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  Grant, who slipped her hand onto his arm before they entered, laid his palm over her knuckles. “Pay attention to the introductions. There will be a quiz at the end of the night.”

  His mock seriousness wrought a tentative smile from her tightly drawn lips. “I hope it’s multiple choice. I always do better with multiple choice.”

  Grant chuckled, then suddenly stiffened. Harley followed the line of his gaze to a straight-postured, silver-haired man handing a glass of champagne to an equally stunning woman dressed in pale green sequins and wearing a diamond cocktail ring so large, Harley saw the sparkle from across the room.

  “Mr. Phipps?” she guessed.

  Grant nodded. “Howell and his wife, Amelia. They’re talking with Bailey Ford, the founding partner of Ford, Rienholt and Long. Attorneys. Very well connected. Very conservative. One of our largest investors.”

  From a distance, the men appeared more impressive than intimidating. Both men undoubtedly wielded great power over many people, yet when Harley compared them to the man beside her, she had no doubt Grant would someday make the older men’s combined success pale in comparison. She only had to ensure that she—and the power players at the other end of the dining hall—didn’t keep him from getting his shot.

  Smiling at a waiter, Harley was immediately offered a tray of champagne flutes. She tugged Grant’s sleeve to snatch his attention away from his boss. “Here’s our fortification.” She handed him a glass, then took one for herself, clinking her rim to his. “I suggest the direct approach.”

  “You would.”

  “Hasn’t failed me yet. So far, I’ve enjoyed innumerable results from simply going after what I want.” Her mind drifted back to his seduction last night, and from the darkening of his irises, she knew his did as well.

  He took a sip of the bubbling, pale liquid. “I can’t argue with results like yours.” Before she drew her glass to her lips, he stopped her hand and led her a few steps to the left, away from the doorway and out of earshot of those standing nearby. He raised his glass an inch or so in a toast. “Here’s to getting what we want.”

  Thick with the promise of passion, his whispered wish foreshadowed an evening of loving to match and surpass what they’d shared the night before. Maybe he’d forgotten his promise to take her to Moana’s apartment after the wedding, but Harley hadn’t. She suspected after that visit, she might never find herself the object of Grant’s desires again. “What if what we want isn’t what’s best?”

  He touched the base of her glass with one finger, then lifted until she took another sip. “I’m tired of playing ‘what if.’ I’d much rather play ‘why not.’”

  Her sip turned into a generous swallow, and in moments, she’d drained the champagne from her glass. Almost immediately, her skin warmed and her eyelids fluttered. Grant laughed and threw back his drink as well.

  Taking her glass, he set the empty flutes on a passing waiter’s tray and then hooked her hand in his arm once again. Wordlessly, he led her straight toward Mr. Phipps, whose party now included Grant’s friend Mac and a stunning redhead who nervously nursed a club soda with lime.

  “Ah, Grant. You look handsome, my boy. Very dapper.” Howell Phipps grabbed Grant’s hand nearly before he had a chance to offer it. “A great representative for First Investment, don’t you agree, Amelia?”

  Mrs. Phipps tore her appraising gaze away from Harley long enough to bestow Grant with a smile. “I’d trust you with my money.”

  Grant shook the woman’s hand politely. “You already do, Mrs. Phipps. May I introduce Ms. Harley Monroe? Harley, this is Amelia and Howell Phipps.”

  Harley shook both their hands in turn, making sure to intensify her grip when Mrs. Phipps accepted her gesture. Something about the woman’s cold gray stare made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She sought to unnerve Harley, put her on the defensive—and the feeling was eerily familiar.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet both of you,” Harley said. “Grant speaks so highly of you both.”

  Mr. Phipps grinned and waved over a waiter with another silver platter of champagne. From the gregariousness of his manner and the nearly imperceptible slur to his words, Harley knew he’d already had his share of bubbly. “And we of him. He’s a fine CEO. An instinct for making money like I’ve never seen.”

  “And for choosing lovely women.” Amelia took a glass from the platter, but made no move to drink. “Tell me, Ms. Monroe, where did you and Grant meet? You’re not from Citrus Hill.”

