Free Dangerous Ladies by Christina Dodd Page A

holding her weight against him, and experienced her through his mouth, through his body, through the scent of her and her hold on his lapel.
    A primitive part of him clawed to be free, to shove her skirt up, to push her down on the floor, to take her quickly, with all the need thrumming in his veins.
    Some remnant of the gentleman he had once been made him
release her, steady her with a hand on her elbow, and ask huskily, “Does that answer your question?”
    She stood looking at him, blue eyes wide, fingers pressed to her lips. “Not a myth,” she whispered.
    “No.” He wanted to laugh, but the effort of freeing her had strained something chivalrous inside him and he didn’t dare push the issue. “No, good sex is not an illusion, but what’s between us isn’t good sex. It’s more like a force of nature . . . or a trick fate has played on us both.”
    “Funny. I thought . . . fate . . . I thought that when I saw you.”
    “We are agreed. This is fate.” How pleased his grandfather would be to know that Roberto proved himself half Contini after all! Wild. Reckless. Incorrigible. “So we’ll spend the night together. You don’t have to tell me why. I don’t have to pretend to love you. And in the morning we’ll part, never to see each other again.” He’d never been rash before. Why now?
    Ah, yes. Because his life had tilted sideways and everything he had known, everything he had been, had been knocked askew.
    “All right. It’s a deal.” She extended her hand to shake his.
    When he took it, he realized she trembled. He hoped not from nerves; he hoped from suppressed desire. Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a lingering kiss on the palm, then closed her fingers on it.
    “But I don’t want to be seen leaving together.” For a woman who had been thoroughly kissed, she showed a practical streak.
    For that matter, so did he. “I have to stay longer. To do less would be ungrateful to Mr. McGrath. So I’ll call my driver. He’ll pick you up when you step out the door. I’ll tell the concierge at my hotel that you’re coming.” He handed her his passkey.
    She looked down at the card in her hand. “Aren’t you worried I’ll steal something?”
    With all the people who were watching him? “That is the last thing I’m worried about.”
    “Somehow I can’t imagine that you’re a trusting soul.”

    And she was a discerning soul. “Tonight I will trust you with myself.”
    She inclined her head, not because she believed him, but because she accepted his right to prevaricate. She strolled toward the door, each motion of her body beneath the scarlet gown an enticement. “Don’t change your clothes,” he said.
    She turned back in surprise. “But I bought the most gorgeous negligee.”
    Suspicion—some would call it good sense—rose in him again. “For me?”
    “Yes. Well . . .” She shrugged. “For the man I found tonight. Luckily, it is you. The negligee is a cream silk with lace inserts here and—”
    “I want to remove your gown,” he whispered huskily. At his own instructions, desire hit him hard and low. The thought of seeking out the zipper of that enticing dress, sliding it down, seeing what was beneath it . . . He took a step toward her.
    She saw his craving and chuckled, low and warm. “Remember, Roberto, you must stay at the party for another hour.”
    He did have to. He was in Chicago for one reason. No woman, however attractive, could change that.
    “At midnight, you can turn into a pumpkin.” Again she strolled toward the door.
    He remembered what he didn’t yet know, and called, “What’s your name?”
    She leaned against the door frame, her body a beckoning silhouette, and smiled. “Brandi. I’m Brandi.”
    “Brandi?”
    “Yes?”
    “You go to my head.”

    Gwynne and a weary-looking man in a rumpled suit had engaged Uncle Charles in conversation. Gwynne’s husband. Gwynne leaned
against him, holding his hand, secure now that he was there, and Brandi worked