He was right, of course. He was exactly, pathetically right. However hurt, however shocked, there was still pride.
She wouldn't allow Candy to snicker over her retreat.
"Okay."
She walked with him to the dance floor as if she wanted nothing more than a quiet turn. The music was soft, some moody number from the forties. It was designed to be romantic, she thought. Instead it rang in her ears like a battle cry.
"She's not going to get her pinching little ringers on my babies," Laura said between her teeth.
"I don't imagine she'd get past you to pinch anyone, if that was her goal. It wouldn't hurt if you looked at me." He slipped his arms around her, found they fit well. Discovered her steps matched his smoothly. "Maybe even smiled."
"They only came here to slap at me. Neither one of them gave a single thought to the children. She's a mother herself, Michael. How can she not care about the children?"
'Too much in love with herself. Stop worrying about it. She isn't going to make time in her social calendar to play stepmama. Smile," he murmured, touching a hand lightly to her cheek. "You can make everybody believe you're only thinking about me and what we're going to do when we leave here. That'll burn their ass."
He was right again, and she made her lips curve. "I'm sorry you got caught in the cross fire."
"Hell, it's just a flesh wound." He was rewarded by a quick, honest laugh.
"You're nicer than I remembered, Michael. And I'm a me
ss."
"You look pretty neat and tidy to me. You always did. We've got them wondering now." He bent his head so that his cheek brushed hers, his mouth close to her ear. "Just who is that guy Laura Templeton's wrapped around? How long has this been going on?"
She was beginning to wonder the same thing herself. "Not everyone's that interested in my business."
His breath blew warm against her ear. "Come on, sugar. You fascinate them. Cool, composed Laura."
"It's been poor Laura for a little too long now." Her voice was tight again. "Poor Laura, whose husband cheated on her with his secretary. Poor Laura, who'll have to hold her head up now that her ex is marrying her former co-chair of the Garden Club."
"Jesus, you played with that irritating little redhead?" He shook his head. "I'm disappointed in you. Tell you what, now that they're wondering, why don't we give them something to talk about over brunch tomorrow?"
His mouth slid around, grazed her cheek. Before she could jolt from the shock of that, it was fixed warmly on hers. The kiss was long and slow. Her head reeled once, and the hand on his shoulder flexed open and dug in.
He eased back, barely an inch so that the only thing she could see was his eyes. "Let's try that again," he said softly. "I think you'll get the hang of it."
She would have protested. She wasn't the kind of woman who indulged in smoldering kisses in public. Or in smoldering kisses in private, for that matter. But his mouth was on hers again, clever, persuasive. Hot. And she was swept along.
The rich male taste, the firm, knowing lips, the confident exploration of tongue and rough scrape of teeth. No one had kissed her like that before, as if her mouth was the source of all pleasure. Something hummed in her throat that might have been shock but was more likely wonder.
As he had wondered. What would she taste like, feel like, be like? What he found was a banquet of contrasts. Heat filtered through cool armor. Shyness fluttering under composure. She was trembling, erotic little shivers that shot need straight to his loins.
And that reminded him that no matter how much he might enjoy the experiment, they weren't alone in a place where they could analyze the results.
"That ought to do it," he murmured. "It sure as hell convinced me."
She could do nothing but stare up at him. Somehow they were still dancing. She knew her feet, however disassociated they seemed from the rest of her, were moving.
"Sugar." Struggling to keep it light when he would have been happier devouring her in a couple of quick bites, he lifted her hand, nipped at the knuckles. "You keep looking at me that way, they're going to have more to talk about than a couple of kisses."
She tore her gaze away, stared determinedly over his shoulder. "You caught me off guard."
"That makes two of us. We can leave now, if you want. Nobody's going to think it's a retreat."
"Yes." She kept her back stiff, fighting to ignore the familiar and enticing way his hand continued to stroke it. "I'd like to go home."
She didn't speak again until they stood on the wide veranda of the entrance to the clubhouse. One of the eager valets rushed off to fetch Michael's car, and they remained there, sheltered, with the lights and music behind them and the night, moonswept and shadowed, in front.