murmured in a deep, lazy tone. “I’d rather taste you than the
canapes.”
She blushed to the roots of her hair. “I…I have to finish these,” she protested breathlessly,
tugging at his big, warm hands.
His open mouth ran up and down the softness of her neck in a sensuous, slow caress. “You smell
of spring buds opening after a soft gray rain. No heavy perfume. No stiff hairspray and layers of
makeup. You make me hungry, wood nymph.”
She drew a deep, slow breath. “Would you like another canape?” she asked, trying to make a
joke out of it.
“Come outside with me,” he murmured at her ear, his teeth lightly nipping the lobe, “and let me
make love to you.”
“Mr. Devereaux!” she whispered shakily.
Soft, deep laughter was muffled against her neck. “You sound like an outraged virgin, something
we both know damned well you’re not. Stop pretending.”
She strained at his imprisoning hands. “Whatever I am is none of your business!” she spat over
her shoulder. “Let me go!”
He started to say something but the door opened behind them and a silky voice purred, “Adrian,
if you’re quite through marking time with the hired help, I’d like to dance.”
He turned gracefully for such a big man, his head tilted at an arrogant angle while he eyed the
small blond intruder. “Meredith is my secretary,” he said slowly, deliberately, “not ‘hired help’ as
you so delicately put it. Watch those claws, little cat, or I’ll trim them off to the quick!”
Behind him, peering around that broad, muscular shoulder, she saw Fayre’s face go white with
the shock of his cold fury. “I…I didn’t mean…” she stammered.
“Get out.” He said it without ever raising his voice, but the impact was just as visible.
“Excuse me,” Fayre said weakly and turning, with a small accusing glance at Adrian, went back
to where the music was throbbing in a disco beat.
Adrian lit a cigarette and stood with his back to her for several seconds before he turned. His
dark eyes scanned her face quietly.
“You attack me all the time,” Dana murmured, working again on the tray. “Why shouldn’t she?”
“Because,” he explained simply, “nobody touches you except me. In any way. Nobody.”
She met his level gaze and felt something inside her tremble at the dark intensity of it. It was as if
he’d reached out and marked her for life, a possession that was non-physical but permanent.
“Let Lillian finish that,” he said suddenly, crushing out his fresh cigarette in an ashtray. “I’ve got
plans for you.”
“But…”
He put an iron hand behind her back and propelled her into the living room. The lights were low,
the band was playing a slow, seductive tune, the assembled couples were wrapped around each other
as they shuffled their feet lazily to the beat. Nervously, Dana looked for Fayre and found her smiling
up at a man a little older than Adrian, darting an icy glance Dana’s way.
Before that warning glitter had time to register, Dana found herself imprisoned in Adrian
Devereaux’s big, warm arms, locked to his broadness as he drew her along in a slow rhythm.
“Don’t be so damned conventional,” he murmured, and, catching her hands, moved them into the
thick cloud of hair on his chest. “You’re not a baby.”
She swallowed nervously, and tried to draw a deep breath. “I…I haven’t danced in a long time.”
“Obviously.” One big, manicured hand came up to cover her cold one where it lay uneasily on
his warm body. He pressed it into the mat of hair. “Your hands are like ice.”
“It…it’s a little…chilly,” she faltered, drowning in the feel of his powerful, sensuous
masculinity, the musky fragrance of his cologne, the strength of his arms.
His breath, whiskey scented, filled her nostrils as he lowered his forehead against hers. “God,
you’re soft,” he breathed deeply. “Like silk where you touch me.” His fingers came up and brushed
against her chin shifting her face against his shoulder so that he could look down into her confused,
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