  Harley swallowed deeply, allowing Grant to beat her to the explanation. “Harley’s family. Distantly related. She’s visiting the area for a few days.”

  Mrs. Phipps nodded and grinned, but Harley didn’t buy her easy acceptance one iota. Yet before the older woman could form more probing questions, Grant began introducing her to the others in the party.

  “You already know Mac. This is Mac’s better half, Jenna Malone.”

  Finally, a truly friendly face. Jenna’s green eyes, a perfect accompaniment to her flaming red hair, were large and round and welcoming. The anxiety Harley noted in her moments before seemed to disperse the minute Harley stepped closer to her and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here. More than you know.”

  Jenna glanced at Mrs. Phipps and Mrs. Ford furtively, leaving no question about her discomfort in such upper-crust company. “Your dress is stunning. Mac said the cab company that brought you to Grant’s lost your luggage. I figured that’s why you didn’t come to the rehearsal.”

  She didn’t know where Jenna had heard the story, but the reference gave Harley a chance to chat confidently about the recent past, thus avoiding the blanks in her memory and the lies she’d have to tell if Mrs. Phipps questioned her further.

  “Grant picked this up for me in Tampa this morning. I wasn’t prepared to attend something so formal.”

  Jenna sipped her soda and glanced sidelong at the crowd around them. “Well, I for one am glad you came. I didn’t want to be the only stranger here.”

  Her words were a whisper, but Harley could hear her loud and clear. She said “stranger,” but meant “outsider.” Though Jenna dazzled with a beauty well beyond most of the glitterati around them, Harley sensed the woman’s strong distaste for overdone wealth and pretentiousness. Her roots undoubtedly stemmed from a field more like Harley’s—wide open, richly soiled, but a bit overgrown—and not the least like Grant’s neatly rowed, carefully trimmed tillage of wealth and privilege.

  Harley slipped her hand on Jenna’s arm. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Jenna’s eyes darted to her husband and Grant, who discussed an upcoming golf date with Phipps and Bailey Ford. Their wives spoke in hushed tones, marveling at the expense and obvious taste in the floral arrangements and bridesmaids’ dresses. While Harley agreed with the women’s generous assessment, she felt neither qualified nor welcomed to comment.

  “So,” Jenna remarked, a wry twist to her voice, “how ‘bout those Cleveland Indians?”

  Harley laughed, uncertain why the offbeat comment amused her, but certain she liked Jenna Malone. The tension tightening her stomach muscles eased. If she stuck close to Mac’s wife, she’d make it through the evening just fine.

  Unfortunately, her confidence was short-lived. When the wedding coordinator bounced over to shoo them to their respective tables, Harley caught a glimpse of a blue-haired matron in a smart, satin-trimmed, silver-gray suit.

  Wilhelmina Langley.

  “We’re sitting at one of the head tables,” Grant informed Harley as he cupped her elbow and led her through the shifting crowd. Mac and Jenna followed close behind.

  “In front of everyone?” She gulped audibly.

  “It’ll be fun,” Grant promised. “This crowd isn’t used to seeing me with a date. Everyone will wonder who you are.”

  “Not everyone.”

  She tilted her head sideways, enough for Grant to catch her hint and follow her gaze as it darted from him to
Langley. Within moments, the seasoned columnist had them in her sight. She instantly detached herself from the people she spoke to and headed straight toward them.

  “Well, Mr. Riordan, it’s nice to see you’ve ended your self-imposed ban on bringing an escort to one of our events,” she noted, sounding as if she owned the Citrus Hill social scene personally. Which in a way, she did.

  “I thought I’d end the speculation.”

  Grant’s words were cryptic, but Mrs. Langley seemed to interpret them with ease.

  “End it? Dear boy, having such a lovely young lady on your arm will only fuel it. Luckily for you, I already know all about her. I should be able to quell any wild rumors before they cause any trouble.”

  “Quell the rumors? That will be a change for you.”

  Harley winced, but Mrs. Langley laughed out loud. “I suppose it will. We all need a change. Keeps us young. Harley, you look radiant.”

