Terms of Engagement. Ann Major

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      She felt the same way. But she knew she should slow it down, reassess.

      “I’m not good at picking boyfriends,” she whispered.

      “Their loss.”

      His hand closed over hers and he pressed her fingers, causing a melting sensation in her tummy. “My gain.”

      Her tacos came, looking and smelling delicious, but she hardly touched them. Her every sense was attuned to Quinn’s carved features and his beautiful voice.

      When a musician came to their table, Quinn hired him to sing several songs, including “La Paloma.” While the man serenaded her, Quinn idly stroked her wrist and the length of her fingers, causing fire to shoot down her spine.

      She met his eyes and felt that she had known him always, that he was already her lover, her soul mate. She was crazy to feel such things and think such thoughts about a man she barely knew, but when dinner was over, they skipped dessert.

      An hour later, she sat across from him in his downtown loft, sipping coffee while he drank brandy. In vain, she tried to act unimpressed by his art collection and sparkling views of the city. Not easy, since both were impressive.

      His entrance was filled with an installation of crimson light by one of her favorite artists. The foyer was a dazzling ruby void that opened into a living room with high, white ceilings. All the rooms of his apartment held an eclectic mix of sculpture, porcelains and paintings.

      Although she hadn’t yet complimented his stylish home, she couldn’t help but compare her small, littered apartment to his spacious one. Who was she to label him an arrogant upstart? He was a success in the international oil business and a man of impeccable taste, while she was still floundering in her career and struggling to find herself.

      “I wanted to be alone with you like this the minute I saw you today,” he said.

      She shifted uneasily on his cream-leather sofa. Yet more evidence that he was a planner. “Well, I didn’t.”

      “I think you did. You just couldn’t let yourself believe you did.”

      “No,” she whispered, setting down her cup. With difficulty she tried to focus on her mission. “So, what about Jaycee? You’re sure that’s over?”

      “Finished. From the first moment I saw you.”

      “Without mud all over my face.”

      He laughed. “Actually, you got to me that day, too. Every time I dined with Jacinda and your family, I kept hoping I’d meet you again.”

      Even as she remembered all those dinner invitations her parents had extended and she’d declined, she couldn’t believe he was telling the truth.

      “I had my team research you,” he said.

      “Why?”

      “I asked myself the same question. I think you intrigued me … like I said, even with mud on your face. First thing tomorrow, I will break it off with Jacinda formally. Which means you’ve won. Does that make you happy? You have what you came for.”

      He was all charm, especially his warm, white smile. Like a child with a new playmate, she was happy just being with him, but she couldn’t admit that to him.

      He must have sensed her feelings, though, because he got up and moved silently toward her. “I feel like I’ve lived my whole life since my father’s death alone—until you. And that’s how I wanted to live—until you.”

      She knew it was sudden and reckless, but she felt the same way. If she wasn’t careful, she would forget all that should divide them.

      As if in a dream, she took his hand when he offered it and kissed his fingers with feverish devotion.

      “You’ve made me realize how lonely I’ve been,” he said.

      “That’s a very good line.”

      “It’s the truth.”

      “But you are so successful, while I …”

      “Look what you’re doing in the interim—helping a friend to realize her dream.”

      “My father says I’m wasting my potential.”

      “You will find yourself … if you are patient.” He cupped her chin and stared into her eyes. Again she felt that uncanny recognition. He was a kindred soul who knew what it was to feel lost.

      “Dear God,” he muttered. “Don’t listen to me. I don’t know a damn thing about patience. Like now … I should let you go … but I can’t.”

      He pulled her to him and crushed her close. It wasn’t long before holding her wasn’t enough. He had to have her lips, her throat, her breasts. She felt the same way. Shedding her shirt, scarf and bra, she burst into flame as he kissed her. Even though she barely knew him, she could not wait another moment to belong to him.

      “I’m not feeling so patient right now myself,” she admitted huskily.

      Do not give yourself to this man, said an inner voice. Remember all those blondes. Remember his urge for revenge.

      Even as her emotions spiraled out of control, she knew she was no femme fatale, while he was a devastatingly attractive man. Had he said all these same wonderful things to all those other women he’d bedded? Had he done and felt all the same things, too, a thousand times before? Were nights like this routine for him, while he was the first to make her feel so thrillingly alive?

      But then his mouth claimed hers again, and again, with a fierce, wild hunger that made her forget her doubts and shake and cling to him. His kisses completed her as she’d never been completed before. He was a wounded soul, and she understood his wounds. How could she feel so much when they hadn’t even made love?

      Lifting her into his arms, he carried her into his vast bedroom, which was bathed in silver moonlight. Over her shoulder she saw his big, black bed in the middle of an ocean of white marble and Persian carpets.

      He was a driven, successful billionaire, and she was a waitress. Feeling out of her depth, her nerves returned. Not knowing what else to do, she pressed a fingertip to his lips. Gently, shyly, she traced his dimple.

      Feeling her tension, he set her down. She pushed against his chest and then took a step away from him. Watching her, he said, “You can finish undressing in the bathroom if you’d prefer privacy. Or we can stop. I’ll drive you to your car. Your choice.”

      She should have said, “I don’t belong here with you,” and accepted his gallant offer. Instead, without a word, she scampered toward the door he’d indicated. Alone in his beige marble bathroom with golden fixtures and a lovely, compelling etching by another one of her favorite artists, she barely recognized her own flushed face, tousled hair and sparkling eyes.

      The radiant girl in his tall mirror was as beautiful as an enchanted princess. She looked expectant, excited. Maybe she did belong here with him. Maybe he was the beginning of her new life, the first correct step toward the bright future that had so long eluded her.

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