The Daddy Deal. Kathleen O'Brien

high between his brows. But the strong lines of those dark brows were so perfectly aligned with his dramatic cheekbones and sculpted jaw that the effect was both beautiful and noble, as if he were an illustration in some elegant magazine.

      But she had known plenty of handsome men. Perhaps, she thought, her gaze drifting down, it was that strange sense of familiarity in his green-flecked eyes. That haunting sense of déjà vu...

      “You know,” Taylor said mildly, glancing pointedly at his still-outstretched hand, “I’m beginning to look like a fool.”

      Blushing, Brooke rose quickly. Too quickly. Her blood swooped to her feet, leaving her head empty and dizzy. She swayed toward him, and he caught her in one strong arm.

      “That’s better,” he said, his lips close to her ear. Putting his arm around her shoulder, he tucked her up against him and led her to the stage, where dozens of couples were already jammed together. There didn’t seem to be a free inch, but somehow Taylor found a niche near the edge of the proscenium arch, where a statue of Neptune, backlit with an eerie violet glow, stared at them through blind white eyes.

      Taylor slid his arm around her waist, pulling her in to face him, and for several minutes they shifted slowly to the music, each holding away from the other a bit stiffly, as if neither wanted to be the first to make a move toward a deeper intimacy. But the poignant song was wrapping itself around them, and before she knew it her hand was nestled between his fingers and his heart, and her head had dropped against the cool black lapel of his tuxedo.

      The song ended, but they didn’t move, waiting until the violinists’ bows began the dip and thrust of another love song. As the wistful strains of “Lara’s Theme” from Dr. Zhivago filled the air, Taylor’s hand tightened on the small of her back, massaging softly, nudging her into motion.

      After that, Brooke didn’t even try to fight the slow fusion that brought their bodies ever closer together—her cheek rubbing against his shoulder, her breast brushing his chest, and their thighs braiding rhythmically, together, then apart. Shutting her eyes, she breathed deeply, learning the crisp, lime-fresh scent of him that rose subtly under her nostrils, stirred by her touch—a scent that was both reassuringly wholesome and surprisingly sexual.

      He was far more intoxicating than champagne, Brooke thought dreamily, and she felt something flickering to life inside her, like a small, buried flame suddenly brought into the air. She turned her focus inward, visualizing the Name—once a pale and helplessly guttering flutter—as it grew into a steady, red-hot tongue of fire. It was almost painful to feel so alive, so awake to her emotions, and yet she wanted more. She inhaled jaggedly as the fire crept along her veins, into her lungs, stealing her breath, as well.

      She wasn’t sure how long they danced. As suited the occasion, the orchestra was playing only movie themes, and the conductor, apparently aware that the late hour imparted a haze of sensuality to the room, offered one love song after another. Harps rippled; saxophones moaned; violins wept and sang. It was, Brooke thought as Taylor’s chin drifted across her temple, almost too beautiful to bear.

      Gradually, though, the dance floor began to clear, the other couples slipping away like sand emptying through an hourglass. Brooke shut her eyes again, turning her head into Taylor’s jacket and tightening her arm on his shoulder, as if she could close the two of them inside a magic circle and make the evening last forever. She didn’t want to go home, back to reality, back to all the problems that were waiting for her. She didn’t think she could face being alone tonight.

      With a sigh, she tucked their clasped hands under her cheek, letting her lips graze the back of his knuckles. His fingers tightened in response, and she felt oddly secure, here with his heart beating against her cheek. Strange, she mused. She’d been alone for years, but now, after spending less than an hour in this man’s arms, she felt as if she had completely lost the knack.

      He kissed the top of her head softly, and the flame inside her spread like a blossoming bud of heat. No, she didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight.

      “I think the orchestra is winding down,” Taylor said, lifting his head and scanning the nearly empty stage. “It’s getting late.”

      Without taking her cheek from his chest, she made a small, dismayed sound. But she didn’t speak, afraid that her intense disappointment might sound fretful, as childish as Justin when he fussed about being sent to bed.

      “You probably don’t have a car here—do you want a taxi?” He feathered her hair back from her face and ducked his head lower, as if he were trying to get a glimpse of her expression. “Or would you like me to take you home?”

      “Oh,” she said, relief bringing a wide smile to her face as she lifted it toward him. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

      He smiled, then, too, as if amused by her breathless eagerness, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. What did it really matter if he could see how happy she was? What harm if he guessed how his embrace had made her feel?

      Besides, even if she had wanted to, she wasn’t sure she could have hidden her emotions. From the minute he’d put his arms around her, she had felt as if she’d been plugged into some vibrant life source.Illogically—especially considering that her problems were still unsolved,and Clarke, to whom she had looked for help, was long gone—she felt great. Better than great. She felt deliciously young and alive. Hot-blooded. And rapturously female.

      So why not smile? If she was dwelling in a fool’s paradise, then at least she would make the most of every minute. She’d been cautious every day of her life for the past ten years—and she’d have to be equally circumspect every day for the next ten.

      Starting tomorrow.

      She straightened, tugging lightly, eagerly, on his hand. “Yes,” she said again, swiveling as she spoke. “Let’s go home.” After the warm cocoon of his arms, the cool air seemed to go straight to her head, and she felt the room tip slightly.

      He chuckled, a low rumble that was more vibration than noise, and, pulling her safely back against his chest, kissed the tip of her nose. “Slowly,” he said, steering her gently toward the stairs. “There’s no need to rush.”

      But there was. There was. Couldn’t he feel it, too? He kept his hands on her shoulders to steady her, and she tried to walk calmly, but a sense of urgency had suddenly overtaken her, like Cinderella as the clock began to strike midnight. If they didn’t hurry, something could go wrong. The magic could run out. He could change his mind—or, even worse, she could change hers.

      A crowd of late leavers clustered around the valet stand, and Brooke could hardly contain a sound of frustration. But Taylor’s hands were still on her shoulders, pressing her back against the wall of his hard-muscled torso, and she leaned against him gratefully, glad that he was so strong, glad that he stood between her and the pushing, chattering crowd. She shut her eyes again, and she let herself imagine what it would be like to have such an ally in life, a partner whose strength and loyalty would be a seawall against the crashing waves of misfortune.

      Time blipped erratically, and suddenly the car was there in front of them. It was a sleek steel gray model that she couldn’t put a name to, though she could have made a pretty good guess at the price, which probably was approximately what she was asking for her bungalow. The irony of that struck her as rather funny, and she patted the hood of the car with a smile before letting Taylor guide her into the front seat.

      Her cinnamon brown silk skirt made a sound like a sigh as it slid across the leather. Brooke sighed, too, as the air-conditioning blew sweet, cool air onto her cheeks, and when Taylor got in, she smiled at him. He smiled back, but his expression seemed strangely questioning.

      “Oh,” she said, suddenly realizing what he needed. “Sorry. I live at 909 Parker Lane.” She peered through the window, trying to get her bearings. She knew downtown Tampa as well as she knew her own reflection in the mirror, but tonight things looked strangely unfamiliar. “Do you know where it is, by any chance?” She knew she sounded dubious, but where exactly were they? She didn’t recognize that huge building. “I can navigate, I suppose, as long as you don’t drive