  Harley didn’t quite know how to respond. She sensed shrewdness in Mrs. Langley’s interaction with Grant, as if she owned a powerful secret about him—as if she knew the truth about Harley. Would Mrs. Langley’s column tomorrow morning contain some scandalous hint of impropriety, or had the older woman dug straight through to the sordid facts?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Langley. Do you know the Malones?”

  Mrs. Langley greeted Jenna with a graciousness that belied her dominant position in the Citrus Hill social hierarchy. She asked Mac a few pointed questions regarding a recent police scandal in his jurisdiction, then returned her attention to Harley and Grant.

  “I hope the two of you have a lovely evening.”

  Innocuous though the comment seemed, Harley couldn’t help hearing the unsaid portion. I hope the two of you have a lovely evening. Tomorrow might not be so enjoyable.

  Grant tugged on Harley’s arm, reeling her even closer. “I can’t see how I couldn’t, considering the company I’m keeping.”

  Mrs. Langley’s eyebrows rose just a fraction, then her smile deepened. But before Harley could determine the meaning of her abstract grin, Grant escorted her away.

  Harley glanced over her shoulder as they wove through linen-covered tables bedecked with sparkling crystal and fine china. “Do you think that was wise, baiting her like that?”

  Grant shrugged and slid out Harley’s chair. “What have we got to lose? She may just think we’re kissing cousins.”

  “You say that as if it’s a good thing.”

  He eased into the seat beside her. “Depends on the cousin.”

  Mac and Jenna sat beside them on Harley’s side, joined not too long after by Gus, his live-in, Lisa, and Grant’s other friend, Mike and his date. Minutes later, the band leader announced the arrival of the bride and groom. They made their way through the crowd, danced their first dance to a Whitney Houston tune, then followed the wedding coordinator to a private table set upon a dais at the front of the hall.

  “Mandy looks downright smitten,” Harley commented. “Steve’s one lucky man.”

  “I know how he feels,” Grant said.

  Harley leaned in closer, hoping her voice wouldn’t carry. “You’re awfully optimistic tonight. Yesterday, you were convinced Mrs. Langley knew everything and meant to expose you in tomorrow’s edition.”

  With a confident snap, Grant flattened his swan-shaped napkin and laid it across his lap. Yesterday, the world had looked considerably bleaker. Darker. Colder. Like the life he’d grown so accustomed to. Since his night with Harley, the situation didn’t seem so dire. Even if Langley did destroy his career, he’d survive. So would Nanna Lil. He was too busy enjoying his newfound freedom to concern himself with social politics.

  And with Harley, creativity became second nature.

  “Maybe she will. But let’s not worry about that tonight.” A waiter brought them cool glasses of white wine and served the salad of assorted bitter greens. “Eat your gourmet rabbit food and enjoy the atmosphere. I intend to burn a lot of calories later.”

  Harley speared an artichoke heart with her fork. “You dance?”

  Grant dusted fresh pepper over the salad dressing. “Dance? I guess that burns calories too, doesn’t it?”

  His counterfeit attempt at innocence nearly caused Harley to choke on her endive. She swallowed a generous mouthful of wine, then smiled at Jenna, who eyed Harley and Grant suspiciously, then threw a surprised look at her husband. Mac nodded sagely. Harley’s skin flushed.

  The dinner conversation livened as the courses passed, with occasional breaks as guests tapped the crystal stemware, demanding the bride and groom kiss. Following the show of affection, the hall rang with surprisingly rowdy applause. The twelve-piece band slowly picked up the tempo of their music, and couple after couple left their chateaubriand to take a whirl on the parquet dance floor.

  Slowly, the mood shifted from snobbish pretense to genuine glee. Though Harley suspected the change stemmed from the open bar and free-flowing wine, she appreciated the transformation. In such an atmosphere, she didn’t care who saw Grant lay his hand protectively on her arm during dessert or lift his napkin to wipe away a dollop of whipped cream clinging to her lips just before cordials arrived at the table.

  Harley eyed her snifter longingly, but felt sure she couldn’t force another morsel of food or drink into her mouth.

  “Don’t you like brandy?” Grant raised his glass to her in a tiny toast.

