“Jesus, you played with that irritating little redhead?” He shook his head. “I’m disappointed in you. Tell you what, now that they’re wondering, why don’t we give them something to talk about over brunch tomorrow?”

His mouth slid around, grazed her cheek. Before she could jolt from the shock of that, it was fixed warmly on hers. The kiss was long and slow. Her head reeled once, and the hand on his shoulder flexed open and dug in.

He eased back, barely an inch so that the only thing she could see was his eyes. “Let’s try that again,” he said softly. “I think you’ll get the hang of it.”

She would have protested. She wasn’t the kind of woman who indulged in smoldering kisses in public. Or in smoldering kisses in private, for that matter. But his mouth was on hers again, clever, persuasive. Hot. And she was swept along.

The rich male taste, the firm, knowing lips, the confident exploration of tongue and rough scrape of teeth. No one had kissed her like that before, as if her mouth was the source of all pleasure. Something hummed in her throat that might have been shock but was more likely wonder.

As he had wondered. What would she taste like, feel like, be like? What he found was a banquet of contrasts. Heat filtered through cool armor. Shyness fluttering under composure. She was trembling, erotic little shivers that shot need straight to his loins.

And that reminded him that no matter how much he might enjoy the experiment, they weren’t alone in a place where they could analyze the results.

“That ought to do it,” he murmured. “It sure as hell convinced me.”

She could do nothing but stare up at him. Somehow they were still dancing. She knew her feet, however disassociated they seemed from the rest of her, were moving.

“Sugar.” Struggling to keep it light when he would have been happier devouring her in a couple of quick bites, he lifted her hand, nipped at the knuckles. “You keep looking at me that way, they’re going to have more to talk about than a couple of kisses.”

She tore her gaze away, stared determinedly over his shoulder. “You caught me off guard.”

“That makes two of us. We can leave now, if you want. Nobody’s going to think it’s a retreat.”

“Yes.” She kept her back stiff, fighting to ignore the familiar and enticing way his hand continued to stroke it. “I’d like to go home.”

She didn’t speak again until they stood on the wide veranda of the entrance to the clubhouse. One of the eager valets rushed off to fetch Michael’s car, and they remained there, sheltered, with the lights and music behind them and the night, moonswept and shadowed, in front.

“Should I thank you?”