Cinderella's Big Sky Groom. Christine Rimmer

at from just about any angle, seducing her would be a fool’s move.

      He’d seen the way Danielle Mitchell treated her. And those two hairdressers, too. Even Lily Mae Wheeler. Everyone in Whitehorn loved Lynn Taylor. They all seemed to feel protective toward her.

      He had a practice to build here. And seducing the town innocent was not going to help him create trust with potential clients.

      He should eat his steak, ask his few questions about his young client, pay the check and take the woman back to her car.

      Unfortunately, though, for some insane reason, he couldn’t bear to let her go. Not quite yet.

      She glanced up from her meal and asked softly, “You do like it here in Whitehorn, don’t you?”

      “Yes. I do.”

      “You said you were raised in Billings?”

      “Right.”

      “Why didn’t you move back there, when you were…ready for a change?”

      “I have no family there anymore. My folks have been dead for several years now.”

      “No brothers or sisters?”

      “One of each. But we’re not close. And they’ve moved away, too. My sister lives in Salt Lake City. And my brother’s in Southern California now. Works for some electronics firm, I think.”

      She picked up her water glass. Her champagne flute was empty. He checked the bottle—empty, too. “I’ll order another one.”

      “No.” She drank, set the water glass down. “Better not.” He upended the bottle in its bucket of ice as she started to slide her napkin in at the side of her plate.

      He could see the end of the evening in those eyes of hers.

      “Dessert,” he said. “You have to have dessert.”

      “Oh.” Her eyelashes fluttered down, then lifted again. “No more. Really.” A busman appeared and whisked their plates away.

      Ross waited for him to leave before coaxing, “It is your birthday, after all. And they have something really special here. Dark chocolate truffle cake. It’s my own personal weakness, I have to admit.”

      “Truffle cake.” She considered. And she did it charmingly, tipping her head to the side, touching the tip of her tongue to the corner of her lip for an instant, as if she could actually taste a bit of chocolate there.

      What would it feel like, to touch his own tongue to those lips of hers? Good, he imagined. Very, very good…

      She drew in a breath. “No. I’m not hungry anymore. Not hungry at all.”

      He should have just let it go at that. But he didn’t. “So what? It’s chocolate. Eat it for…the pleasure of it. And because it’s your birthday.”

      She stared at him. Awareness, and of much more than the temptation of chocolate, seemed to weave itself around them like a net of silk—or like the silver threads in that dress of hers, subtle, but so damn seductive.

      Then she blinked. “No.” Her voice was firmer now. “I really don’t want dessert.”

      Time to call for the check. But he didn’t. “Well, you’ll wait for me, won’t you, if I want some?”

      “Of course.”

      “Coffee?”

      “I’d love some.”

      He signaled the waiter and whispered in the man’s ear.

      “What did you tell him?” she demanded when the waiter had hurried off.

      “Guess.”

      She laughed again. God, he really did like the sound of her laugh.

      “I know what you did. You told him it was my birthday, didn’t you?”

      “Guilty as charged.”

      “Oh, Ross…”

      It was the first time she’d called him Ross. He liked the way his name sounded on her lips. Liked it far too much.

      “You can blow out the candle,” he said. “And I’ll eat the cake.”

      Three waiters appeared, singing the birthday song.

      They marched to the table, and put the slice of cake with its single candle in front of her. The song ended. Delicately she blew out the flame.

      “Happy birthday!” the waiters chorused one more time.

      “Oh, thank you,” she said, giggling like a kid and clapping her hands.

      The waiters served the coffee, then made themselves scarce.

      Lynn plucked the candle from the cake, set it on a side dish and slid the plate across to him. “There you go. Indulge yourself.”

      He picked up his fork. “You sure you won’t have any?”

      “Don’t you start in again.”

      “Just one little bite…?” He pressed the side of the fork down through the layers of chocolate shavings, snow-white icing, dark cake, and that impossible, silky whipped-truffle center. “I’m telling you, this tastes as good as it looks.” He held up the fork.

      She wrinkled her nose at him. “Do you ever quit?”

      “Never. It’s not in my nature.”

      She looked at the fork and the bite of cake balanced there. “If I taste it, will you leave me alone?”

      “Unless you beg me for more.”

      “I won’t.”

      It sounded to him like a challenge. An utterly erotic one.

      A challenge he had to keep telling himself he would not accept.

      “Yes or no?” he dared in return.

      And she did it.

      She leaned forward. He gave her the cake, watching those soft lips open to take it in.

      Her eyes closed. “Umm.” Her mouth moved as she tasted it, savored the heady mix of rich flavors. She swallowed.

      “More?”

      “No, thank you.”

      He held her eyes for a moment, that silken web of awareness spinning, dizzily now, all around them. And then he lowered the fork and took a bite for himself.

      Enjoy it, Garrison, he told himself. Imagine you can taste her, in the cream and the chocolate, on the silver prongs of this fork. It’s all you’re going to have of her. Because she’s not going to beg for more. And you’re not going to push her.

      You want only a single night.

      And she…

      She’s looking for a prince.

      Too soon, the cake was nothing but a few crumbs on a china plate. He signaled for the check and signed for it. The waiter brought her coat, started to hold it up for her.

      Jealous of every last touch, Ross rose from his chair. “Here.” The waiter handed it over.

      Lynn stood and he helped her into it, as he had once before, in that shop with all the women watching, taking longer this time than he needed to, because the scent of her, the reality of her, was right there—too close, and much too tempting. His knuckles brushed cashmere and burned.

      Silently he called himself a number of crude names.

      He was hard. Had been since the moment she took his fork into her mouth. Fully aroused, like some green kid who couldn’t keep it down even in public. At least his jacket covered the bulge.

      Once she had the coat on, he put his hand at the small of her back, under the