Wasn’t Bess just full of secrets!

So she was rich. Filthy rich. He picked up his messages again, telling himself it wasn’t such a big deal. Wouldn’t have been, he corrected silently, if she’d told him about it herself.

Engaged, he thought with a frown. Three times engaged. Shrugging, he picked up the phone. None of his business, he reminded himself as he punched in numbers. If she’d been married three times, it would be none of his business. He was taking her dancing, not on a honeymoon.

But it was a long time before he was able to shuffle her into a back corner of his mind and get on with his job.

Sexy, the man had said, Bess remembered, turning in front of her cheval glass. It looked as though she were going to oblige him.

Snug teal silk hugged every curve and ended abruptly at midthigh. Over the strapless, unadorned bodice, she wore a short, body jacket of fuchsia. Long, wand-shaped crystals dangled at her ears. After stepping into her heels, she gave her hair a last fluff.

She felt like dancing.

When her buzzer sounded, she grinned at her reflection. Leave it to a cop to be right on time. Grabbing her purse—a small one that bulged with what she considered the essentials—she hurried to the intercom.

“I’ll come down. Hold on.”

She found him on the sidewalk, looking perfect in gray slacks and a navy shirt. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his bomber jacket.

“Hi.” She kissed him lightly, then tucked an arm through his. “Where are we going?”

It gave him a jolt, the way their eyes and mouths lined up. As they would if they were in bed. “Downtown,” he said shortly, and steered her left toward the corner to catch a cab.

He couldn’t have pleased her more with his choice of the noisy, crowded club. The moment she stepped inside, Bess’s blood started to hum. The music was loud, the dancing in full swing. They squeezed up to the bar to wait for a table.

“Vodka, rocks,” Alex ordered, raising his voice over the din.

“Two,” Bess decided, and smiled at him. “I think I was here before, a few months ago.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Not his business, Alex reminded himself. Her background, the men in her life. None of it.

The hell it wasn’t.

“It doesn’t look like the kind of place Strater would bring you.”

“L.D.?” Her eyes laughed. “No, not his style.” She angled herself around. “I love to watch people dance, don’t you? It’s one of the few legal forms of exhibitionism in this country.” When he handed her her drink, she murmured a thank-you. “Take that guy there.” She gestured with the glass at a man who was strutting on the floor, thumbs in his belt loops, hips wiggling. “That’s definitely one of the standard urban white male mating dances.”

“Did you do a lot of dancing with Stutman?” Alex heard himself ask.