But where the hell was her date?

Then her spine straightened, and goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. She spun around, or maybe he spun her. It all happened so quickly, she couldn’t tell where one moment ended and another began, only that this—her waiting—had blended into her being kissed, one second sliding seamlessly into the start of something ever more wonderful.

The kiss told her so much—that he was sorry for being late, that he’d missed her for the last several hours he’d been without her, and that this was the best part of his day.

Hers too.

This kiss was air, it was breath, and it was her heart on her sleeve. In the soft, slow sweep of his lips, in the hungry sighs they both made, in an instant, the kiss was everything.

Her heel popped up.

There it was. The final proof that no one had ever kissed her like he did, and no one probably ever would.

20

London, evening . . .

Green.

All he saw was emerald green hugging every luscious curve.

Clinging enticingly to her body, a lure for him, and him alone. Like she’d clothed herself in the secret of their affair—the dress that drew him back to New York, and into the first night he’d made love to her. It was a private message in a language only he could understand.

“You wore it,” he said, and something dangerously close to hope dared to surface inside him.

She nodded. “I told you I’d wear it for you. I keep my promises. Let’s go,” she said, pointing inside Sotheby’s. She walked quickly, guiding him up the stairs, down the hall, and into one of the sales rooms that was abuzz with activity. The hum of hushed voices filled the air, and the auctioneer presided over the podium at the front of the room.

She pointed to a row in the middle and he slid in next to her. As she sat down and adjusted her skirt, he dipped his head to her neck, and whispered, “All day long, Casey. All day long.”

She turned to him. “All day long what?”

The auctioneer spoke. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman, and welcome to tonight’s sale of modern art.”

“All day long I thought of driving you wild,” Nate said, finishing the thought.

She shivered against him, pressing her shoulder closer to him. My God, touching her was such a high. She was like a cat, arching her back to be pet. Every move of her body in response to even the slightest touch drove him mad with lust. He dropped his hand on her knee, tracing lazy lines across her bare flesh as the first item went up for bids. It was a lithograph by a Belgian artist, and nothing she was keen on. She showed him her paddle, and said in a hushed tone, “Would you like to use this on me later?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”