If I thought Darius looked hot before, I had no idea how high he could turn up the dial. The man who strides into the ballroom is all sharp angles and sharper cut suits. He brought a damn tuxedo for this event, and fucking hell does it suit him. The sharp black and white colors accentuate his narrow cheekbones, his broad shoulders and tight body. His hair is neat, perfectly combed to one side, and his eyes sear as hot as ever when they find mine and lock on. Even across the ballroom, with a sea of people between us, I can feel that piercing gaze of his like a white-hot handprint on my skin.

Or rather, all over my skin. One glance and I’m back in that steamy shower, his hands everywhere, me begging for more, more, more…

He cuts across the room toward me, and people part around him without even seeming to realize it. As if wherever he walks, the seas flood the opposite direction to grant him passage. Before long, he’s at my side, a breath away, standing so close I catch the scent of his after-shave, and my lips part, my breath hitching as he rests a hand at the small of my back. Casual, yet possessive. Claiming me as his own.

I step back, away, breaking the contact, because otherwise I’ll forget where I am. I’ll forget everything except how much I want to drown in those dark eyes of his. “Looks like I beat you to the ball,” I say, trying for lighthearted, and ending up just sounding petulant.

He laughs. “Sorry I’m late. I hope you weren’t waiting outside my room for me earlier, Holly. That would have been a shame.”

I swallow hard, because, of course, he’s fucking right. “You wish,” I manage to reply.

An even wider smirk is his only response. In the distance, Alexander finishes his speech, and somewhere out in the gardens a string quartet begins to play, something slow and soft and relaxing.

“Care to dance?” Darius asks, and before I can even get out the words I don’t know how to dance, he’s already catching both of my hands and sweeping me out onto the makeshift dance floor that’s appeared between the unused tables and the speech area where Microff just stepped off stage to sign photos of himself for some fans.

“People are going to notice this,” I murmur under my breath. Breath that hitches when Darius presses harder at the small of my back and draws me closer to him, until our bodies are pressed flush together. I really don’t know how to dance at all, but Darius does, and that apparently is all we need. I find myself catching the rhythm, following his lead, and it turns out that waltzing is pretty easy if you have a forceful partner who’s not afraid to tug you around the dance floor.

“Who cares?” Darius asks. “Wine country loves a good gossip story. Let their tongues wag right out of their heads for all I mind. As long as I get to walk out of this ballroom with you at the end of the night, I couldn’t care less.”

My lips part, and my breath catches in my throat once more. “Darius, I told you earlier—”

“I know, I know. Our, shall we say dalliance, in the shower was ‘a one time thing.’” He says that with heavily sarcastic air quotes around it. “But here we are again, not even twelve hours later, in one another’s arms.” At that, he flings me away in a twirl.

I twirl out to the far side of him, only one hand still wrapped in his. I could break away now. Walk away from this dance floor, from him. Hold true to my promise earlier. Prove that I’m not going to let him win.

Instead, when he tugs on my fingertips, I spin back toward him, and soon enough, I’m back in front of him, his arms wrapped around me, holding me tight against his warm body as we sway to the music once more. “Dancing doesn’t count,” I reply, in what sounds like a weak excuse even to me.

“That’s fine,” he replies. He dips closer, lowers his voice. “But it will count later, when you come knocking on my door and begging me to fuck you again.”

My throat goes dry, and my toes curl at the thought. I think again about the fantasies I had tonight. About him tossing me across his bed, about feeling that thick cock of his inside me again. Or better yet, getting to taste it, tracing my tongue along his velvety edges… “Not going to happen,” I say, but my response comes way too late, and my eyes are already glazed over a little from imagining the possibilities.

“Mm. It sounds like you’ve already given some thought to how it might happen again, though, dear Holly.” He flashes me a wink and a grin that makes my stomach drop out from under me.

“That’s not what…” I shake my head. “Just because you keep messing with my head—”

“So you have fantasized about me—”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“I’ll share my fantasies if you share yours.” His eyes could start a small forest fire right now, they burn so hot. But the only thing they’re setting ablaze are my cheeks.

Thank God for thick foundation. “I think I can imagine what yours are about all on my own, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that, Holly.” He leans in until his lips brush the shell of my ear, the sensitive skin making me gasp a little as he whispers, “You have no idea what kinds of things I’d love to do to you…”

A shiver runs through me so forcefully that he can feel it where his arms are wrapped around me. In the distance, another song starts up, a faster-paced one this time, and Darius starts to move along to it, already knowing the dance.

