Michael glanced over. His brows rose in surprise as he saw the streamlined brunette in slinky black. The gamine face, all sloe-colored eyes, and the close-cropped dark hair tipped him off, though the girl he remembered had been skinny, coltish—a borderline nerd.

“That’s Kate? Kate Powell?”

“She works out now,” Laura muttered. “She’s gotten obsessive about it, so don’t get her started.”

“That her trainer?” Michael muttered back, measuring the broad-shouldered, long-limbed man beside her.

“And husband. He’s also my boss. Byron.” She held out a hand as the couple maneuvered through the crowd toward them. A quick kiss and she turned to Kate. “Margo was right, as usual. The Karan suits you. Byron De Witt, Michael Fury.”

“Nice to meet you. Kate’s been telling me stories.”

“And I didn’t even need to exaggerate.” Grinning, she stepped forward and gave Michael a quick, friendly hug.

Her arms might have been lean, Michael noted, but they were tough. Enjoying her, he drew her back. “Katie Powell. Looking good.”

Because she’d always enjoyed him as well, she wiggled her brows. “Same goes, Mick.”

“Can I get drinks for anyone?” Byron asked in a voice that reminded Michael of mint juleps and magnolia.

“I’ll have what Laura’s having,” Kate decided.

“Michael?”

“Bass ale.”

“That ought to go down just fine,” Byron decided. “I think I’ll join you. Excuse me a minute.”

“It’s the Southern,” Kate said, watching him walk toward the bar with a proprietary and satisfied gleam in her eye. “He’s just a gentleman.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s just the dress that suits you,” Michael commented.

“It’s not.” Kate turned back, smiled warmly. “And unlike the dress, which goes back into stock tomorrow, he’s all mine. So, how the hell are you, Michael Fury, and when do we get to see your horses?”

It was so easy for Kate, Laura thought as she listened, to make the appropriate comments. She’d fallen right into casual conversation with Michael. Didn’t she feel any of those . . . oh, she hated to use the term “vibes,” but it was the only word that came to her. Dark, restless, dangerous vibes. It made her jittery to stand next to him, to encounter a brush of his arm against hers, to catch that gleam in his hot blue eyes.

It helped when Josh and Margo arrived. There was more conversation, and laughter. Byron fell into an easy discussion of horses with Michael. Apparently Byron’s family owned several. Before the topic switched to cars—another interest the men shared—Byron had arranged to take a look at Michael’s stock.

It wasn’t difficult to ease away again and draw Margo with her. “So,” Margo began, “are you enjoying yourself? You and Michael are getting some speculative looks.”