The Park's Empire: Handsome Strangers...: The Prince's Bride. GINA WILKINS

mouth. He lifted his wineglass and gestured at hers. “This is another Spanish wine that I wanted you to try.”

      Emily allowed herself to be diverted by the abrupt change of subject and lifted her glass to her lips. The cool, slightly tart white wine was delicious. “It’s very good,” she agreed, wondering how much of it she dared drink since she’d already indulged in two glasses of champagne at the casino.

      The soft thrum of guitars suddenly crescendoed and the crowd burst into applause.

      “Ah, this will be Pilar.” Lazhar bent closer to make himself heard over the crowd noise, his lips brushing her ear. “Have you seen flamenco dancing before?”

      His deep voice shivered up her spine. She told herself to ignore the sensual pull he effortlessly exerted, but it was a losing battle and she knew it. The most she could hope was that she could remain outwardly unaffected so that he didn’t know what his slightest touch and the sound of his voice did to her.

      “No.” She shook her head. “Jane had tickets to the touring company of the Madrid Dance Ensemble’s performance at the San Francisco Playhouse last summer, but I had to cancel at the last minute. A section of the program was to be flamenco…I was very disappointed to have missed it.”

      “The Madrid Ensemble has performed here in Daniz. I thought they were quite good,” Lazhar said. “But Pilar is a star in her own right. I think you’ll enjoy this.” He looked up as the guitars strummed faster, louder. “Here she is.”

      The woman who swirled onto the spotlit wooden floor between the guitarists and audience made an instant impact. The crowd cheered and whistles echoed through the room as she spun slowly, heels rapping the floor in a counterpoint to the guitars’ beat. She was tiny, with exotic features topped by braided ebony hair pinned in a heavy, intricately wound knot at her nape. A single, perfectly shaped red rose nestled against her black hair, echoing the scarlet of her classic Spanish dress. She whisked her skirts above her knees and the ruffled underskirt framed shapely legs clad in sheer black stockings. Her small feet were encased in black leather heels with a strap that accentuated the delicate bones of her ankles. She was a visual feast, beautiful and exotic. Energy poured from her, charging the air with electricity, crackling throughout the room as her passion for the dance infected the audience.

      She whirled and dipped, her feet stamping out the rhythm with blurred speed, her castanets clicking as the guitars increased their tempo, luring her ever faster.

      Emily couldn’t take her eyes off the dancer and when the music crashed to a halt and she struck a pose, the entire audience burst into spontaneous applause, including Emily.

      Before she had time to catch her breath and analyze the performance, however, Pilar was joined by a man. Dressed all in black, he was much taller than the petite Pilar and he radiated the same intensity and emotion. Once again the music began and Emily quickly realized that Pilar and her partner were acting out a classic male-female courtship with their dance, advancing, retreating in a pattern that stirred her and had her breathless.

      “Flamenco is all sex and emotion—primal and haunting.” Lazhar murmured in her ear. Emily tore her gaze away from the pair dancing in the spotlight, her gaze meeting his. Sexual attraction pulsed between them, stealing what was left of her breath. She couldn’t pull her gaze from his and the need to lean forward, to cross the short space separating them and taste his mouth, was nearly overwhelming. She was hardly aware that the dance ended, the guitars going silent. The crowd roared their approval.

      “You liked it.” Lazhar’s voice held quiet satisfaction.

      Emily licked her lips, her throat gone dry. “Yes, very much,” she murmured, barely able to think. She struggled to find a safe, innocuous conversational subject. The heat in his eyes told her that he knew what she was feeling and Emily’s heart raced faster, the room much too warm. “She’s wonderful. Is she a local woman, someone you and Joaquin grew up with?”

      “No, she’s Spanish.” His voice was deeper, rougher than normal. “Her agent booked her into the club about five years ago and Joaquin took one look at her and fell in love. When it was time to go, the rest of the troupe left but Pilar stayed. They were married within a few months and she’s been dancing here ever since. She tours Europe for two or three months out of the year but hates to leave home and Joaquin for longer.”

      “She’s so tiny and he’s so big, they must make an interesting looking couple.” Emily was grateful that Lazhar had followed her lead but despite their carefully polite conversation, tension and heightened awareness crackled between them.

      Lazhar grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the lines of his face softening with amusement. “He can pick her up with one hand, but trust me, Pilar may be tiny, but Joaquin has to fight for his share of influence in their family.”

      The guitarists began a set of mellow music. Lazhar glanced at the polished dance floor, quickly filling with couples moving to the music.

      “Dance with me.” He caught Emily’s hand, drawing her with him out of the booth.

       Chapter Five

      It was a mistake. He knew it the moment she turned into his arms and lifted her hand to his shoulder. He’d been taking advantage of any excuse to touch her all evening with a guiding hand on her arm or her waist. All of the contact was socially acceptable between a man and a woman spending an evening together.

      But even that small physical connection had been enough to set his blood simmering. He’d forced himself to rein in the growing urge to thread his fingers through her thick sweep of goldenbrown hair, slick his tongue over the plush fullness of her lower lip and taste her.

      Now only inches separated her from him but holding her loosely within the circle of his arms wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. The music pulsed around them, the dance floor growing more and more crowded until another couple jostled them, bumping Emily off-stride. Lazhar caught her closer, supporting her weight against his.

      “Sorry,” she murmured.

      “Don’t be.” He welcomed the excuse to wrap her tighter, her slim body resting against him, her thighs aligned with his, the soft curves of her breasts against his chest, her temple touching his jaw, her silky hair brushing his throat and chin. Having his arms around her wasn’t enough but he knew that they were being observed by too many eyes, friendly though they probably were. If he gave in to the urge to kiss her in this very public place, the press would pursue them more than ever. And he didn’t want Emily hounded by paparazzi.

      So they stayed on the dance floor, slowly swaying to the throb of the passionate guitars, until the musicians took a break. Lazhar knew he’d reached his limit; he couldn’t sit next to Emily and carry on polite conversation when all he could think about was making love to her. Reluctantly he released her, stepping back only slightly, his hand resting on her waist, and nodded briefly at the two bodyguards seated at a table on the edge of the dance floor.

      The two men moved quickly and by the time Lazhar and Emily stepped out onto the sidewalk, the Mercedes was waiting for them, engine running, the back door held wide.

      Lazhar couldn’t bring himself to release her hand and let her move away from him. Emily didn’t protest so they sat silently, pressed thigh-to-thigh, as the car purred along the winding road that climbed to the palace. He could have raised the privacy window, shutting them away from the chauffeur and guard in the front seat. But though he trusted the two men implicitly, he didn’t want the faintest hint of gossip to touch Emily. He’d always been scrupulously careful about keeping his personal life private and he felt even more strongly about protecting Emily. If all went as he’d planned, she would be his wife; he wouldn’t give anyone cause to question her actions.

      So he held on to control by his fingertips and fought back the need to pull her into his arms.

      He smoothed his thumb over the back of her hand, then the silky skin at her wrist, and felt the frantic pound of her pulse beneath his fingertips. Impatient to reach privacy,