Free A Perilous Eden by Heather Graham

what it would be like to go to bed with such a man, and then she really was disturbed. Her life, as she had lived it for so long, had fallen apart—and she wasn’t mourning a deep, long-term relationship, she was wondering about a stranger who had walked away into the sunset of life. And even as she danced on the terrace with her father, watching the play of the lights over the water, she was thinking of that man.
    â€œThere’s Senator Daldrin,” her father muttered suddenly. “I need to speak with him. Do you mind?”
    Amber pulled away from him. “Of course not, Dad. You know that I’m a big girl. I’ll be all right on my own.”
    He smiled and excused himself. Amber wandered over to the buffet table and reached for a glass, planning to pour herself some punch.
    A hand closed over the glass, a masculine hand, long bronze fingers brushing over hers and bringing an instant flood of sensation washing through her. She looked up quickly.
    It was him. The man from the memorial service. The man from the park. The man with the striking light-blue eyes and rugged features. He hadn’t disappeared into the sunset. He was standing behind Helen Templeton’s buffet table, and he was going to pour her a glass of punch.
    His eyes were meeting hers just as they had in her dreams, and the intensity of his eyes and the brush of his fingers against hers were doing more to her than she had ever imagined any man could.
    â€œMay I?” he asked politely. She liked his voice. She liked the depth of it, the timbre, the way it seemed to swirl around her. He was wearing a tuxedo with a starched white pleated shirt and vest, and he couldn’t have been more elegantly dressed. He wore the tux well. She might have thought that the very ruggedness of his appeal would make him stiff or uncomfortable in formal wear, but in fact the outfit enhanced his masculinity and made him all the more striking.
    â€œThank you,” she said, releasing the glass. He poured out a measure of punch, and when she took it from him she felt the brush of his fingers again. Once more their glances met, and she was fascinated by the fire that seemed to burn within his eyes, despite their ice-blue shade.
    She sipped her punch, thinking that perhaps he would ask her to dance. Then she wondered why he had bothered to pour her punch, because he suddenly looked as if he disliked her. His gaze swept over her, and she thought that he was going to turn away. To stop him, she found herself speaking quickly, her hand extended to him. “I’m Amber Larkspur. Ted’s daughter. You know my father. I saw you speaking with him.”
    His brow arched, and he hesitated. Then his hand took hers. “I know. I’ve seen you with your father.”
    A small smile curved her lips. She’d met secretive types before—Washington sometimes seemed filled with them—but seldom had she seen the attitude taken quite so far.
    â€œPardon me. I don’t mean to be rude, but do you have a name?”
    He smiled then, and she liked the smile. It was rueful and honest, and maybe hadn’t been intended. “Michael Adams, Miss Larkspur,” he said very softly. And then, “Do you dance?”
    â€œWell, certainly, Mr. Adams, I do.”
    He kept her hand and led her to the dance floor on the terrace. The music had been fast; now it was slow, and he pulled her into his arms to the softly pulsing strains of a popular ballad. Her fingers fell upon the coarse fabric of his jacket, and she found herself inhaling the scent of the man, a clean scent, lightly touched with after-shave. His hand rested on the small of her back and held her close, but not too close; she wasn’t uncomfortable at all. The fingers of his other hand curled around hers, and he led her across the floor, moving with a surprising grace. Just as his appearance in the tux had surprised her, so did the fact that he knew how to dance so well. How to