All Through The Night. Kate Hoffmann

and throaty. “She’s gone to the ladies’ room. She really won’t be long.”

      She risked another quick look up at him, and it was then that he caught a whiff of her perfume, an exotic floral scent he recognized immediately. His mind raced to put a face to the scent, flipping through images of old lovers and even maiden aunts. But one face kept intruding, and it was only then that he realized he’d experienced the scent just that afternoon, when he’d touched Nora Pierce.

      Pete leaned over the bar and caught a brief glimpse of her profile, proof positive that beneath the dark wig and artfully applied makeup, the lush red lipstick and kohl-rimmed eyes, lurked none other than Prudence Trueheart. He was tempted to blow her cover right off, but she was trying so hard to avoid detection that he decided to play along—at least for a little while.

      So there was no Mercedes or Nob Hill party. Then, what had brought Prudence Trueheart to Vic’s? Was she here to police bar etiquette, ready to shut the joint down for the lack of cloth napkins beneath the drinks and silver-plated toothpicks in the olives? Or had she come for the same reason other women came to Vic’s—to meet men? Prudence Trueheart on the make, he mused. The night was about to get interesting.

      “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

      “May,” she murmured, her voice cool. “May you buy me a drink. And, no, thank you, I have a drink.” She picked up her club soda and took a delicate sip, then forced a smile. “My friend is coming right back.”

      “I’ll just sit here until she does,” Pete replied. Had she been any other woman, she might have blown him off with an acidic phrase or an arctic look. Instead, she gives him a grammar lesson. He grinned and slid onto the stool next to her. A gentleman might have taken the hint and retreated. But Pete Beckett wasn’t going anywhere.

      His gaze drifted along her body. The dress hugged every delicious curve, clinging to perfect breasts and a tiny waist, and making his palms itch to touch her again. There was only one reason Prudence Trueheart would slip into a slinky little number like that. She was out to seduce—or be seduced. And his appearance had just thrown a wrench into the works. Pete frowned. And what the hell was with the wig? He preferred her hair the way it was, pale gold and filled with light and framing her pretty features.

      “I should go find my friend,” she said in a breathless tone. She grabbed her purse and slid off her bar stool, but he reached out and took her wrist, stopping her escape. Her skin felt like warm silk beneath his fingers, the sensation of touching her again sending a flash of heat through his body so intense it made his head swim. He wondered what it might feel like to let his hands just wander, to make her breath quicken and her pulse race, to press his palms into the soft flesh of her breasts and to span her waist with both his hands. Already, the feel of her skin had been imprinted on his brain, and he craved more, like an addiction that wouldn’t go away.

      “Don’t,” he murmured. “Stay and have a drink with me. Just one drink.”

      He thought she’d refuse, but then she looked him squarely in the eyes and waited for what felt like a long moment. Neither of them said a word; they simply stared as if sizing each other up. And then she released a tightly held breath and resumed her spot next to him. She wasn’t going to admit who she was, Pete realized. Prudence was going to go along with her little game, as long as he did. As far as she was concerned, they were complete strangers.

      Pete had played more than his share of games with women, both in bed and out. Head games or bed games, he’d become quite adept at both. Then why did he feel so clueless now? Maybe because Nora Pierce didn’t seem to be the type to engage in risky flirtations with strange men. But then, he wasn’t a stranger, was he. Maybe he was just an available patsy, an unsuspecting dope who was about to get dumped, all for a tale that could be told over the office water cooler. This could all be payback for the black eye.

      Pete cursed silently and raked his hand through his hair. Well, two could play at her little game. As long as it meant he could spend a few more minutes with her, he’d just play along. He motioned the bartender over. “Champagne,” he said. “Your best.”

      Nora sent him a questioning look. “Champagne?”

      “I’m having a drink with the most beautiful woman in this place. I think champagne is in order, don’t you?”

      Her gaze fixed on her wrist where his fingers still rested. “There are a lot of beautiful women in this place,” she said, pulling away.

      Pete glanced around. “Yeah, I guess there are.” The bartender popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and poured them both a glass. Pete picked up a flute and handed it to Nora. “But none more beautiful than you.”

      That brought a reluctant smile, as she took a sip of her champagne. “With a line like that line, maybe I should invest in champagne futures.”

      “Naw,” Pete teased. “There wouldn’t be much money in it. I gave up women a few months back.”

      She gave him a suspicious look, leveled at him over the rim or the champagne flute. “Then why are you bothering me?”

      He reached out and ran a finger slowly down her bare arm. Maybe this little game wasn’t so bad. At least it gave him free rein to touch her whenever he felt the urge. “Believe me, you’re not a bother. In fact, you’re the first woman in nearly a year who has made me regret my decision.”

      This time she laughed out loud, tipping her head back and letting loose with a musical giggle as bright as the bubbles that sparkled in her glass. In earlier days, he might have been insulted. But her delight captivated him, and he laughed along with her. Pete set his glass down, then braced his feet on her bar stool, his knees on either side of hers, trapping her in front of him.

      Her giggle died in her throat as he stared into her eyes. He’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted Nora Pierce. Not at that moment, not ever. But he knew he’d need to proceed cautiously, because behind the wide eyes and flushed features was a lady playing a dangerous game.

      Gently, deliberately, he wove his fingers through hers, then pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “So, why don’t we start with introductions?” he murmured, his words warm against her skin. “My name’s Beckett. Pete Beckett. What’s yours?”

      He glanced up at her and sent her a charming grin. The game had begun, and he’d just upped the ante.

      NORA TOOK A LONG GULP of her champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose and going right to her head. But no matter how muddled her mind became, one thought screamed from within. Run away, run as fast and as far as you can from this man whose mouth is teasing at the inside of your wrist, whose words have the capacity to render you defenseless—this man who’s demanded to know your name.

      Her big night out was supposed to be a simple experiment, a chance to dip her toe into the dating pool without risk of being swept away by the tide. But sitting here next to Pete, she felt as if the water were rushing up around her neck and the currents were threatening to pull her under. She wanted to blurt her name out to the entire bar—Nora Pierce or Prudence Trueheart, what did it matter? This little charade had to end!

      But something held her back, a curiosity that needed to be satisfied, an undeniable magnetism that made all common sense vanish. Why not just see where the evening might lead, alter the experiment just a bit? She wasn’t doing too badly. Except for her impromptu grammar lesson, she’d managed to hold her own in conversation without sounding too uptight.

      And it felt so good to stand in someone else’s four-inch spike heels, to become the kind of woman she’d never been—sexy, provocative, irresistible. It wasn’t that hard to step outside herself. Besides, she could walk away at any time, couldn’t she? Nora stifled a long sigh. Perhaps that was easier said than done.

      It wasn’t the mental aspect of her charade that was so difficult, but the physical reactions she was having to endure. The shock of Pete Beckett turning up beside her had temporarily stolen the breath from her lungs. And then he’d touched her, and her heart had begun to somersault in her chest, beating a crazy rhythm. Every thought in