Millionaire M.D.. Jennifer Greene

but if you’d just quit trying to lead, I swear you’d have a lot easier time on the dance floor.”

      “You’re trying to help? Said the wolf in the fox den. And what do you think your hand is doing on my butt? You think I won’t punch you?”

      Actually, he knew she’d punch him—in public, in private, in church, at a black-tie gala or anywhere else. She’d been doing it ever since she was a furious, bad-tempered twelve-year-old, and he’d been a suave, worldly seventeen who’d known everything—except why the hell such a squirt-age girl had managed to wind his heart around her finger. “I’ve had my hand on your butt before,” he reminded her delicately.

      “That was significantly different. I was hurt, I’d fallen on some broken glass and you were playing doctor—”

      “And I’m so glad you brought that up. I never had a chance to tell you before how much I always loved playing doctor with you,” he said fervently.

      There now. She had to choke back laughter. Winona never could keep that terrific sense of humor under wraps for long—but this time, she turned serious again all too quickly. “Cut it out, you. And this time, I mean it. The point is, you know I’d never be attending this fancy shindig if I weren’t working. Just because I’m not in a cop’s uniform doesn’t mean that I’m really here to play. I’m here in a professional role—which means that you either put your hand where it belongs, or I really just might slug you—and I’m not kidding, Justin.”

      He heard her. And he not only believed her, but he’d never have done anything to publicly embarrass her in a million years. A teasing pat was one thing, an inappropriate grope in front of others, another—not just because he respected Winona and her job, but because if he ever got a shot at really getting to Win, he wanted no audience around. Anywhere. Preferably for a several-hundred-mile radius.

      Temporarily, however, it seemed that he was incapable of removing his hand from her fanny. It wasn’t a choice. Normal honorable, ethical standards of behavior simply couldn’t apply. His palm slid down the silky dress from the hollow of her spine to the fullest slope of her rump. He squeezed several times, because hell, he had to.

      Said squeezing produced the obvious biological response in him—he was hard as a hammer in three seconds flat. Above the neck, though, his forehead produced a frown darker than a Texas thunderstorm. “What in God’s name are you wearing under that dress?”

      He would never have asked the question, except that the answer seemed to be nothing. Absolutely nothing. There wasn’t a woman in the Club—except for Winona—who wasn’t dripping diamonds and sequins. Jewels winked from ears, throats, wrists and fingers, all across the dance floor. Win’s ears were naked and so was her throat; the long, soft black dress made all the pricey designer gowns look overdone and fussy. To Justin, she stood out as a hopeless beauty. Always had, in his eyes.

      It was just…he couldn’t feel any underwear. He certainly hadn’t put his hand on her fanny expecting to feel underwear. But the silky dress was a thinnish material, so that his hand instinctively expected to find panty lines, a sense of fabric. And when they didn’t, alarm bells clanged in his mind on a par with a fire truck’s siren. There weren’t too many reasons a woman would neglect to wear underwear to a very public, very fancy gig—especially Winona, who didn’t reveal nuttin’ to no one—normally. When it came down to it, Justin could only think of one reason she’d be running around sans panties. There had to be a lover she was trying to turn on.

      A lover.

      A man.

      A man—who wasn’t him.

      “Justin, what the Sam Hill is the matter with y—”

      He sensed her right fist clenching, preparing to punch him.

      “Get your hand off my… The dress showed lines,” she hissed. “I couldn’t wear anything underneath it. Not that I owe you any explanation, you low-down, overprotective, bossy son of a gun. Now you’ve got five seconds, max, before I—”

      He was removing his hand. Really. Right then. It just took a couple seconds for relief to catch up with him, and for those few seconds he really couldn’t seem to breathe. In the meantime—possibly because Win didn’t realize he was sincerely getting around to behaving better—that small right fist of hers was still aiming straight for his solar plexus. That is, until a tall, handsome, dark-haired dude showed up on the scene, winked at Win, and smoothly lifted her clenched fist to his right shoulder.

      “I’m cutting in,” Aaron Black announced, “before either of you come to blows. Besides which, I dance a ton better than he ever will, Winona. And I’m better looking.”

      “Well, hell,” Justin grumbled. But he let Aaron take off with Winona across the dance floor. For one thing, the orchestra changed tunes to a rousing, foot-stomping bluegrass, so any cheek-to-cheek opportunities had abruptly disappeared. For another, Aaron was not only a fellow member of the Texas Cattleman’s Club, but a friend that Justin would trust to the wall—and had. And for yet another reason, damn Aaron, but he was a diplomat in his professional life as well as his private one, and when he motioned a thumb toward the bar, Justin picked up the subtle, tactful clue that, just possibly, he needed to get out of Winona’s sight for a minute or two.

      He loped over to the bar, all right…but watching Win whirl off in Aaron’s arms still gave him a case of the glums that a whole well of whiskey couldn’t cure.

      They’d always bickered like two toddlers in the same sand-box. Justin didn’t specifically mind that, because they mutually enjoyed teasing each other. But she’d always treated him like a friend, a neighbor, a loved but insufferable big brother. Never as a man.

      He must have asked her to marry him fifty times—and all fifty times, she’d cracked up laughing, as if the idea of marrying him was the best joke they’d ever shared.

      He got it, he got it. It didn’t matter if half the women in town chased him nonstop. Winona just couldn’t seem to imagine him as a lover. For several years now, Justin kept thinking if she could just need him. If he could just get a chance to show her a different side of himself. If something could jolt her into looking at him differently, maybe, just maybe, he’d have a serious shot with her.

      “Hi, Dr. Webb.” Riley Monroe, the Club’s longtime caretaker, had a smile waiting even before Justin reached the bar. “You guys sure outdid yourself with the party tonight. This is quite a shindig. What can I get you?”

      “Whiskey. Straight. And thanks, Riley.” Justin didn’t have to wait thirty seconds before the glass of liquid gold was in his hands. Riley might be the Texas Cattleman’s Club night caretaker, but he’d subbed as a bartender for formal functions for as long as Justin could remember. The ladies loved him—likely because he had a dose of flimflam in his character. Occasionally he could spread on the Las Vegas-type charm too thickly for Justin’s taste, but that didn’t matter. Riley was as dependable as the sunshine and as loyal as a hound. Good qualities in any man, and normally Justin would have chatted for a few minutes.

      Tonight, he gulped down a big enough sip to feel the whiskey burn some new holes in his tonsils, then leaned back against the bar.

      He spotted her, still out there, still high-stepping with Aaron…and damnation, looking like she was having a hell of a good time.

      He looked around, determined to get his mind off Winona—and to keep it off. The party was in full swing, and although good taste had to be an issue with so many royal guests, so was having fun Texas-style. Messy, finger-dripping lobster and Texas barbecue was set up on the same table as the fragile hothouse roses and elegant ice sculptures. The formal orchestra was all dressed in black tie—but naturally, it had a damn good fiddling section. The giant boar’s head hanging on one wall looked down on more diamonds and rubies than the bugger had ever seen in the wild, for darn sure, but the blaze of firelight winked on the iron-studded plaque over the entrance door. Leadership, Justice and Peace was burned into the wood—the long-term logo for the Club that had a uniquely special meaning this night.

      Justin