The next day there’s no note from James or anyone else slipped under my door. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or not. Scratch that, I know damn well that I am disappointed there’s no note from him. Still, I know from the printed itinerary there’s a very important black-tie party tonight. I tell myself that I should just focus on doing my job rather than doing my boss. It doesn’t help that my job is supposed to be doing my boss, but whatever.

My skin feels soft and flushed after the heated bath last night. Even more so when I remember the feeling of his fingers tracing down my slit.

I was too worked up to really savor his touch, but there was no barrier between his eyes and mine, or the tautness in his shoulders and chest as he pressed me closer. I’ve never reacted so strongly a man—but then James has an intensity I wasn’t expecting.

I spread my legs under the satin sheets, relishing the smooth feel of the fabric gliding over the insides of my thighs. I shut my eyes and try to feel the weight of his fingers atop my pussy…the way he parted my lips and delved into the slickness. God, how much I wanted him to slide a finger inside… I want to feel full of him, wanted to grind myself against his big hand.

It’s as if he flipped a switch inside me and now everything that touches me is dialing up the volume, slow but steady. In the light of day it feels less shadowy and complicated than it did last night. I told him that I understood that he was paying me to be in the building, not in his bed. So what do I have to lose by showing him I’m a flesh-and-blood woman willing to act on our attraction?

You could lose your job, I reason with myself.

Well, there’s that.

Filled with sudden energy, I hop out of the bed and stalk to the closet, throwing door open and peering at the wardrobe Rina sent with me. The woman knows her stuff, and almost everything she chose is tastefully tailored, slitted, transparent, or flowing, but all of it, every piece, is chosen and designed to seduce. My job is to be beautiful. If nothing else, I’m going to take pride in that.

* * *

The party is in full swing when I arrive. I see James across the room—that man is impossible to miss—but I smile when I’m certain that he’s seen me too. The heated look in his eyes when I take my first step into the room is impossible to miss.

I chose a draped gown with a sensual, soft fabric that almost perfectly matches my skin, with a slit so high on my hip that the cameramen are playing a not-so-surreptitious game of “is she or isn’t she wearing…?” every time I step. Answer: I am, but the thong is sheer and an exact match for my skin, too. The back of the dress is also draped low, so that the fabric floats while straps crisscross my bare back. Sexy as it sounds, all the naughty bits are covered precisely, perfectly, and it’s just the illusion of the fabric that makes is seem dangerous. And…well, it is naughty, but who cares? The way James watches me as I cross the room to him—not just appreciating but tracking me like prey? I’ve never felt this sexy in my life. And with every step, I keep my eyes locked to his to make sure he knows everything about me tonight is for him.

He takes my arm without speaking, though his eyes don’t leave mine. And, still wordless, he tucks me into his arm as though I’ve always been there. I feel his fingertips brush my skin, and I shiver lightly as we walk together and begin a round of greetings to guests.

I don’t know how many compliments we field for “how handsome a couple” we look together. Each time, I feel James’s hand drop to my hip and rest lightly before he continues his conversation. There’s no freezing tonight, none of the discomfort I felt in him before. Conversation is light over the music, some people dancing, most mingling. Wherever we go, he tucks me into the hollow of his shoulder or leaves an arm around me. This is the most we’ve ever touched in public, and the feeling is exhilarating and different.

James shocks me again when a violin begins a slow, sensual melody, and he holds his hand out to me.

With a few years of social dance lessons and many weddings behind me, I recognize the Latin tune. “The Ice King can tango?” I ask, not quite trusting the hand he’s gallantly holding out to me. He distracts me by brushing his fingers just inside the small of my wrist and then circling it. When I take his hand, I feel the slow, sure pass of his other hand on the small of my back, just inside the fabric that’s draped over my ass. He tugs and, just like that, our bodies press together. His arms are steel bands around me, his hip hard as they brush against mine. Without thinking, I playfully hook my leg over and behind his. He catches my eye, though, serious.

“Do you feel my hand at your back, Darcy?”

I’m a little breathless when I answer. “Yes.”

“When you feel that, it means you move in close to me like this. When I touch you, you come to me. You understand?”

My mouth goes dry. I swallow. “Yes, James.”

“Good girl.”

He moves me across the floor in two graceful turns, and just as he told me, when I feel his hand brush the small of my back, I move in close to him. We move and sway together in another series of slow steps, and then he snaps closer and finesses my body into a low, sweeping dip. When his palms cup my body on either side of my rib cage in a sweeping arch, I’m not the only indrawn breath of surprise in the room. The steps are simple—no springy fan kicks or barrel rolls—just a tight, concise circuit to prove that my body is a match for his. That I follow him and fit him, in every way.

The music ends, and to my surprise, the entire room breaks into applause. Our little performance has stopped the guests in their tracks. I can feel the deep blush rise in my cheeks; I’m never the center of this kind of attention. And what about James?

He hasn’t frozen again. Far from it. He gives a playful half-bow then holds his hand out like a showman, urging the crowd to continue the applause for me. It’s not possible for me to feel more self-conscious than I do this minute, but I’m also still smiling. Now he holds a hand up for silence, gesturing to everyone that he has a few words to say. One of the staff rushes over with a mic, but James waves him away and addresses everyone in a booming voice.

“Thank you all for being here for the opening week at Harrington Ridge. Keep the music playing and the wine flowing, but don’t get too crazy on my slopes.” People laugh good-naturedly as James fake glowers at everyone, and then he holds his hand out once again, to me. “Darcy, would you join me, please?”

I try to keep my face neutral and smiling as I move out to meet him, but I don’t pay attention to much of anything else when, once again, I feel his palm make contact with the small of my back. James wraps up his short speech, and I smile and wave as everyone applauds, but I only have eyes for him. The music resumes, and his gaze returns to me.

“Do you feel my hand, Darcy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what it means?”

How could I forget? But I still stop, unsure. I don’t want to mess this up and read his signs the wrong way.

“Does that mean you…that we—”

He only grins before he takes my hand and pulls me off the dance floor. Our eyes meet and the next second my hip is pressed to his, and we’re gliding out the door.