“Me and Baryshnikov, baby, that’s what we insiders call it.”

With his lips soft against her cheek and his voice low in her ear, her insides turned as molten as the lava cake.

“Are you glad you came?” he asked.

She raised her head. “Yes.”

“Do you think you might like to stay a while?”

She slid her gaze to a metal bookcase so skillfully styled that medical texts and a cactus garden looked like sculpture. “I think so,” she said on a breath.

“I’m sorry? I didn’t quite hear you.”

She looked him in the eyes and nodded.

He lifted his lips in an answering smile. “I’m so glad.” Lowering his mouth a fraction of an inch, he kissed her.

He tasted of Bordeaux and blackberries, and she sighed, parting her lips.

With a soft moan, he ran his hand up her back and into her hair, entwining her curls in his fingers. “You let your hair down,” he whispered.

His tongue sought hers with a hot urgency that matched the fire in her core. “Mm-hm,” she murmured.

“I like.”

Rock-hard thighs pressing against hers, he coaxed her closer. She closed her eyes and gave in to his embrace—the night and the music as heavy and soft as a velvet blanket…

Until with a scream, an alarm splintered the air like it was made of glass.

Every muscle in her body seized. She covered her ears and staggered backward, slamming a shin against a marble-top end table. Was it a fire alarm? A tornado siren? No, the sound was too painfully close for that.

He growled and fumbled at his belt. “Not again.” He silenced the alarm and crammed the beeper back in its holder. “I’m sorry, I have to answer this.”

She raised her hands to her face. Her cheeks singed her fingertips. “Of course.”

He located his phone in the inside pocket of his discarded coat. Without looking at her, he pecked her cheek and hurried down the hall toward the kitchen.

Dropping into the armchair, she rolled her head to ease the spasm in her shoulders. Were all beepers that loud? Or did Richard just have the latest high-tech, supersonic model? If the pitch were any higher, it would only be perceptible to dogs. She was amazed the mirrors didn’t shatter.

The knob on her shin throbbed. How did anyone get used to that screech waking them in the night? Or killing the spirit on Christmas Eve? More to the point, could she get used to it? Or would the sound and the subsequent disruption of her life eventually drive her bonkers?

The distant mumble of conversation ceased, and he returned.

His face was drawn and his features sharp. She understood without a word their dancing was done for tonight.