Possessed by a Warrior. Sharon Ashwood

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      The man was clueless. There was a good chance the princess would have used Lark for the wedding trousseau. Those designs would have set the tone for the fashion industry for seasons to come. A sneak peek at the sketches would have been worth a fortune—but everything had gone up in flames on almost the same date that the wedding had been called off. It was as if the whole Brandi Snap fiasco was a distraction from the truly important event—whatever it was that connected the fire, the diamonds and Jack’s murder.

      And then there was the dress. If Chloe was right, that was Lark’s work. Jack had been in Europe at the right time to pick up the diamonds and then take them to New York to be sewn on to the centerpiece of the wedding collection.

      Apprehension crowded in on Chloe. She’d meant to blurt all this out, to share her thoughts freely, but Sam had returned to brick wall status. And he was a bored brick wall. This wasn’t her wedding business, where people knew she was the expert. In Sam’s world, she was just a girl in need of rescue. That look in his eyes was enough to make her rethink.

      Chloe clamped her mouth shut. He might be Action Man, but this went beyond physical rough and tumble. Without meaning to, her eyes went back to that muscular chest. Rough and tumble, huh?

      He raised an eyebrow, still waiting for her response.

      She shrugged. “I thought it was interesting that Jack knew someone in the fashion world who was connected with the princess.”

      His expression said it wasn’t very interesting at all. “Jack knew a lot of skinny women with big bank accounts. They were kind of a hobby of his.”

      Chloe’s hand itched to smack him, except that there was a grain of truth in his words. Thanks, Jack. “What about the dress? What if Jessica Lark was the one who designed it, diamonds and all?”

      “Someone had to. It might have been her.”

      Do I have to hand this to you garnished with parsley? “She’s dead now.”

      Sam’s eyes flickered as if she’d finally said something worth hearing. Chloe felt a tingle of triumph, but it didn’t last. His expression returned to neutral almost at once.

      “You can’t get mixed up in this,” Sam said quietly. “I mean it. You don’t understand the danger involved. Go to bed. It’s going to be dawn soon enough.”

      Chloe glanced at the china Bo Peep, wondering if Bo’s sheep were half as dense as Sam.

      “It’s not safe to poke around in a murdered man’s affairs.” Sam touched her arm lightly. “We haven’t caught the intruder yet. We will, but in the meantime I don’t want you taking any chances.”

      She could feel a flush of hot blood creeping up her cheeks. All her life she’d been on a need-to-know basis. Her parents had never talked about their work or the strange people who came and went from the house. Same with Uncle Jack. Now they were all dead, and Chloe was left to figure things out without enough information to go on. And Sam was doing the same thing. Already he was pushing her away, trying to keep her ignorant. “You’ve got to believe me. I can help you figure this out.”

      “You can’t give anyone reason to think you’re still involved.” He leaned closer, bringing his lips within inches of her ear. “Think about it. How did the thieves know you had the dress?”

      How indeed? Chloe shivered at the thought, but there was an expanse of tight white T-shirt a mere handspan away. It smelled of clean cotton and Sam, and she had a ridiculous urge to wilt against all those hard, warm muscles.

      She took a step back, afraid of losing her perspective. They were having a disagreement. Falling into his arms would confuse things. So would admitting that he had a point.

      He stepped with her, gracefully mirroring her movement. Chloe felt a finger of unease tickle down her spine. The movement was predatory, a little too smooth, almost catlike. She raised her hand, instinctively pressing her palm against his chest to keep her distance. What is he doing?

      The distance narrowed without her meaning to let it happen. She looked up, meeting his eyes. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, the gray irises had darkened to black, the pupils disappearing into shadowy pools. He was handsome, the face roughly sculpted with square jaw and high cheekbones, but the mouth—that held a promise of sensuality that made Chloe’s chest tighten.

      But there was hunger in Sam’s gaze that went beyond a man thinking a woman was pretty. Beyond lust or possession or control. It was as if he wanted to devour her.

      Chloe’s mouth grew thick with yearning mixed with the coppery taste of fear. Sweat prickled the small of her back. She tried to swallow, but her throat wasn’t working. Not even her lungs were working right, only pulling in small, shallow gasps of air.

      Her fingers began to close on his shirt, gathering up a handful of cotton, fingers sliding over the hard muscle beneath. Her mind flailed, scrambling to make sense of what exactly was going on. He was just standing there, one moment her rescuer, the next...he was something else. For the life of her, she couldn’t explain what had changed. It was like he had pulled back a curtain and someone else was looking through his eyes. A man she wasn’t sure she could handle. Scratch that. A man I know is dangerous.

      “Sam,” she whispered.

      The moment stretched, apprehension chilling her limbs with a strange cocktail of desire and foreboding. Finally, he blinked. The movement, slight as it was, made her start. Sam drew in a breath that was almost a sigh, his chest heaving under her hand.

      As quickly as it had come, the moment ended. The shadows seemed to recede to the corners of the room. That electric charge had come and gone without a word spoken, without either of them making a move.

      Chloe hesitated, poised between drawing away and drawing near. It was he who stepped back, gently freeing his shirt and leaving her hand hanging in midair. Regret flitted over his face, followed by a flash of...what? Shame? She couldn’t place it. Most would never have caught it, but she’d grown up around people with secrets. She knew how to catch these slivers of truth.

      She looked away before he noticed her scrutiny.

      He was backing toward the door. “Go to bed, Chloe.”

      “Good night, Sam,” she replied, frustrated and relieved when she heard the rattle of the doorknob. Half of her wanted to grab his arm and beg him to stay. But that would be insane. He frightened her.

      And yet, she wanted his lips on her, his hands all over her body. That was insane. They had the long-term prospects of an ice cream cone in Hades. She wasn’t into relationships—however sticky and sweet—that melted away the minute things got hot.

      He still hadn’t answered. He just hovered in the doorway, his mouth set in a hard line. If she had to guess, she thought he was angry with himself. On some level, he’d slipped. Their eyes met. His were steady, but there were lingering traces of that fierce heat.

      “Good night, Chloe.” The words were clipped. He turned quickly and slipped out of the room.

      She took in a long, shuddering breath. Instinctively, she knew she’d made a lucky escape. She jammed a chair under the knob.

      * * *

      What the hell had he been thinking?

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