“Can I help you with something?” he asked.

She started to move away, still watching him.

“Wait.” What are you doing, you fool? Chick’s crazy, just another groupie. Let her go, stick with the plan.

The stranger halted, a deer in the headlights. Her eyes showed deep embarrassment and something else, something intriguing and attractive.

Her voice was soft, and he felt something stir deep inside when she spoke.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I promise you I don’t go around touching strange men.” She turned on her heel and started away.

He stopped her, grabbed her hand. “Wait. Don’t run off. I don’t even know your name. I’m Ethan.”

She froze, glanced down at his hand, so large over hers. “I know. Ethan Montclair. I’m a fan of your work.”

He heard it so often it had become rote, but from this woman’s lips, it felt different. Like a prayer. A promise.

“Who are you with?”

“I’m sorry?” She finally met his eyes, and he had his first good look at her. What he saw was entrancing. She was pretty, wholesome, Irish descent, probably, with that reddish hair and the blue eyes. Her sleek black dress showed off a great figure, hourglass but lithe. She looked fresh, innocent. Girl next door, the kind you grow up crushing on, your best friend’s older sister. And then you become old enough to bed her legally, and the tables turn. This one, though, still had the suburban stink all over her. Intern, he thought.

“I meant, what house are you with?”

“Oh. None.”

“What are you doing here, then?”

“I...” The way she dropped her eyes when she was embarrassed, like a courtier looking up at him from her lashes, was maddening, in all the best ways. She took a deep breath. “Okay. We’re at the same house. You’re light-years ahead of me, though.”

A small zing. “You’re not an intern?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Do you have a name?”

The blush deepened. “Sutton. Sutton Healy.”

Irish all the way, though she wasn’t accented. Second generation, then, but he’d bet a pound her family was recent. He knew the name, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of that knowledge. He was enjoying her discomfiture. Most women he met went all sycophant on him within moments. This one was truly tongue-tied, and eyeing him like he was a juicy steak. He thought it was cute. Check that, he thought it was hot.

“Can I buy you a drink, Sutton Healy?”

“From the open bar? Sure.”

She’d touched his arm again then, slower this time, and he’d known. He was going to take her upstairs, and they were going to spend the night together, and he was going to get to know Sutton Healy biblically, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.

He heard Bill’s voice behind him, a harsh whisper overlaid with laughter. “Sucker.” Ethan flipped him off behind his back.

Sutton Healy wanted Macallan, too, so he ordered doubles. They wandered off to a corner of the ballroom. He turned her to face the room so his back was to the crowd. They managed to stay that way, uninterrupted, for half an hour. He may have run his hand through his hair a few times. He was a little fuzzy on that, but it usually drove women crazy.