Free The Stand-In by Rosanna Leo Page B

warm, brushed against hers with curiosity. She held her breath against the velvety crush, momentarily lost in the scent of his cologne and the taste of recently imbibed scotch. As people began to hoot around them, his lips parted and his tongue flicked at her lips, persuading her to open.
    Against her better judgment, corrupted by the tawdry moans of the now-blaring Tom Jones, who assured her he needed her kiss, she opened to Patrick. His tongue slid against hers, proprietary and smooth. Her common sense flew out the banquet hall window and her knees buckled. His grip on her back tightened, and before she knew what was happening, he slapped her ass. Adding insult to injury, he then dipped her.
    The crowd went nuts. Somewhere in the background, Elena hollered in delight. Oh so slowly, he pulled her back to standing position. Their kiss ended to wild applause.
    He stared at her, his eyes wider than she’d ever seen them. “Damn.”
    Winn gazed, awestruck, and shut her gaping mouth. Luckily, Elena chose that moment to tackle Carlo in a grasping kiss that would shame a vampire. The spotlight deserted them for the bride and groom and they were left standing in their own private darkness on the dance floor. He still held her by the waist, and showed no signs of letting go. He licked his lips and frowned, as if unsure what to say.
    She was just about to do something wild and crazy and ask him to explore the coatroom with her, when Margie Kent’s clear tones sang in her head.
    Rule number one for stand-ins. No hookups on the job .
    She needed this job. No way in hell would she ruin it because some lunatic reporter had smacked his gums in her general direction.
    “Um,” she mumbled, running a hand over her hair to fix any stray strands. “Wow, that should not have happened.”
    “Really? I was going to suggest it happen again.”
    “Patrick.” She glared at him.
    “What? Did you or did you not enjoy the kiss?”
    “It was…very nice.”
    He clutched his chest. “Oh, woman, how you wound me.”
    “I could have done without the public ass grab.”
    “It was the best part.”
    “Look, I’m not supposed to be kissing anyone on the job. And you’re supposed to be writing an article, not mauling the story’s subject.”
    “What makes you think the kiss won’t make it into the article?”
    She slugged him on the arm.
    “Okay, okay. Don’t worry. I’m a professional, too. A professional what, I’m not sure about these days, but a professional.” He scratched his head and frowned. “So, about that drink…” He turned toward the bar area.
    She turned in the opposite direction and fled to the washroom. “I need to pee.”
    It was the only escape she could devise.
    * * * *
    About an hour later, Patrick glared from his table as Elena’s great-grandfather whisked Winn about the dance floor. He chugged a glass of ice water, torturing himself with the inevitable brain freeze. Italian folk songs had ruled the room’s airwaves for thirty-odd minutes and he had a headache from the repetitive strains of the “Tarantella.”
    What was he thinking? He’d kissed her. He’d put his tongue down his subject’s throat.
    He’d never done that to any Toronto city councillors when writing stories about them, at least, not to the best of his knowledge.
    He blamed Winn. It was all her fault. That, and the Macarena . She’d put him in a weird mood with her speech about love and romance. And then, when that young punk had propositioned her at the bar, it had brought out the beast in him. No, the protective older brother in him, maybe. Yes, that was it. He was her escort tonight, after all, and considered it his duty to be chivalrous. Gentlemanly.
    Only he hadn’t been thinking like a gentleman when he’d grabbed her ass in front of everyone. The only coherent thought streaking through his consciousness at the time was his need to throw her on a table, lift up that god-awful dress, and sink into her heat.
    He stared at his empty