They sat while the server opened the champagne, poured and left.

Samira was about to raise her flute when SFG frowned.

“Oh, but you lost your dessert,” he said, getting up again.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly, but he was already off to the dessert table, the cape flapping behind him.

Bemused, she watched him select a little bit of everything with the thoughtful precision of a man choosing the egg donor for his child. Then he hurried back and settled in again, setting the plate and napkin on the table and stretching out his long legs.

“Voilà.”

“You’re very thoughtful,” she said, surveying the pastries. “What did you bring me?”

“You can have this one,” he said, pointing to a smudged and smashed something that may have once been a brownie as he helped himself to a lemon square.

“That one?”

He shrugged. “The rest are for me.”

She laughed and snatched the plate away, determined not to be seduced by his bright smile or easy charm. Or by his inclusion of several lemon bars, fruit tarts and éclairs. Who could resist a man bearing treats?

“Can I drink my champagne now?” she asked. “I was promised champagne.”

“Please.”

They raised their glasses.

“To Drunk Julius Caesar,” she said. “I hope security doesn’t rough him up too much.”

“Security?” He laughed as they clinked and sipped. “It’s you he needs to worry about. What was that, anyway?”

“What was what?”

He made a violent smacking gesture with his hand. “Your Wonder Woman moves.”

“That was a groin strike.”

“Are you in—what is it? —the Justice League?”

“No, but let this be a lesson to you, Sexy French Guy.”

Sudden delight cranked up the wattage of his smile until it threatened to blind her in the ballroom’s moody lighting.

“First of all, lesson learned. Second of all, I love the nickname. Feel free to continue to use it. So you are very experienced in defending yourself against overzealous men, I take it?”

Her mind’s eye flashed back to Terrance, who’d been robotic in bed—got the job done, but didn’t put his heart into it. Another of the fifty-hundred red flags she’d somehow missed in her unrelenting quest to get married before age thirty-five.

Defending herself against overzealous men?

Yeah, no. She wasn’t the one for that.

She felt her smile wobble and glued it back on.

His attention sharpened. “What? What did I say?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, pushing Terrance’s unwelcome memory far away as she reached for an éclair. “I train in Krav Maga. So I know a little about self-defense.”

His jaw dropped. “The…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Israeli self-defense? The street combat?”

“You know it?”

“I’ve heard of it. You do that?”

“I do that. I can’t wait to tell everyone in class that I used it in a real-world situation. They’ll be so proud of me.”

He stared at her, his face utterly still behind his mask.

She flushed, praying she didn’t have a smudge of cream on her lips from the éclair.

“What?”

He blinked and came out of it, sweeping the mask off over his head and tossing it on the table.

“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly, smoothing his amazing wavy hair. “It’s just…You’re unusual. You’re very unusual.”

Her heart sank because she wasn’t. There was nothing special or thrilling about her, and no one had ever thought there was. Certainly not her birth mother, who’d given her away on the day she was born and never thought twice about it. Very unusual? Please. She was no more unusual than a blade of grass on a golf course.

Still, she planned to take that ugly secret to the grave.

She pointed to her head. “It’s the crown.”

“I’m quite sure it’s you,” he said firmly.

There was something about him, too, and it held her riveted as they stared at each other across the table, dessert and champagne forgotten. His hair. His harsh bone structure, softened by his lush mouth. The quiet intensity of his eyes as they focused on her to the exclusion of everything else in the room.

“What’s your name? You’re not the Phantom of the Opera anymore without your mask, and I can’t call you Sexy French Guy all the time. Too wordy.”

“Jean-Baptiste Mercier. Also wordy.” It sounded like Ba-teest when he said it. No P. He leaned closer. “And you?”

The subtle excitement in the last two words made her heart race.

“Samira Palmer.”

“Samira.”

Her name bloomed like a flower when he said it like that, with such obvious satisfaction. Would he say it that way when they were in bed together? If she made him come?

Whoa.

Where had that thought come from?

Her face heated up, threatening to melt away from her skull.

Snap out of it, girl.

“Should I call you Jean-Baptiste, or just Jean?”

