A Thrill To Remember. Lori Wilde

he was suave Don Juan.

      Anything was possible.

      Go on. Do it.

      He searched for his crimson goddess, but she had walked away. He was bereft for a moment, but then he caught a flash of red as she disappeared into the costumed throng gyrating on the dance floor in time to a jivey disco version of “Wild, Wild West.”

      He exhaled.

      “Wild, Wild West” morphed into “Super Freak.” Blood strummed in his temples and his heart pounded like a headhunter’s drum. Panic scratched through him at the thought she might leave the party before he could speak to her.

      Where had she gone?

      “Will you excuse me?” he asked Elvira, and before she could reply, he pushed off from the wall and went to prowl through the crowd.

      After several minutes of searching, he spied Klondike Kate sitting alone in a cloth-backed chair positioned in a dimly lit alcove just off the main hall.

      He smiled to himself.

      Gotcha.

      One high-heeled shoe dangled from her hand and she was slowly massaging her foot. At the sight of those delicate toes, painted not stark scarlet as he might have suspected, but a beguilingly innocent cotton-candy pink, Caleb’s lodged in his throat. She inclined her head, exposing the gentle sloping curve of her neck, and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning out loud. His gut constricted, his muscles loosened, his body warmed—and extreme reaction he recognized but could not seem to control. His unexplained nervousness scared him, smacking of a weakness he did not want to accept.

      Don’t let her get to you.

      It had simply been too long since he’d had sex. That was why he was so susceptible to her allure. No other reason.

      Yeah, right. If mere horniness was what motivated him, then why not take advantage of the dozens of women who’d thrown themselves at him all summer?

      Nope, this was different, even if he couldn’t say why.

      Klondike Kate started to lean forward to slip her shoe back on, but stopped short. His gaze tracked her movements. He noticed one of the hooks on her bustier had snagged the chair’s tweed cloth.

      Squirming, she tried unsuccessfully to dislodge herself.

      This is your chance to meet her, Greenleaf. Don Juan to the rescue.

      Heart thudding, he hurried over, boldly leaned down, pressed his mouth to her ear and heard himself whisper in a debonair Spanish accent that sounded nothing like his natural voice, “Please, allow me. It would be my greatest honor to assist you.”

      

      DON JUAN’S MANLY HANDS rested on her bare back, his fingers finessing the hook of her bustier.

      Meggie Scofield caught her breath, stunned that the drop-dead gorgeous man in the black leather mask who had been staring so blatantly at her ever since she strolled into the community center was touching her in a most intimate fashion and causing a frisson of heat to spread fanlike over her tender flesh.

      No. No. This was much too soon. The guy was more than she had bargained for. She wasn’t ready for this much masculine attention.

      It had taken every ounce of courage she possessed—plus generous encouragement from her friends and a hefty quaff of chardonnay—to stroll into the party wearing this skimpy outfit. If she hadn’t been so darned determined to shed her goody-goody image she wouldn’t have made it this far.

      But now she was paralyzed, intoxicated by the smoldering nearness of this stranger. He stood so close his spicy cologne filled her nostrils with the bracing combination of orange zest, piquant cinnamon and rich licorice. He smelled like a holiday feast.

      Anticipation, charged and fiery, crackled between them. Adrenaline shot through her veins, prickled her sensitive skin, seeped beneath the auburn wig she wore over her coal-black tresses.

      Who was he? And why did he seem so fascinated with plain ordinary Meggie Scofield, when a man like him could have any available woman in the room?

      It’s the costume, ninny.

      Disquieting heat waves shimmered through her body as his fingers tripped down her spine. She shivered and shifted away from him.

      “Hold still,” he murmured in a low Spanish accent so erotically seductive it caused the fine hairs at the nape of her neck to lift. “I fear sudden movement will render your beautiful garment worthless.”

      “Sorry.”

      “No reason to apologize.”

      Her heart hammered restlessly. His leather-clad hip was level with her shoulder. She dropped her gaze to his knee-length, shiny leather riding boots, and had to force herself not to shiver again.

      For some reason she could not fathom, Meggie envisioned rubbing her fingers over the soft, fluid folds of his silky white shirt. The unexpected image sent goose bumps skittering up her arm, and the budded tips of her breasts stiffened against the lace of her bustier.

      She gulped.

      This whole moment felt weirdly surreal, as if she were moving in slow motion through a favorite recurring dream. When she was younger her secret fantasies had been chockful of ferociously naughty characters like Don Juan. Rock stars and motorcycle men. Pirates and Vikings and irascible black sheep. But those days were gone. She’d had her fill of rogues, and she was finished with living vicariously through risk-taking men.

      She wanted her own adventures.

      Except her body wasn’t listening to her mind’s vehement denial.

      “There,” he pronounced. “You are free.”

      Meggie leaped from the chair, almost careening into him in an urge to remove herself from his disconcerting proximity.

      “Thank you,” she murmured.

      Unable to resist peeking, she shot him a sidelong glance. The intense blue eyes lurking behind his black leather mask rocked her, upsetting her equilibrium.

      “You’re most welcome.”

      He kept his voice low, and she wondered if the Spanish accent was real or if it was simply perfected for his Don Juan persona. She remembered then that she was supposed to be in character, too, and she should be speaking with the bawdy, teasing drawl of Klondike Kate. But bowled over by her body’s unexpected response to this stranger, she couldn’t force herself to speak above a whisper.

      Whoever this guy might be in real life, in costume he was a dead ringer for the infamous Spaniard. Had he chosen his costume because he was indeed a masterful lover?

      He caught her watching him, and Meggie’s stomach fluttered. Deliberately, he raised a hand and slowly traced an index finger over his pencil thin mustache in a surprisingly intimate gesture.

      Her gaze darted from his eyes to his mouth and back again and her chest squeezed.

      Look away! Look away!

      But she could not.

      His audacious gaze collided head-on with hers. Smoldering, fervent, deeply blue. He possessed the sort of eyes to make any woman tremor with sexual anticipation. Eyes that promised a thousand taboo pleasures.

      He didn’t smile; his expression remained one of inexplicable containment. His lips were full; his jawline solidly masculine.

      Who was he?

      There was something incredibly powerful about the secrecy of his masquerade. Was the man beneath the mask just as potentially explosive as he appeared?

      His masculine aura of supreme self-confidence seduced her, while at the same time made her extremely skittish. Her heart galloped and she did, indeed, tremble. Meggie hated the torturous, achy sensation and the helpless vulnerability that such potent physical attraction implied.

      “You