But I need a break. I twist out of his arms. “I need some air,” I say. He laughs in response, but lets me go. Then I glance back, and sure enough, as soon as I do, he trots after me, following.

“Don’t want to venture out alone?” he asks, voice low with sarcasm.

“I was just…” I shake my head. “You confuse me, that’s all.”

“What’s confusing? I’ve been very forthright about what I want from you, Holly.”

At that moment, we both stop talking at the same time. We were halfway out the large glass doors into the gardens outside, the fairy lights twinkling overhead, when we both heard the same thing, I assume. A large group of people just outside the doors, all clutching glasses of red wine, in the midst of a heated debate.

A heated debate that just mentioned our names. Spring and Bantham, both at the same time.

My heart leaps into my throat. This is it, I think. Someone spotted us dancing and put two and two together. They noticed the chemistry between us. Now the rumors are starting, they’re going to spread like wildfire through all of wine country. Before long my parents will hear about it, and my father will be furious. He’ll wonder if he can trust me to take over at Spring Valley when I couldn’t even listen to him on one simple matter—don’t get close to the son of our biggest rival.

Dammit, Holly, I’m thinking as Darius and I both freeze in the doorway, lingering to catch more of the conversation.

“I’m just saying,” one man says, voice raised a little, his face flushed in a way that suggests the wine glass gripped in one hand is not the first he’s had tonight. Or possibly even the fifth. “Bantham wines are unbeatable in Paso Robles. You’ll not find a better glass until you reach Napa, and even then, Bantham can stand up in competition to many of those.”

A few other men in the circle nod in agreement, but the man’s drinking companion, a tall woman wearing a gown that has to cost at least as much as my parents’ house, scoffs. “You must have no taste whatsoever,” she says, in an accent that would put Victoria Beckham to shame. “Spring Valley wines are undoubtedly superior to Bantham in body, complexity, flavor palate—”

“Name one Spring Valley wine that appears anywhere on any menu outside of Paso Robles itself,” the man argues. Most of the other people in the circle are pointing their wine glasses at him in agreement.

“Popular opinion hardly means something is truly superior.”

“Don’t just ask me; ask anyone in this room,” the man is saying. “Spring wines don’t hold a candle to Bantham, or hell, even to most of the other wineries in Paso Robles. They’re a new upstart brand that’ll be gone before the next season rolls around, you’ll see.”

At that, Darius grips my elbow, hard enough to pinch. I startle alert, and steal a sideways glance at him. I realize a couple people from the group have noticed us. Someone points our direction, and I spin around quickly, facing the other way to pretend I didn’t hear. My whole face is bright red, my body shaking with anger.

“Let’s go,” Darius murmurs, and then he’s leading me away, through the crowd, out through another door and into a side garden.

“They’re crazy,” I hiss, my voice low and furious. “All except that woman. What do they know?”

“Your family has good wine,” Darius assures me.

Somehow the soothing tone in his voice makes me even angrier. “Good? We have great fucking wine!” I clench my fists. “Just because we haven’t gotten the attention of any big brand companies yet doesn’t mean we don’t make good wine. It just means we haven’t put ourselves on the map yet, that’s all.”

“Of course, Holly. You know as well as I do that this business isn’t just about the product. You can have the best wine around and not sell any bottles. Sales don’t mean a thing when it comes to quality.”

“Damn right,” I mutter. “Not like your family. All your family cares about is the bottom line. You heard that guy. Bantham wines are on all the menus so Bantham must be the best. I wonder if he’s ever even tasted Bantham wine; it’s complete crap when you get past being distracted by the fancy label.”

“Hey, now.” Darius’s placating tone shifts a little now, and his brow lowers. “That’s not fair, Holly.”

“What, you really think your wine is better than ours?” I snap.

“I never said that. But my family’s wine isn’t ‘complete crap,’ either.”

“Oh please.” I snort. “The only reason your wine has sold anywhere, is on any map at all, is because your father doesn’t mind cheating at every game he’s ever played.”

“Holly, I’m sorry those people were talking badly about your family’s winery. But that doesn’t mean my family produces total crap. We make good wine; we just happen to have had better luck selling it than your family has had marketing your brand.”

