Cinderella and the Playboy / The Texan's Happily-Ever-After. Karen Rose Smith

he asked.

      “Lovely.” She smiled at him, feeling distinctly cosseted.

      “Good—let me know if you want it warmer.” He glanced in the mirrors, shifted into gear and the Jag pulled smoothly away from the curb.

      “Where is the ball being held?” Jennifer inquired as they left her block and headed downtown.

      “Same place as last year, apparently,” Chance replied with a sideways glance and named a posh hotel that was fairly new but built in a traditional turn-of-the-century style. It had become an instant Boston landmark, its dining room and ballrooms favored by society mavens.

      “I’ve never been there,” Jennifer said, intrigued. “But I read an article in the Boston Herald about the grand opening. The design alone sounded fabulous.”

      “Rumor has it the financier was a mad count from Austria who was a distant relative of Dracula.”

      “What?” Jennifer’s gaze flew to his. His dark eyes were lit with amusement. “You’re joking.”

      “Nope.” He raised his hand, palm out. “I swear someone actually told me that.”

      “And did you believe them?” Jennifer asked with a laugh.

      “Not a word.”

      “Excellent,” she responded promptly. “I’m glad to know you’re a sensible man.”

      “Oh, I’m sensible,” he replied. “Now if you’d said I was a ‘nice, safe’ guy, I would have had to rethink my answer.”

      She shot him a chastening look from beneath her lashes and found his mouth curved in a half smile that set awareness humming through her torso. “Hmm,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll ask you why.” With an abrupt change of subject, she pointed out the window. “Isn’t that the hotel?”

      Chance lifted a brow and his gaze met hers for a brief moment before he nodded, downshifting as he turned out of traffic and drove beneath the portico.

      The lobby was a fascinating blend of old and new, with jewel-toned, blown-glass Chihuly light fixtures hanging from boxed ceilings. A broad expanse of thick black and gold carpeting covered the floors, and round seats upholstered in gold were arranged at intervals between the reception desk and the wide hallway on their left.

      Jennifer loosened her wrap from her throat and let it slip down her arms to catch at her elbows. Chance took her hand and tucked it through the bend of his arm, the move securing her against his side.

      She didn’t shift away from the press of his body against hers although she had the feeling she was playing with fire. She was all too aware of his reputation with women; in fact, she’d overheard several diner conversations about the subject between female employees from the institute. She didn’t doubt that Chance had plans for ending the evening with her in his bed. Which left only one question—did she want the same thing?

      She was certainly attracted to him. She also knew that their conversations over the past six months had led to her feeling more than just physically drawn to him. Still, she wasn’t sure if she wanted more from this evening than the sheer pleasure of an adult night out with a handsome man. And since she was undecided, she told herself to stop worrying and simply enjoy the party.

      Chance led her down the wide hallway, one side lined with upscale shops. Some were filled with jewelry and designer clothing while several stores resembled Aladdin’s cave, aglow with colorful glassware and gifts. Directly across from the shops was a long bank of elevators.

      “Going up?” a man called, holding the door of a half-filled car.

      “Yes, thanks,” Chance told him, handing Jennifer ahead of him into the elevator.

      They shifted to the rear of the car as three other couples entered and Jennifer found herself standing in front of Chance. When the elevator stopped on the next floor up and several other people entered, the crowd shifted backward once again, compressing the free space even farther.

      Jennifer stepped nearer to Chance to avoid being bumped by the large man in front of her and Chance slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer and into the shelter of his body. By necessity, however, the move brought her bare back flush against his chest, his arm a warm bar across her midriff.

      She felt surrounded by him. Each breath she took drew in the faint scent of his cologne and shifted the texture of his black jacket against her mostly bare arms, pressed the round black shirt studs against her waist.

      She closed her eyes, flooded by sensations as her awareness of him intensified. She wanted to sink against his powerful body, wanted to pull his arms closer and wrap them around her, but instead, she forced her eyes open. And caught her breath when she gazed directly into the mirrored elevator wall and the reflection of Chance’s heavy-lidded eyes. Heat flooded her, matching the burn in his dark stare.

      She stood still and his hand tightened at her waist, muscles flexing in the hard body that held her close. The moment was taut with silent tension. She nearly groaned with frustration when the connection was abruptly broken by the ping of the elevator when it came to a smooth stop. The doors opened with an audible whoosh, the sound further shattering the moment.

      “Our floor,” Chance murmured in her ear, his voice deeper, rougher.

      Jennifer didn’t reply, unsure if her voice would actually function. She and Chance moved with the crowd, conversation unnecessary amid the laughter and chatter. Chance’s hand rested at the small of her back, a warm weight that tied her to him as surely as if it were an invisible chain.

      Never had she been so conscious of the differences between male and female, nor so compelled to explore the undeniable pull on her senses that drew her inexorably toward him.

      They reached a wide archway and the guests around them slowed, forming a straggling line as they waited to enter the dining room.

      “Dinner should be great,” Chance murmured. “I happen to know one of the chefs.” He took a square, gold-embossed, cream-colored card from his inner jacket pocket as the line moved forward.

      “Good evening, Dr. Demetrios.” The tuxedo-clad man standing just outside the door smiled with warmth, nodding at Jennifer. “Ma’am.”

      “Hello, Frank,” Chance replied. “Tell your boss I’m glad he’s doing the catering tonight. I was seriously considering skipping the dinner until I heard he was the chef.”

      “I’ll tell him.” The man’s smile broadened. He took the invitation from Chance and consulted a seating chart. “You and your lady are with the senator and his wife at a front table.” He snapped his fingers and a waiter instantly appeared. “Joseph, show the doctor and his guest to table number four.”

      “Yes, sir. This way, please.” The young man sketched a quick, respectful nod and led the way across the room.

      Jennifer tried not to stare as they crossed the beautifully appointed art-deco dining room. White linen tablecloths covered round tables, each set for eight guests with polished silverware, gold-trimmed china, sparkling crystal glasses and fresh floral centerpieces. Crystal chandeliers were spaced at intervals down the ceiling and glittered and gleamed, adding their brilliance to the recessed lighting in the boxed ceiling.

      “Chance!” A tall man with a mane of white hair and sun lines fanning from the edges of shrewd blue eyes stood as they reached a table just to the left of the speaker’s podium. “I told Emily Armstrong to make sure we sat at your table. I’m glad it worked out.”

      “Hello, Archie.” Chance shook the man’s outstretched hand before draping an arm over Jennifer’s shoulder. “Jennifer, this is Senator Claxton and his wife, Evelyn. Their son, Ben, was my best friend from kindergarten through college. Archie and Evelyn, this is Jennifer Labeaux.”

      “Good evening,” Jennifer held out her hand and received a firm, warm handshake.

      “Glad to meet you,