“Just Baptiste.” He poured them both more champagne and pointed to the bottle. “We have plenty to share with your girlfriends, if they’d like to join us. Or I could order another bottle, of course.”

“Ah, no.” Samira debated the wisdom of informing a perfect stranger—and boy, was he perfect—that she was there alone, then decided there was no avoiding it. “They both bailed on me after I saw you. One of them got called into surgery, and the other has a stomach virus. And they were the ones who invited me. So I got roped into wearing a Halloween costume for the first time since I was a teenager for nothing.”

“Well.” Unsmiling, he cocked his head to watch her with those soulful eyes. She’d kill to know what color they were, but it was too dark to tell. “I wouldn’t say it was for nothing. Has someone taken a picture of you? It should be a priority before you take your dress off for the night. Otherwise, I feel like a crime will be committed.”

Her heart, which really ought to know better at the ripe old age of thirty-three, fluttered like a butterfly sunning itself on a rose.

Time to nip his hopes in the bud.

“You’re very lavish with your compliments. They’re not going to get you laid tonight, though. Nor is the champagne or the Phantom costume. Just so you know. But you get an A for effort.”

He’d nearly taken another sip, but a surprised bark of laughter and lingering wicked grin stopped him. “Many women are happy to, ah, lay me with much less effort than I’ve spent on you tonight, ma reine—”

She gestured to the crowd on the dance floor. “It’s probably not too late to catch one of them, if you hurry.”

More of his throaty laughter, which was a powerful aphrodisiac that forced her to cross her legs in a vain effort to alleviate the growing ache between her thighs.

“—but there are several things wrong with what you said.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. You see, I believe that beautiful women, like fine wine”—he held up his flute, swirling the golden contents for her to see— “must be savored and appreciated. So it’s possible for me to tell you how beautiful you are with no agenda.”

“Oh! Well, excusez-moi, monsieur. So there’s no agenda tonight?”

“There’s absolutely an agenda tonight.” Amusement glittered in his eyes as he sipped again. “And it remains to be seen whether I get laid or not, non?”

He stared her in the face.

She stared back, champagne and unadulterated lust making her slow to respond.

It took a couple of seconds, but her sluggish brain eventually kicked into gear.

“Poor Baptiste.” She patted him on the arm. “Doesn’t anyone ever tell you no?”

“The question is whether you will tell me no when the time comes.”

“Isn’t this the time? Before you buy another bottle of champagne?”

“Not at all. You’ll know when it’s time.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” He paused. “It’s a shame, don’t you think, when people make up rules to deny themselves some of the best pleasures of life for no good reason. I’m here for the night. I’m a consenting adult. You’re a consenting adult. We’re attracted to each other.”

“How do you know I’m not faking it?”

He laughed again. The sight of it was quickly becoming an addiction.

“Because you haven’t, ah, stricken me in the groin.”

“Struck.”

“Whatever. And you seem to like my company as much as I like yours. Why should we deny ourselves when we have this window of opportunity?”

Her sneaky brain went straight to why, indeed? before she caught herself.

Cocky bastard. She opened her mouth, praying a biting retort was on the way, when he turned his attention to the dessert plate and selected something.

“Do you like strawberries with your champagne?” he asked quietly as he rested his elbow on the table and leaned toward her, offering it up. “This one has been dipped in chocolate.”

Samira hesitated, torn.

On the one hand, he was a complete stranger and she was no fool. This was a seduction, plain and simple. Baptiste wanted the same thing from her that Drunk Julius Caesar had wanted, even if Baptiste’s techniques were a billion times more artful. Plus, she couldn’t very well go around mixing up her messages by shooting him down one minute, then eating from his hand the next.

On the other hand, the subtle challenge in his gaze, along with the intensity of the desire radiating off him in waves, lured her the way a sunny Florida beach lures spring breakers. Especially after her months-long purgatory of wondering why her fiancé was becoming more and more aloof and what she was doing to drive him away.

In that one overheated moment out of time, Samira could no more deny Baptiste than she could subsist on a diet of mud and tree bark.

Why, indeed, Samira?

“That depends.” She met his unwavering gaze and mirrored his position by resting both elbows on the table and easing closer, shrugging. “Is it ripe?”