“Oh, because you’re better than us, is that why?” I narrow my eyes.

But he just presses his lips together and shakes his head slowly, looking disappointed. Somehow, that’s worse than if he’d just been angry. Right now, I want to fight. But he only looks resigned. “You don’t dislike my family’s wine, Holly. You’re just blinded by your own family’s prejudice. Your family has spent years poisoning your mind with their jealousy of my family’s success. Now it’s seeped into you, too. I thought we could overcome it, I thought we could get to know one another for who we really are, in spite of your family’s biases. But I’m starting to wonder.”

With that, he turns around and steps back toward the ballroom. “Come find me when you’re ready to make up your own opinion about me,” Darius calls over his shoulder, and then vanishes, leaving me alone in the chilly evening, staring up at the fairy lights twinkling overhead.

What if he’s right? What if the only reason I get these flashes of anger and regret every time Darius and I are together is because of the things my family has always told me about him and his family? What if I am prejudiced, judging him for something that’s not his fault?

Could this really all be about jealousy?

But no. I remind myself of everything that’s happened over the years. All the dirty low-down tricks his father has pulled against my family. All the times he’s bad-mouthed us to the press, all the times he’s taken our ideas and stolen them, twisted them to suit his own purpose.

I remind myself, too, of what my father told me before I came to the ball tonight. All Banthams are the same. And what move would be more fitting of a Bantham than pulling me aside like this and trying to fuck with my head, trying to convince me to turn against my own father, my own family?

Something about that nags at me, though. Because before Darius lectured me about letting my family’s dislike poison my own thoughts, he was trying to reassure me. He was talking up my wine, complimenting it, even. He wanted to make me feel better; that’s why he pulled me away from that crowd of people speaking badly about our wines. If he were only doing all of this to mess with my head, to screw me over, why would he do that? Why treat me nicely?

And why would he keep pursuing me after he got what he wanted? He fucked me already. If he just wanted the conquest, shouldn’t he be giving up now? Not chasing me around this ball, wanting to be seen dancing with me in public, inviting rumors and all kinds of trouble if anyone noticed us…

After a moment’s hesitation, I suck in one more deep breath of fresh night air, and then I hurry toward the ballroom doors. Inside, I scan the dance floor, part of me already nervous that I’ll find Darius dancing with someone else, moving on to another conquest now that I’ve proven too thick-headed and defensive, just like my family, to be worth courting.

But then I spot him at the far end of the room. Alone near the bar, ordering a glass of wine. I’m too far away to see what kind, but as you’d expect, the selection here is pretty stellar. Everyone brought samples of their own vintages to offer to the bar, which means this little ballroom probably has a better wine stash currently than most fine dining restaurants across the country.

I make my way toward him. By the time I reach Darius’s elbow, he’s turned away from the bar. But I can still spy the bartender in the background, replacing the bottle Darius just ordered from on the shelf.

“Spring Valley?” I ask with an arched eyebrow, glancing back and forth between Darius, the bartender, and the glass of red in Darius’s palm.

He catches my eye. “After all that talk about it, I decided I needed to try it for myself again. Been a while, of course, since I’m forbidden from drinking it when I’m at my parents’ house. But I have to admit, this is one of my favorite wines to pair with filet mignon at my apartment.”

My cheeks flush yet again. He drinks our wine? Regularly?

All at once, I realize he’s right. I’ve been letting my parents’ judgment of him cloud my own. I haven’t been paying attention to the guy right in front of me, because I’ve been so preoccupied with the guy I thought he was. “Pretty good pairing, if I do say so myself,” I reply. Then I step up to the bar on my own and smile at the bartender. “Glass of Bantham Merlot, please,” I say. “The 2015.”

“Right away,” the bartender replies, and I turn to find Darius grinning at me, his look appreciative.

“Sure you’re going to be able to stomach that crap wine?” he asks, with one eyebrow arched.

“A friend convinced me to give it another go,” I reply. “A fairer one this time. Unclouded by previous biases.”

“Smart friend,” he says. Then he leans in, and this time, despite the public setting, I decide, fuck it. I don’t back away. I tilt my head to one side and let him kiss my cheek, long and slow enough that I know exactly what he has in mind for later.

And somehow, worryingly, I realize, I’ve been thinking the same thing. I want to fuck him again, damn it.