Bending to the Bachelor's Will. Emilie Rose

check for a one-hundred-percent refund in his pocket. He didn’t mix business with pleasure. The one time he had—his engagement to Priscilla—he’d been burned.

      You’ve never seen any of your clients naked.

      He locked the safe on that thought. Outside the building, he cupped her elbow. She stiffened. “Would you care to walk along the waterfront?”

      Her hesitation shoved another splinter into his ego. “Sure. Why not?”

      The moon ducked behind a cloud, but the streetlights illuminated the area well enough for a stroll. Holly wore flat shoes tonight, along with a simple black dress that in no way resembled Saturday night’s seductive number but that did nothing to erode the memory of how she’d looked wearing sinfully high heels and nothing else. Holly had an amazing figure. Not Rubenesque by any means, but not fashionably slim, either. She had curves, womanly, generous curves that begged a man to map her topography with his hands. With his mouth.

      He ran a finger beneath his suddenly restricting collar and loosened his tie a fraction of an inch.

      Holly’s long stride down the cobblestoned sidewalk would leave a shorter man in the dust. Eric kept pace beside her until she halted abruptly in front of a gift shop window. A Haunted Historic Wilmington Tours poster held her attention. He shoved his hands into his pockets and waited for her to move on, but then she looked over her shoulder at him. The excited sparkle in her eyes knocked the wind out of him.

      “Want to? It starts in ten minutes.”

      He’d rather shred money. But his pride demanded he show Holly a good time and thus far he’d failed to deliver anything more than a fine meal and stilted dinner conversation. If this tourist fodder entertained her, then he would—what had she said Saturday night?—survive it. “I’ll buy the tickets.”

      Thirty minutes later, Holly inched closer to him in the shadowy interior of the theater allegedly haunted since the 1800s. Since the tour began, she’d startled at every squeak and gasped along with the other gullible fools on the tour as they followed their guide through the drafty and dimly lit area beneath the stage. Goose bumps covered her skin. She shivered and rubbed her upper arms.

      Who’d have expected practical Holly to believe in ghosts? Eric took pity on her and put his arm around her shoulders. A mistake, he realized an instant later.

      Holly burrowed against him, her breast pressing against his ribs, and she stayed as close as she could and still walk the creaking floor boards. Her scent filled his lungs and her hair tickled his jaw. The warmth of her in his arms roused the specter of his libido and sent it drifting through his blood like a hot phantom breath. It took every ounce of concentration to focus on the guide’s macabre spiel instead of the woman plastered against him.

      At the conclusion of the tour, he had to admit that if he’d been a more susceptible sort he’d have enjoyed their talented host’s shtick, but Eric was a cynic. Smoke and mirrors didn’t interest him. He preferred cold, hard, provable facts. But the excited flush on Holly’s cheeks and the twinkle in her eyes made the price of admission worth every penny.

      On the sidewalk in front of the building, she took one last look over her shoulder as if she expected an evil spirit to chase after them from the theater, and then she grinned at him. “Thanks. That was awesome.”

      Her wide, unrestrained smile reminded him of the girl she’d been back when they’d shot hoops in her driveway and of the idealistic fresh-out-of-university fool he’d been at the time. Was it only fourteen years ago that he’d first joined Alden’s? It seemed like a lifetime since he’d realized his father was a source of amusement to many of the bank employees—a figurehead who did whatever Eric’s mother told him to do like a well-trained dog. A man more excited by a good cigar or a round of golf than a P&L statement.

      The day he’d heard the laughter in the break room, Eric had decided that he would never be the butt of jokes. He’d be man enough for both his father and himself, and he’d succeeded until Priscilla made a fool out of him. Now the reporter’s coverage of this damned auction package could sink him faster than rising interest rates could the stock market and with equally devastating results. What in the hell had his mother been thinking when she’d inflicted this on him?

      “I’m glad you enjoyed the tour.”

      Holly’s eyes widened at the unintended sharpness of his voice and then she averted her gaze. “I guess we should head back. I have an early start tomorrow.”

      He led her back to his ’Vette and then pointed the car in the direction of her farm. Damn. Any points he’d gained with the ghost tour had been lost with one bitter comment. “Tell me about your business.”

      Holly flashed him an I-know-what-you’re-up-to glance. “You mean you haven’t read my file?”

      “You have accounts with Alden’s?”

      Another hesitation. “Several. I work primarily with commercial concerns, but I also do windows for private homes. I teach stained glass classes once a week, not just because I enjoy sharing my craft but because those same women who take my classes often commission me to do windows for their homes, tell their friends about me or recommend me to the boards of the organizations to which they belong, which in turn leads to more commercial accounts.” Her entire body became animated as she discussed her work.

      “Smart advertising,” he acknowledged.

      “I think so.”

      “You like making windows better than working at the Caliber Club?”

      “Oh, yeah. No comparison.”

      The nuances in her voice raised questions such as why would she leave a secure, well-paying job, one with limitless advantageous connections, for the financially risky venture of crafting stained glass windows? He turned into Holly’s driveway and spotted a dark sedan parked in the shadows beneath a large tree. His curiosity would have to wait. “You have company.”

      “Great.” Her sarcastic tone implied otherwise. “It’s Octavia.”

      The reporter and the photographer beside her in the front seat waved as they drove past, but made no move to get out of the car.

      “What do they want?”

      Holly stared at her knotted fingers in the dimly lit car. “To see the end of our date.”

      Eric’s spine prickled a warning. “Pardon?”

      Holly took a deep breath and then lifted her wary, toffee-brown gaze to his. “Women talk when they’re working on their projects in my class. Octavia believes the first kiss foretells the future of any relationship.”

      He’d have to kiss Holly good-night. The news sent a rush of adrenaline through him.

      Holly bit her lip and lifted her chin. “Eric, I realize you probably had no intention of kissing me good-night, and as much as I hate the idea of a mercy kiss, could you kiss me and make it look good? It’ll keep her off our backs. This week, anyway.”

      Moisture flooded his mouth and his pulse pounded like a marching band headed toward the end zone located below his belt. He jerked a nod because the words on the tip of his tongue, my pleasure, were forbidden and just plain wrong. He exited the car, and for once Holly waited for him to open her door and assist her out.

      With a hand at the small of her back, he guided her up the walk, the stairs and then stopped on her doormat. She turned toward him, and in the soft glow of her porch light she took a deep breath, clearly bracing herself to endure his kiss.

      Bracing herself. As if she expected kissing him to be an ordeal. Eric’s pride roared in protest. He inhaled once, twice, willing his irritation away and his knotted muscles to relax. What he needed was technique. Smooth, controlled, seductive technique. He’d be damned if any woman would endure his kiss. He’d settle for nothing less than total capitulation.

      He lowered his head until only a fraction of an inch separated their mouths and waited. Waited for Holly’s breath