A couple of beats passed.

Then he took a bite, licking his lush lower lip to stop a trickle of juice. “Very ripe.”

He offered it to her again.

She looked at his eyes. His lips. The strawberry.

Then she took a bite, being careful to stroke his thumb with her tongue as she did.

A thrilling charge passed between them, making him shiver, his breath hiss and his heavy-lidded gaze drop to half-mast.

That was bad enough. Sexy enough. Hot enough.

But then the music changed to the opening bass line of Sade’s “,” and all was lost for her. A ripple went through the crowd at the otherworldly music. People who’d been sitting at other tables hurried to the dance floor, and she had the wild thought that a lot of babies would be conceived tonight.

It was as though no one present could resist the seductive pull of Sade’s mellow voice. Samira certainly couldn’t.

Baptiste seemed to know it. He wiped his hands and mouth, tossed back the last of his champagne and stood, extending his hand to her.

“Dance with me,” he said.

She looked up at him, frozen with indecision.

The logical part of her brain—the functioning little bit she had left—went into full-on Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost mode.

Samira, you in danger, girl!

This was not the time for dancing, especially with him. Samira had been drinking. Plus, her defenses were already down after the disastrous end to her engagement, followed by many long nights spent wondering if anyone would ever want her again if her fiancé didn’t. Plus, this was one of the hottest songs ever written, and while she’d probably met sexy guys before, Baptiste had obliterated their faces from her memory.

She and Baptiste? They did not need to touch each other.

Probably not ever, and certainly not right now. The sparks between them were combustible enough, thanks.

Under normal circumstances, she had backbone enough to tell him no, and if any other song had played, she would have managed it.

But this was no ordinary song, night or man.

So it was game over for her.

Spellbound, she finished her own champagne and took his hand.

He turned and led her to the middle of the crowded dance floor, then pulled her closer.

The pretense that they were dancing lasted for all of, oh, three seconds. He reeled her in to the socially acceptable distance for two people who’d just met, with their clasped hands at chest level between them, her free hand on his broad shoulder and his on the small of her back. Feeling breathless and agitated, she kept her attention focused on another couple a few feet away—oh, look, Marge Simpson was dancing with Michael Jackson; you didn’t see that every day—and followed his rhythm as they shifted back and forth.

But then she made the mistake of taking a deep breath and looking directly at him.

His glittering gaze felt hot on her face. Hard. Questioning.

Connecting with it at this close range, inside his arms, felt thrilling and overwhelming. Absolutely irresistible.

She wasn’t the only one who felt it.

He took a shuddering breath and contracted his arms, bringing her fully up against him. Dipped his head to run his nose and lips along her jaw line before pressing his face to the tender curve between her neck and shoulder. Stroked a warm hand up her arm, guiding her until she found his nape and curled her fingers into the dense silk of his wavy hair.

Oh, God.

They melted into each other, and she felt the same powerful sensations of relief, gratitude and belonging that she felt every night when she bonelessly tumbled into the downy softness of her bed.

She clung to him as he ran his free hand over her back, swaying in time to the music even though there could be no question that this was now foreplay rather than dancing. He was exactly the right height for her—taller, but not towering. His shoulders were wide, his chest hard against her aching nipples, his thighs unyielding as they brushed by hers. The unmistakable concrete of his erection felt heavy against her, and it was all she could do to stop herself from clamping her hands on his ass so she could rub her sweet spot against his hard length and find some relief.

His scent? A faint but dizzying combination of something warm and earthy, almost woodsy, that made her want to strip him bare and follow her nose to its source.

He felt so good.

So exquisitely, unbearably and life-changingly good.

She let her eyes roll closed, willingly dying a little in this moment.

Nothing had ever felt this good or could ever feel this good again.

His lips skated back up her neck, to her ear.

“Samira.” He nuzzled the sensitive lobe, making her knees weaken. “I think I deserve an award.”

“For what?”

“Keeping my hands off your ass while we’re in public.”

Her burst of laughter turned to a moan, quickly stifled, as he nipped her ear.

