Panicked, Megan watched James's neglectful retreat, knowing even then that she shouldn't be alone with Josh Bennett. Strong intuition telegraphed disaster. She didn't heed it. Had she minded her instincts then, she might not have had to pay so dearly later.
“Shall we?” he asked. His brow lifted in query, and she noticed the scar for the first time.
Before she verbalized a reply, she was pulled into the circle of his arms, and speech became impossible. He maneuvered them around the dance floor with animal grace, never faltering in matching his steps to the beat of the music.
Megan could never recall afterward what tune they had danced to. Her thoughts were centered on the hand pressing, not against her lower back, where the fabric of her dress would have provided some protection, but higher, where her skin was naked and vulnerable beneath the gentle pressure of his hand. Instead of holding her hand indifferently, he had laced their fingers loosely together. His thumb lazily stroked the side of her index finger.
He didn't hold her inappropriately close, but each time she brushed against him, her body reacted shamelessly. She hoped fervently that he didn't notice the tightening of her nipples beneath the clinging gown, or the way her thigh had found it so amenable to nest between his, or the sudden rushing of her breath in and out of her body. Not daring to meet his eyes, she stared at the onyx studs between the starched pleats of his white shirtfront.
When the song was over and Josh returned her to her fiancé, she all but fell into James's arms. Had he been rescuing her from cruel, violent ravishment, she couldn't have been more relieved to see him.
But she had been violated in a far different and much more subtle way than rape. Her heart had been debauched.
She'd wanted so badly to enjoy the evening of celebration, but Joshua Bennett's presence had ruined it for her. She was tense and nervous. Every time she ventured to glance around the room, she found his eyes drilling into her. Never able to disregard their hypnotism, she stared back at him while unthinkably erotic pictures were being painted on her mind.
The next time he asked her to dance, she accepted under the duress of James's coaxing. Her fiancé's eyes were unusually bright, and Megan knew he'd made several trips to the bar with his fraternity brothers. She gave him a disappointed look when she saw the cigarette dangling from his lips.
He shrugged engagingly. “After the wedding, I promise. Now go dance with my boss. He might give me a raise.”
The band played a vigorous number that didn't require her and her partner to touch. Caught up in the drumming rhythm of the music, she smiled easily at Josh, who took to this kind of dancing with the same agility as he had the slower rhythm. Only when their hips bumped together accidentally did Megan's feet miss a beat—at the same time that her heart did. For a split second she stood stock still.
“Are you all right?” Josh asked, placing a concerned hand on her bare shoulder.
She nodded dumbly just as the band went into a slow ballad. Without asking her permission, he drew her into a warm embrace. “This is more to my liking,” he murmured. His lips moved against her hair. “I like to feel a woman's body against mine … when I'm dancing.”
Right then, then, with that first innuendo, she should have pulled away from him, politely excused herself, and not had anything more to do with him for the rest of the evening.
But she hadn't. Instead she had obeyed the imperceptible encouragement of his hand on her back and moved closer. It did feel good dancing body to body, especially if the other body was like this one, hard and taut, virile and warm. They swayed to the music. Megan's eyes closed languidly. Their hearts beat together. His powerful thighs moved against hers. His hips … Oh, God!
“I … excuse me,” she said hoarsely. His startled arms fell away as she slipped out of them.
With what she knew was a grotesque parody of a smile plastered on her face, she wended her way through the dim room, dodging her mother, her fiancé, and anyone else who might read her guilty expression.
She needed air. She rarely drank, and she'd had too many glasses of champagne. They had gone straight to her head and made her a little crazy. Night air would clear up her head and she'd stop having these ridiculous fantasies about the man with the dark hair, golden eyes, and magnificent body, who stirred her like no man ever had.
She reveled in the c
ool night breeze as she circumnavigated the subtly lit swimming pool and sought privacy in the white lattice gazebo. She sank onto the bench inside the octagonally shaped structure.
Covering her face with shaking hands, she tried vainly to get a grip on herself. If only her heart would stop racing. She felt each pounding pulse at her temples, in her earlobes, in the tips of her breasts, and in the region that felt heavy and swollen and hot between her thighs.
But her heart didn't slow. Rather, it lurched and came to a dead standstill when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel walkway outside. There was no doubt in her mind who the looming silhouette in the moonlit opening of the gazebo belonged to. He passed under the arch and came to her slowly through the shadows.
Galvanized by her fear of the man and her reactions to him, she bolted off the bench and tried to slip past him, but he caught her against his solid length. “Why are you marrying James Lambert?”
“I love him,” she cried desperately.
“Do you?”
“Yes, of course. Yes.”
“You don't sound sure.”
I was. I was sure until an hour ago. “I love him. I'm marrying him tomorrow. Now, please let me go.”
He did just the opposite. He held her tighter to him and walked her backward, until she was against the filagreed wall of the summerhouse. Moonlight seeping through the narrow slats cast waffle patterns on his features. “I want you to kiss me and then tell me that you love James Lambert.”
“I can't,” she said hoarsely. Even then she didn't know if she was saying she couldn't kiss him, or if, once she did, she wouldn't be able to tell him she loved James. She had no time to reason it through before his mouth claimed hers with heart-stopping precision.