My lips curve at his playfulness, and the contrast of this moment to another occasion when I wore no bra and panties, at the winery, strikes me. I’d scolded myself for daring to see romance in what was a sexy adventure. Even meeting his godparents that warm August night still left me wondering where Chris and I were headed. I could easily spin doubts and get tangled up in all that could go wrong tonight if I let myself. The list of worries is long. Chris’s return to Paris. My impending career decisions. My secret. My gut clenches and the elevator opens.

I step off the car and mentally leave my concerns inside. Tonight Chris needs me to be clear and present. My Dark Prince is teetering on the edge of darkness over Dylan, and I have to be the rope he clings to for a lifeline.

Once in the corridor, Chris twines his fingers with mine, and this small, intimate act makes my heart squeeze, warming me far more than the gentle sway of the jewels between my thighs while I walk. I cut him a sideways glance to find him doing the same to me, and it is as if I’m experiencing a summer breeze. He floats inside me and completes me, and for the first time in my life I have a sense of being in a relationship, rather than being alone or possessed. Ironic, I think, considering this is the same man whom I’ve all but begged to claim me and possess me. He is dark passion and wicked heat and I can’t get enough of him.

We exit the hotel into the warm, cloudless night, dozens of stars shining brightly above, and I slip my small sparkling black purse over the thin emerald strap on my shoulder. The private car Chris ordered for us is waiting, but we turn when we overhear an elderly couple, also attending the gala, struggling to find a cab.

Chris and I share a look of understanding before he addresses the couple: “You can join us. We’re headed to the same place.”

A sleek 911 halts beside a doorman, and I have a momentary flashback to the night of the wine tasting at the gallery. I’d walked out of the gallery to find Chris leaning on the 911, my father’s car of choice. I’d compared the two men who are incomparable, and the smiles Chris has just put on the elderly couple’s faces drives home that point.

Inside the back of the car, sitting in the middle, I begin chatting with the woman beside me. Chris settles his hand on my knee, his thumb absently caressing my silk stocking, heat seeping through to my skin. Darts of pleasure shoot up my leg and straight to my swollen, overly sensitive clit.

It’s becoming impossible to focus on my conversation, and when I can take no more, I grab his hand and hold it still, shooting him a warning look.

Chris arches a brow. “Something wrong?”

I cut him a look and spoke softly. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Yes,” he agrees and his lips twitch. “I do.”

“Of course you do,” and the fact that he does is enticingly erotic rather than enticingly frightening. It’s also the reason I hold his hand for the duration of the ten-minute drive.

We exit the car at the Children’s Museum, where the gala is being held, and cameras begin to flash. Chris’s discomfort is palpable as we walk the red carpet laid out on the stairway to the entry, and I’m not surprised when he declines visiting the press room. His dislike for the spotlight and his willingness to put himself there for his charity speaks volumes about how much this cause means to him.

Once inside the building, we pause under a massive archway that is the entry to the main triangle-shaped event room, where about one hundred guests mingle in the open area between us and the band performing on the opposite side of the room. Music echoes upward, spiraling into the massive dome covering us, and I am in awe of the artwork painted on its interior.

Reminded of another wall closer to home, I cannot help but say, “This reminds me of Mark’s office. You painted his wall, didn’t you?”

There is a slight tightening around his mouth. “Yes.”

“Yes? Just yes?”

He shrugs. “He swore he’d sell one of my paintings at Riptide for a ridiculous figure and I agreed to paint the wall if he did.”

“And you donated the money to the hospital.”

I watch the emotion flash across his face and his expression becomes all hard lines and ridges. “It paid for Dylan’s treatments and set up a trust fund for his family they don’t know exists yet.”

I feel his words like the punch in the chest I know they are to him. “You and Mark seem to do a lot of good together, but you have a strange relationship.”

“We have a business relationship.”

“But you were once friends.”

“Friends is a word used too loosely by too many people,” he comments dryly, and clearly he has had enough talk of Mark. He motions to a table of food. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m starving,” I say, but I’m bothered by the way he avoids the topic of Mark.

Chris’s hand slides around my waist, discreetly molding us hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and all thoughts of Mark are gone when he softly murmurs, “I’m starving, too—and not for food.” And he looks like he wants to gobble me up right here and now. My body reacts, and my lack of panties makes the damp heat between my thighs more than a little evident.

I blush, and I don’t know why. Less than an hour before, the man licked my nipples and attached rubies to them, but there are just these moments when Chris is such a powerful male that I melt for him.

And he knows it. I see it in his face, in the wicked heat burning in the depths of his green eyes. I don’t care, either. I don’t fear him knowing how I react to him as I once might have. I watch as a slow, sensual smile slides onto his lips, and with it I am relieved to see the dark lines and ridges of moments before fade away. “Ah now,” he says softly, seductively, “there is my sweet little blushing schoolteacher. Seems I haven’t corrupted her completely just yet.” He pauses. “But I’m working on it.”

“You accused me of corrupting you.”

“You did, but in all the right ways, baby.”

My brows furrow. “What does that mean?”

“If you don’t know yet, you will.”

He sweeps me into the crush of the crowd, leaving me guessing his meaning, which shouldn’t surprise me. He is all about coded double meanings, and hidden messages I understand later, if at all.