“Not kissing you for the first time in public,” he continued, releasing her hand so he could focus on other things. “Not making you come for the first time in public. You should thank me.”

“I’m not feeling that grateful at the moment, to tell the truth,” she said, shivering as his hands glided up and down her sides, his thumbs just skimming her breasts.

The low rumble of his laughter vibrated against her chest. “Do you feel how hard I am for you?”

Did she—?

Was he kidding?

“Could I miss it?”

Another approving chuckle. “Do you see how well we fit together?”

“Yes,” she said, gasping as his teeth skimmed down a tendon in her neck.

“Are you surprised?”

“No.”

“And yet you think to tell me no if I want you to come up to my room with me. Even though we both know this could be extraordinary between us. That’s a shame, don’t you think?”

Extraordinary? Yeah, that about covered it.

You don’t need him, Samira, she reminded herself.

“You’re a perfect stranger,” she said helplessly. “And I don’t do well with casual sex.”

“I see.” He pulled back enough for her to see the turbulence in his unsmiling eyes. “And how are you with regrets?”

She faltered, all her regrets crowding into her mind’s eye so she could count them.

“Shhh,” he said, whispering in her ear again. “Tell me when the song ends.”

Oh, thank God.

A few more precious seconds to pull him closer, run her fingers through his amazing hair and wallow in his exquisite touch as his hands skated up and down her back, soothing and reassuring her. A few more seconds to let the ethereal music permeate her skin and make her nerve endings sizzle with awareness. A few more seconds to catalog her regrets.

She regretted trusting and settling for Terrance, a man who looked good on paper, but whose soul had never been committed to their relationship. Regretted not asking more questions. Not pushing harder for answers. Wished she’d done all that before she accepted his ring despite her misgivings and charged half the wedding on her AmEx. Regretted spending eighteen months on their doomed relationship, thinking all the while that the sex would get better at some indeterminate point (Wedding night? Honeymoon? Fiftieth wedding anniversary?) in the future. She regretted not wondering why he hadn’t kicked up more of a fuss when she suggested they needed to stop having sex a month before the wedding in order to make their wedding night more special.

Most of all, she regretted not trusting her instincts and not putting her needs first.

And Baptiste…

She turned her nose into his neck, rooting for his scent the way dogs root for dropped food in the kitchen. In response, his arms tightened around her, pulling her up until only her tiptoes remained on the floor.

She wanted Baptiste. Wanted.

Her body felt unreasonably alive, down to every hair follicle and shimmering drop of blood. It was as though she’d been holding her breath for the last eighteen months, waiting for some unseen other shoe to drop, and now, for the first time, she could laugh and fill her lungs with air.

It would only be for a night, and then he’d go back to France, never to be seen again.

But, man, what a night it would be. Unforgettable enough to hold her over until she felt ready to climb back on that unsteady horse and begin dating again, she was guessing.

And it wasn’t like her emotions would ever be in play. Melody was right. Samira didn’t let people into her heart easily, so she’d never be foolish enough to form expectations after a one-night stand with a guy who lived on another continent.

“The song is ending,” he said in her ear as Sade’s voice began to fade out.

“I’m trusting you tonight,” she said, trailing her fingers down his neck so she could feel his muscles leap in response. “We’re going to send your picture, driver’s license and room number to my best friend, just in case I wake up missing in the morning.”

“You’ll be in my bed in the morning. In my arms, and I will be inside you.” He pulled back once again, this time to hit her with a long and hard stare of intent. “Maybe you should tell her that?”

A hot blush raced up her neck to her face, making her laugh. “Did you say extraordinary?”

“Extraordinary. The song is ending. Yes or no? And remember our concerns about international relations.”

“Yes,” she said, laughing again.

She wouldn’t have thought he could hold her any tighter without splintering most of her rib cage, but she was wrong. He picked her straight up, gave her a lingering kiss on the cheek—he murmured something in French that she didn’t quite catch—and set her down again.

“Let’s go.” Pausing only to make sure the cape covered him in front, he took her hand and turned to lead the way off the packed dance floor so they could grab his mask and her clutch. “And I want you to, what was it? Ah, yes. Groin strike anyone who doesn’t get out of our way fast enough.”