  “I don’t have room to find out. I think I overindulged.” She pushed the remnants of her raspberry chocolate torte further away.

  Grant’s smirk revealed the artful naughtiness he’d practiced on her all night long. “There are good things to be said for overindulgence.”

  Harley slipped her napkin off her lap. “Not if I don’t want this dress to rip at the seams.”

  “There are good things to be said for that, too.”

  She rolled her eyes for effect, but secretly, her insides curled and constricted. Grant’s flirtation since his return from the tuxedo shop this morning had been nearly nonstop. She wanted nothing more than to go home and make love with him after the wedding, which as Mandy promised, invoked romance and spirited expectation in every candelabra, every musical selection, every wisp of soft bridal satin.

  Instead, she asked Jenna for the time.

  “Nearly seven. It’s early yet. Ask Grant to dance. I bet I can coerce Mac onto the floor if Grant goes first.”

  The band’s blithe rhythms had enticed Harley all night. She’d worked to keep her shoulders still and her hips firmly planted in her chair, especially after the band abandoned the subtle dinner music in favor of more lively tunes. When the percussionist began beating a Latin tempo, Harley could resist no longer.

  “Can you tango?”

  Grant’s brown eyes bulged. “Not since my last cotillion. I was all of fourteen and not very coordinated.”

  She grabbed his hand. “Trust me, your coordination has improved. Let’s dance.”

  Half expecting Grant to pull her back into her chair, Harley stood and turned to the dance floor. Surprisingly, Grant followed close behind. Couples ranging in age from midtwenties to late seventies filled in the spaces around them, forcing Grant and Harley to stand close.

  Lights muted by red-and-purple gels cast a risqué glow, enhancing the music’s hypnotic rhythm. Some dancers continued to waltz stiffly. Others paced the length of the floor crouched low with clenched hands extended, practically begging for someone to toss them a rose to clamp between their teeth.

  Harley, on the other hand, felt compelled to rise on the balls of her feet and swing her arm carelessly over Grant’s shoulder. She hooked one ankle around his calf. Their noses touched. His breath flushed her lips with heat. When he smoothed his hand down her side, his palm hot against the cool silk, she arched her back. Grant braced her with a hand firmly between her shoulder blades, dipping her backward then easing her up until they again stood face to face.

  She knew this dance. Without thought, her feet moved. Without planning, her body
swayed and spun. Grant held her close, his eyes cast down as he followed her lead. The rhythm they’d found in lovemaking matched the cadence of the dance. In moments, they rediscovered the scorching tempo.

  Harley pulled her breath from deep within, burning a path to her lungs. Lightheadedness battled with her balance. Only mildly aware of the sea of eyes assessing them, the dance elicited a freedom of movement that unburdened her steps. Grant’s steadying hand and locked gaze kept her anchored. If he released her, she felt sure she’d float away.

  When she lunged away from him, he yanked her back, slamming her against his rock-hard chest. His heart pounded like a steel drum. They stilled, then swayed, then spun madly until an intrinsic burst of joy bubbled from within her into a devilish laugh.

  The music ended and the crowd’s applause slowly brought her back from the dream the tango wove. Grant, still clutching her close, neither smiled nor frowned. His expression reflected utter fascination.

  “You’re amazing.”

  She lowered her lashes, attempting to hide the scarlet flush tinting her face. “I don’t know where that came from. I don’t remember ever…”

  And yet she did. While the band struck up a cover of a popular disco tune, Harley remembered dancing the tango in a room full of people, remembered being the center of attention, remembered despising the man who led her in the dance—a man whose face remained vague and insubstantial.

  The memory bore little resemblance to her tango with Grant. In her past, she sensed dancing had been a chore—a job with counted-out steps and carefully timed pivots and dips. With Grant, music and emotions guided her, filling her with a pulse equal to her most sensuous desires.

  Grant took her hand and led her from the dance floor. “You’re an amazing dancer. I just can’t believe…”

  He stopped midsentence, causing Harley to set her memory aside. “Can’t believe what?” Her chest constricted with mild indignation. “That my dancing doesn’t always entail the removal of my clothes?”