We survey several tables of food and stop at one filled with a variety of finger foods. We fill small plates and do our best to eat between chats with the many people who want to talk to Chris. I’m finishing a bite of a finger sandwich when out of nowhere, it seems, Gina Ray, a rather famous actress, who according to a Google search once dated Chris, appears by his side.

Her hair is brown silk, her dress red and cut to display her ample cleavage, which she presses against Chris’s arm as she hugs him. “Chris!” she exclaims. “So good to see you.” Her voice is a rich, lovely mix of wild vixen and Hollywood bombshell, just as she is.

The only thing ample about me is my insecurity I swore I left in the hospital, but apparently it’s hitched a ride to the gala. Compared to her, I feel awkward and unladylike, and absolutely not star- or Chris-worthy. I feel like the sweet little schoolteacher who has no business being here at this party with a man like Chris. I set my plate down and fight the urge to dart away, though I have no clue to where.

Chris seems to sense my reaction and dislodges himself from Gina’s embrace, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Sara, this is Gina Ray. Gina’s been a huge supporter of our charity for several years now, and”—he glances down at me meaningfully—“contrary to the paparazzi who chase her around like starving animals, I have never dated her. Gina, this is Sara McMillan, whom I am dating, and who is someone I hope you’ll be seeing by my side often.”

His announcement delivers relief and a sweet, warm spot in my chest. I melt into Chris and his fingers flex on my hip.

Gina rolls her eyes playfully. “I’ve apologized with my checkbook for that dating scandal, Chris. Stop guilting me for putting you through that.” She fixes her attention on me, and her pale blue eyes, so unlike my deep, dark chocolate ones, remind me of diamonds in the moonlight. “And very nice to meet you, Sara.” She extends her hand and I accept it. A camera flashes and still holding my hand, she casts Chris a quelling look. “It’s not my fault if tomorrow’s news is Gina Ray has run-in with ex-lover’s new girlfriend. Not. My. Fault.” Someone calls Gina’s name and she releases me. “I’ll catch up with you two in a bit.”

“You read the gossip about me dating her,” Chris accuses the instant we are alone again.

“Why do you say that?” I ask guiltily.

“You almost choked on your sandwich when she hugged me.”

I shrug. “She’s a movie star. I was starstruck.”

His lips quirk. “Is that so?”

“Okay. I might have googled you at some point.”

“Anything else you discovered I need to explain?”

“No. Nothing.” And I mean it. I believe he still has secrets of his own, but none of them will be found on Google. They’ll be found in the midst of his pain, which I hope he allows me to fully understand one day. My voice softens. “I know everything I need to know.”

A hint of the torment I seem to excel in creating in him flashes in his green eyes.

“Sara—” He is cut off when we are suddenly surrounded by a group of people who all want to speak to Chris and meet me, leaving me wondering what he’d been about to say. We fade into the conversation but our eyes lock and hold, unspoken words twining between us, burning to be heard.

Over the next hour, Chris and I mingle with the lively crowd, and I’m relieved when we relax into a light, fun evening. I revel in how he touches me often, each brush of his hand adding warmth to my soul, where he has found a place and taken root. And when our eyes meet, awareness sizzles through me that that has nothing to do with the never-ending friction created by the rubies, and everything to do with our deepening bond. I am happy, and that isn’t something I remember being much in my adult life. Happy never lasts but I plan to fight for it this time.

I spot the waitstaff preparing a table filled with a variety of coffee and chocolate concoctions with whipped cream, and while I am dragging Chris in that direction, he is accosted by an excited, sixty-something fan. Seems she has a paintbrush he’d autographed at another event and she wants another for her son.

“I’ll be at the chocolate,” I tell him. I kiss his cheek, whispering, “Next to you, it’s my favorite temptation.”

He whispers something in French and I have no doubt it’s naughty. I bite my lip at just how sexy it sounds.

I’m still smiling inside over the exchange when I am handed a mocha with whipped cream on top. I move to a small round standing table and scoop up a spoonful. It’s delicious, like my flirtation with Chris. I’m amazed at how comfortably me I am with him.

“Hello, Sara.”

I freeze with a second spoonful of sweet cream in my mouth, and my eyes are locked on the tuxedo directly in front of me, on the familiar hand now resting on the white tablecloth. On the familiar voice that might as well be acid burning a path down my spine. It can’t be. He can’t be here. It’s been two years of silence, since I threatened a restraining order. Two years I thought would be forever.

Slowly, I set down my spoon on the saucer and curse the tremble of my hand I know he will see. He is a manipulator, a user. A bastard I never wanted to see again but I am not the girl I was five years ago or even two years ago. I will not cower.

Steeling myself for the impact, I lift my gaze, but I do not see the man whom most see as personifying tall, dark, and handsome. Nor do I feel the striking impact of his crystal blue stare the way others do, the way I once did. I see nothing but the monster I discovered the last time we saw each other.

“Michael.” I hate how his name rasps out of my mouth, how my throat tightens uncomfortably. How I am letting him have an impact on me. I feel a moment of panic, a sense of the ground falling out from under my feet. No. This isn’t when or how Chris was supposed to learn about my past. He has too much on his shoulders this weekend to carry my load, too. Which is why I cannot crumble. I won’t. I will be strong.

My fingers curl into my palms. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw your picture in the paper, and needed to take a trip to our research facility in Silicon Valley anyway. Your father and I thought it was a perfect opportunity to contribute to a good cause and catch up with you at the same time.”